Artemis Clover: The real L.A. love story.

We've moved!

2012-08-20T17:50:00.000-07:00

I know I have hinted months ago that we are no longer hanging out with movie stars and moguls (heh) in Los Angeles. Last October, we packed up and hauled all 74 boxes of our most prized possessions (I know, we have a lot of stuff...well, mostly Patrick) to--wait for it--upstate New York! I love it when I get calls from friends excitedly telling me they are in New York City so we should meet up. I always have to remind them upstate NY is a completely different beast and we are VERY far away from the Big Apple even though we are technically the same statehood. We are O-U-T in the sticks (well, at least it feels like it for a former city-dwelling gal) and adjusting to this slower culture has been interesting to say the least.

I know I have been a horrible blogger this past year. With the move, a new life in a new place (so cold!), and a new house to decorate and keep clean, the last thing on my mind was dwelling on my old Los Angeles problems. I shied away from sharing details because things were going faster than I could sort them out myself. With a healthy nudge from my sister, I have created a new blog to better reflect where I am in life now. It is called "Waking Up Christine," meaning I wake up each day as no one else but me. I have often loved creating alter-egos of myself and characters from people in my life perhaps to put some distance between how I wished things were versus how things really are. I am keeping Artemis Clover open because it was a part of my life and I meant all the words I have written. But alas the time has come to finally confess I will ~~not be updating this blog anymore~~ still be updating my new life but I am still figuring out to what extent. Thank you for joining me on this brief journey in life and I offer up a new space to connect should our energies still collide:

One thing I will continue is my baby story. I ~~won't~~ will still be posting it in chapters ~~but rather~~ and once the whole thing is done, I will publish it as a free eBook for anyone to download. I have many more chapters written than I have shared but the story still needs holes spackled and edges polished.

Thanks again for this interlude and here's to everyone's continuous fight for our dreams.

Dragon Baby

2012-02-27T22:00:00.000-08:00

Something that has always been assumed and innate in my soul is I would have a large family. Large as in three or more kids—most likely four—and I would be some sort of a prima donna momma hen prancing around the confines of my white-picket fenced house. I actually don’t think I would be too off to say many women measure their personal success on their ability to create and raise the family we’ve all fantasized about as little girls.

I’ve unexpectedly received a lot in the past few years: a man who can’t seem to quit me, a baby toddler who can’t seem to quit breastfeeding, and now—completely out of left field and impulsive—a house in suburbia with more rooms than we formerly city-dwelling folks know what to do with. King actually has his own room here (not that he uses it much), but at least he has the option of having his own room if we can ever get him out of our bed. And we have a separate dining area we have temporarily taped away as a play room where King has tents, blocks, a tricycle with wheels he can’t quite reach yet…all the fixings and toys any boy can hope for.

Moving out of our city apartment.

We’ve come a long way, that Patrick and me, and have somehow shed our post-collegiate clutter and grime for something that mostly meets FDA child safety standards. Yes, it shouldn’t have taken almost two years to get here, but King, Patrick, and I are settling into a comfortable home and routine we can almost raise more kids in. Yep, I’ve said it out loud, MORE kids.

I can hardly believe it myself but we are coming to the point where if we want to pop out #2 (since the floodgates are opened, after all), we ought to get busy real soon. Like NOW soon because of eligibility issues with my health insurance and isn’t some two years the perfect anecdotal spacing between children? AND 2012 is the year of the Dragon according to the Chinese zodiac and having a dragon baby is the crème de la crème of all babies because of the good fortune and power dragons represent in the Asian culture. So much so it seems every corner I turn someone I know is expecting and due this year. Dragon baby fever is running rampant, I tell you.

So when my period didn’t come on time a last month, my mind was worried but my heart fluttered with a morsel of excitement at the prospect of being able to jump on the Dragon Baby bandwagon. It’s not like Patrick and I are taking careful measure to ensure we stay a family of three, but so much has been going we haven’t given much thought to whether or not now is the time to take the plunge into the world of multiple kids. Sure, our feet are already wet but does it mean now is the time to realize my big-family fantasies conjured up in grade school?

I was torn. I did and didn’t want it. I agonized for days wondering if I am truly going back there again. Back to the sore breasts, the big belly, the seesaw of hormonal imbalances… The allure of the Dragon Baby is strong and our biological urge to reproduce ever present so yes, this could be great. King is going to be so happy to have a sibling. Things will be better this time around. I know it.

Patrick advised me to wait another week before taking a test to ensure I really wasn’t getting my period but no, I’m not known for my patience. I snuck in one, two, three pregnancy tests that week and proceeded to take them all in stealth. One, two, three…and they were all negative. A wave of relief flushed over me and I was not sad there wasn’t something else brewing in my belly besides that night’s dinner. I do want another baby, I do want a Dragon Baby, but I also really don’t.

I don’t more than I do and seeing the negative pregnancy tests affirmed what I may have known all along: I don’t want another baby. At least not now. Things are going fine and King is finally getting a wee bit more independent. I enjoy just having him and I enjoy having some peace around here for a change to sort some things out in my life and gather up the pieces from the last couple of years. I want to sort, breathe, clean, organize, be me again and I am not sure a second baby will get me where I want to go and need to be right now.

This morning as I was waking up, Patrick came into our bedroom from working downstairs and made fun of how much King and I snored last night.

“Yeah, you guys were so loud I couldn’t sleep. And I looked over and King was all mushed into you and you were all mushed into him with your arms and legs intertwined. It was like you guys were marinating in each other’s sleepy gushy-ness…” he went on to say.

Gushy-ness. Hmmm, not a real word, I’m sure. But I know what you are saying, Patrick, and I like having King intertwined in my arms. I like that we snore in sync and I like that it is just King and me. You, King, and me.

For now.

2012

2012-02-20T09:49:00.000-08:00

...and we're not in Kansas anymore!

Started off the year with a bang in Hawaii with my whole family.

Wow, I can't believe it has been SIX MONTHS since I have posted. Where did the time go??!

King is almost two now and is such a changed boy. A one-time needy feller, he has transformed into a magical man-creature who is more independent than I secretly hope him to be. There is something to be said for kids that are just fine hanging out on their own but it does sting when he no longer pauses from his busy day to give me a hug when my heart spontaneously yearns for one. *sigh*

The biggest change in our lives, however, is we just as spontaneously picked up and moved out of my beloved and fabled Los Angeles! This happened sometime over late fall and not only did we move, we moved clear across the country! Long story--what ever isn't?--and I will try to catch us up in future posts.

My backyard.

We have moved somewhere cold, somewhere completely foreign to me, somewhere I never thought I would end up, and it has been a lot harder to adjust than I could have ever imagined. Sometimes I long for the days of The Real L.A. Love Story when I was a bright-eyed mom spinning stories out of my tiny city apartment in between King's nap breaks.

The seasons keep changing and I don't know how to ever catch up. But this morning, with a cup of coffee in hand, the sun coming through our not-mini blinds, and a breath of relief from the daily grind that is Mommydom, I log into my blog because I don't want to go so fast as to lose control of what really defines the moments in life: The tiny crevices of space in between events big and small, that moment of silence between sleep and wake, when we reflect on and live in our choices in life that has taken us from here to there.

Justifying the size of my engagement ring.

2011-07-15T01:00:00.000-07:00

We’ve got some exciting engagement news…

No, Patrick didn’t go down on one knee and profess his everlasting and unwavering love for yours truly (at least, not yet), but someone did! Dennis, whom I also refer to affectionately as my frenemy, proposed to Carly last month while we were visiting Taiwan.

You may remember blond-haired and blue-eyed Dennis as the “Golden Boy” in my family from this interview many moons ago on the trials and tribulations of undertaking the daunting task that is dating a pair of twins. We call him “Golden Boy” behind his back because he is everything Patrick is not—stable, quiet, Mr. Always Does the Right Thing at the Right Time…I mean, c’mon, who wouldn’t love this guy?!?

Well, after four years, two breakups, and lots of family drama mostly instigated by me, Dennis somehow survived and decided to jump headfirst into the deep end, finally slipping a pretty little one on my twin’s ring finger. Atop the most pristine and heavenly mountains in Taiwan, Dennis asked Carly to “be his baby forever” late one night as the stars peek-a-boo’d from the blanket of velvety night fog. *sigh*

Their engagement was and wasn’t a surprise to my family. We’ve known that something was coming for a while now but because we’ve known for so long, at one point we weren’t even sure it was coming anymore! Of course we are all thrilled for Carly and Dennis (when it was first confirmed to me he was going to propose in Taiwan, I had tears in my eyes!) but their elation can't quite mask the white elephant in the room.

“Do you feel upstaged by your sister because she and Dennis are stealing the spotlight from you?” my dad asked me sincerely after the engagement.

“Oh my gosh NO! I am so happy for them. Carly and I never compete about anything. Her win is my win,” I respond truthfully. But I knew why my dad was concerned for me since hearing the word "marriage" still gives me the hives. Because I don't know what it'll take for Patrick and me to once and for all take that leap of faith towards blissfully engaged. Because I keep telling the world marriage is a dying institution even though deep down... deep down...ugh.

Dennis asking my dad for Carly's hand in marriage on our back porch.

“Patrick and I are like a married couple anyway, and a ring won’t change much of anything for us right now,” I reassured my dad just as much as I was reassuring myself. You see, something very few people know about is that I DO have a ring. And a big one at that. Its hiding place changes from week to week but it’s still supposedly mine and when I feel all romantic and giddy, I try to wear it around the house.

When Patrick and I were planning our wedding that never was, he put down a lot of change for a very big ring for me. White gold, princess cut, a band of diamonds, and three whole carats, it is quite excessive and definitely more than a simple girl like me could ever wear. Sometimes when I look at it in its polished mahogany case, I wonder why I ever hinted to Patrick that I would want something as big as he could afford. I almost feel guilty he spent so much money on a ring I don’t even get to show off, money that could have been invested or saved as a down payment for our imminent house purchase. Sometimes I am embarrassed or even ashamed thinking about the prospect of having to wear such a rock in front of his family one day, scrambling to justify to them why on earth I ever had their dear son waste so much money on me.

Ok, I lied. We don't really live here. This was during our Asia vacation.

The worst part of it is I can’t even wear the ring right since it is almost three sizes too big for me (the ring was bought unsized). So it has been floating around in a bookcase or bathroom cabinet for going on two years now, its misfitting ways symbolizing all that went wrong and all that is broken in our relationship. There it has been sitting and collecting emotional dust, representing all that could have been and all that still has to happen for Patrick to finally say to me, “Yes, you’re it. Let's do it, girl!”

But last week, on a weekly cruise through the mall, I stumbled across a newly opened jewelry store that promised fast fixes for any jewelry or watch problem. The man behind the counter told me it would cost $50 to take my ring down to a size 5.25 and $50 on that day didn’t sound like too high a price to once and for all resize my ring. I texted Patrick to ask him what he thought and he said, “Sure, go do it.”

And so I did the very next day. I brought the ring in like a nervous high school girl in love, watching the jeweler precisely laser the band apart only to put it back together a few minutes later. I guarded the ring like a new father would his baby in the NICU, making sure every step of the way my baby was treated with utmost care. It came back to me clean, polished, and MY size. The man behind the counter slipped it onto my finger and said, “You can wear your ring now. It fits perfectly. By the way, how long have you had it?”

“Oh, um, a while…”

“That’s a shame you couldn’t wear it for so long,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. No, you don’t understand, I wish I could tell him the story. It was not mine to wear this whole time. But thank you for making it feel more like mine, and maybe I will wear it more now. But just for fun because I’m not really engaged yet.

Looking at it on my finger as I type this post that has gone on for too long, my ring doesn’t seem too big anymore. Perhaps it was wrong of me to ask Patrick to prove the magnitude of his love in carats when we first found out I was unexpectedly pregnant. But Patrick, after all we've been through, can you honestly tell me I'm not completely, utterly, MAGNIFICENTLY worth every penny you've spent?

Right??

*cricket chirps*

Traveling and searching for purpose.

2011-07-13T12:26:00.000-07:00

I've disappeared to Asia and back...with babes in tow...

I keep running away. But from what?

Some of you may have noticed I shut down the blog for a while. It was spurred by spontaneity one night when I was alone watching a show about Internet predators. It struck a chord with me because I've exposed a lot of information and details of my family on this blog and guilt and regret rushed through me as I scrambled to protect our privacy. I sent a text message to my immediate family to apologize for giving others an intimate look into our lives and let them know it will no longer happen again as the story can't go on.

But something still didn't feel right about my decision because for most of my life, I've let fear and pessimism limit the roads I take. When you don't let yourself believe and choose to see the good and bright side, you've already written the end of your story. I truly don't know why I've had such issues in the past year writing on my blog. Part of it was because I fell into deep postpartum depression during the winter months and have been struggling to pick myself up since then. The other part was simply due to the fear of the unknown. I didn't know where I was going with my blog anymore, who I was writing to and for, and what others were thinking of me.

I felt limited with what I could say and how I could present things in my life because I was afraid of losing readers and offending people. I was helplessly lost in my depression but so desperately trying to hide my inner struggles from the world that writing became a chore. I was putting on a meaningless puppet show for the sake of performing.

I was afraid of sharing how things truly were for me because I didn't want people to laugh and say "I told you so."

I told you so because I chose this path for myself and YES, there are still days I wonder how life could have been if I never had my baby. The road getting back to even, getting back to where I was two years ago before my life spun off-course has proven to be an on-going battle. A battle of aimlessly searching for what once was and what I could still recoup and have.

Or am I fruitlessly trying to regain and repair what is no longer mine? A singleton life without limits and bounds? I am a mother, a partner to someone who loves me very much, and things are different now. This is life, evolving, changing, and moving towards a new normal instead of constantly checking over your shoulder and checking in with what could have been.

In this past year, I've lost weight, friends, happiness, career ambitions, and many other sacred and defining parts of me. But what I refuse to let slip through my fingers is my voice even when it's muddy and unclear.

I am lost because I don't know what I am doing anymore. But my twin, Carly, reminded me this morning that nothing in life matters if you don't do things with purpose, passion, and gratitude. So that is where I am at now: I love to write. Period. I love to write about feelings, emotions, relationships, family dynamics and drama... I love to read and write things that make people tingle on the inside. I love to read and write things that tug at heartstrings and make people breathe "Wow. I totally get it."

I once thought I wanted to be a rock star. But money and notoriety aren't things that matter to me or would make my life any more worth living. It's time to scale back, to break things down to the basics, and do what I love unabashedly and without fear. Write without an audience in mind, without limits, and without anxiety. A blog is a personal space and outlet, and readers will hang around if you add value to their lives.

King is literally clawing down his playpen as I write in frustration that his ever-attentive mother has put him down for a few minutes so she could possibly hodge-podge together some words. Ah, my time's up again for now.

One trip around the sun.

2011-05-09T08:41:00.000-07:00

Dear King,

I’ve spent the weekend reminiscing about this time last year. It was as if summer had arrived early, the weather sparkling with our famous Californian sun. My coworkers bid me a proper farewell on my last day of work before maternity leave and left me riding into the sunset with two trunk loads of baby shower gifts for you. I moved all boxes and trinkets into our cramped living room, silently vowing to spend the next two weeks before your arrival finally getting things ready for our new life.

On Saturday, on a whim, your daddy and I decided to go on a shopping trip together. Whilst I was preoccupied with my job, I hadn’t a moment to even begin thinking about how things would change once I had you but now that I would have this mini-break before your due date, I suddenly became neurotic about cleaning up, about being a perfect mom. Somehow, retail therapy that weekend seemed to temporarily provide a calming and reassuring fix that things could, maybe, turn out fine.

And then—on another whim—I decided I wanted to recreate one of your daddy and my first dates together at none other than greasy Red Robin. I indulged in the meal of all meals, stuffing what little stomach space I had left with a double punch of cheeseburgers and fries. Little did I know said burger would send me straight to labor an hour short of Mother’s Day 2010. I remember I kept asking the triage nurse in disbelief, “You mean I’m going to have a baby today?? Within 24 hours?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “You will definitely have your baby on Mother’s Day.”

Just like that, I had my world’s most precious baby. Childbirth left my body in tears and pain but every time I looked at you, I couldn’t help but breathe a “Wow.” I’d never really won anything before but with you, I felt like I was gifted life’s ultimate prize. That Wow, I’d finally done something good and right.

Your aunt Carly told me months after your birth that right before you came, she had a dream I had just had you. It was just the two of us in the middle of an iridescent forest and we were cuddled up in a sacred sphere of twinkles and buzzing fireflies on a center patch of wispy green grass. And above us: a glowing sky burning with shooting stars pulsing with light in quiet celebration and magical peace. Crazy thing is I couldn’t have described the birth experience better myself.

Today is your birthday and my stomach is left in twisted knots of disordered emotions. Watching you grow has completely eradicated all that I thought I knew about life and reshaped it into something at once gentle, real, and incredulous. It is an honor to be part of your soul’s journey through this world but if I’m being completely selfish, I want nothing more than to cradle you in the palm of my hand and safe-keep you forever in my left pocket.

My year as a new parent has been a mixed bag of good, hard, and harder days. But no matter the challenges life brings, one thing I often remind myself is one day your daddy and I are going to look back and probably confess these were, indeed, the best times of our lives.

Love,
Your mommy <3

Almost ONE.

2011-05-02T16:16:00.000-07:00

UMM... He's almost one.

Quite shocking we've somehow managed to keep him alive for so long. I know.

True to my terribly anti-climatic nature, we're not counting down the last week and there's no party planned unless something in the universe drastically shifts.

But I WILL write something about it come his birthday because ONE is sorta big...ain't it?

For now, a few pics we took this past weekend:

Wow my HEART. <3

Incredibly dull and boring.

2011-04-12T08:37:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was the first time I didn’t end up running away.

The hours were folding fast into the time of day I refer to as the “Exhaustion Overload” period, somewhere between the deadly hours of 4-7 PM. You know, the time of day when all hell seemingly breaks loose after already an accidentally full schedule jam-packed with fussing babies, email server errors, the odd telephone spat here and there with Significant Other over things I don’t quite recall anymore. And then there’s the dinner I need to have hot and piping on the table timed exactly so when Significant Other walks through the door of our apartment at 5 (give or take 15 minutes), he feels “taken care of by his sweetheart,” as his father likes to remind me to do.

It’s the time of day when my nerves are so shot the smallest road bump manifests into a semi-crisis, the time of day when if anyone gets in the way of my survival-mode mentality, I spiral out of control into a crazy shadow of the woman I’d hope to be for Patrick, not the person I so easily become during EO period.

Around 7-9 PM, things usually find a way of miraculously self-resolving, and it’s a beautiful thing since it coincides with some of my favorite television programming. My eyeballs retract back into their sockets, my muscles relax a bit, and if the stars are really aligned, I might even locate an opened bottle of red wine with exactly 6 ounces left in it. Life’s pretty good around now.

And then comes the Incredibly Dull and Boring, the limbo hours before bedtime when I often find myself slowly—perhaps even aimlessly—picking up the pieces of another day I somehow managed to get through. ID&B involves dirty dishes, paperwork, painstakingly collecting breadcrumbs on the carpet my dear baby likes to leave behind for me…and my mind naturally escapes into a parallel fantasy life.

A fantasy life of exotic residences, paparazzi, and maybe a pair of Christian Louboutins because I’m really dreaming big now, folks. But the gentle clamor of pots soaking in the sink interrupts my trip down La La Land and I downsize to a cozy cottage next door to my parents’ house in Northern California. It would be so nice to be anywhere but here, I think selfishly but not without guilt. King tugs at my oversized sweatpants (I’m truly rocking SEXY these days) and something deep down inside of me knows I CAN’T be anywhere else but here.

I want to escape because don’t we all once in a while? During the Incredibly Dull and Boring my mind races with alternate endings, with a life I could be living if I chose A instead of B or followed through with XY&Z but don’t run away now, Missy. Just live, relish, enjoy, and STAY.

Sometimes to get somewhere you simply have to stay put.

I’m afraid of my blog.

2011-04-06T00:05:00.000-07:00

I truly am. Really.

It’s sort of like having an intimate relationship fall apart suddenly for ambiguous reasons. And then you spend the next couple of months tiptoeing around each other afraid to make the first move lest you delve into a conversation you don’t know how to start. Or end.

I liken my blog to said friend who’s been left high and dry these past few months and I often find myself “afraid” to log in or emotionally unavailable to write and post pictures. But I think about Blog every day, wonder what Blog is up to, how Blog’s managing on his own in Internet-sphere.

You see, Blog came to me one night as I was feeling sorry for myself after being laid off by my company the day I returned to work from maternity leave. Overnight, I became a housewife and stay-at-home mom not because I chose to be those things but because I had no other choice. I was hurt, sad, angry, lost, but one look into my new baby’s eyes and I promised myself I would make the most of my time at home with him. I set out to document the lull of days spent in Mommydom and hoped in doing so, I could find some peace and beauty in a lifestyle I never knew I would or could have.

So have I reached Mommy nirvana some 11 months later? As with all things, the answer is gray and somewhere in the middle which is why it’s been much harder for me to express myself with Blog as of late. Because I am no longer that reluctant and throw fewer pity parties for myself when I miss out on a wild and crazy night out on the town with fellow 20-somethings. Because I no longer feel like I am missing out.

Thank you, readers, for being there and offering so much support and inspiration. I know I’ve gone from almost daily updates to weeks without so much a peep. I’m happiest when I write everyday and have some sort of human contact with the world that is swirling fast around me. And you offer that to me.

Blog, I’m afraid of you because I don’t know what to say. I can’t be honest when right now I don’t know exactly how I feel about things in my life or what can transpire from this adventure I’ve set out with you. Please pardon a few more months of reckless intermittence.

Sorry.

I love L.A. pt.2

2011-03-22T11:58:00.000-07:00

My love/hate relationship with L.A. is currently swayed slightly towards the warm and fuzzy side because of night hikes as twilight falls upon us:

King enjoying some bonding time with his Uncle Dennis.

This is not my baby.

2011-03-09T13:06:00.000-08:00

This is not my baby.

Because my little baby weighs 7 pounds, cannot crawl yet, and does not know how to eat a graham crack cracker on his own.

HAPPY 10-MONTH BIRTHDAY, Big Boy!

Birthdays are for breakups.

2011-02-01T15:55:00.000-08:00

A highly scientific examination on why birthdays are the most popular day of the year to leave behind the comforting terrain of couplesville for the thrilling territory of singletons. At least for me, that is.

The odds of breaking up with your significant other on your birthday are 1/365. In my case, however, I’m grossly off the curve as I’ve been batting closer to a .50 average. I never placed much thought on how “ahead” of the game I was until the year my 21st birthday rolled around. Twenty-one, that delicious age where the once pimply and awkward magically slip into a realm of adult possibilities. That darling age where all the teenage angst and attitude are traded in for a heaping helping of divine sophistication. Sophistication, maturity, growth…oh how the pressure of hiding my past was becoming all but too much to handle in stealth so I promised myself that before I turned the big 2-1, I would finally reveal the most uncomfortable secret I’ve had to hide for the past few years: I was dumped on my 18th birthday.

He was someone I shared a class with and on my birthday, he took me to see an esteemed jazz ensemble play at one of the premier concert halls in our area. It was all fun and games until a close girl friend of mine tagged along for the second part of the date (hitting the local arcade!) but because it was MY birthday, hormones and emotions ran rampant as I flipped out on the guy when I suspected he was getting too close to my girl friend. He promptly dropped me off at my house, bid me a “buh-bye,” and left me in an embarrassing chaos of tears and regret as I spent the rest of my birthday rolled up in fetal position on my bed.

The whole story was a bit more complicated than that and in recent years I’ve confused some of the details to add drama and tragic flair to my unfortunate tale. I maintain the guy was never my boyfriend to begin with (it helps me mend and defend a broken ego) and like to exaggerate the scene where he mercilessly left me on the streets in the middle of a cold night for dead. Because after all, who dumps a girl on her birthday?!

I simplified the “event” in a four-part blog post I rolled out the week before my 21st birthday. It was sort of my way of saying, “Yes, everyone, I was indeed dumped on my birthday but yes, everyone, I am SO over it now” and continued to repost the story each following birthday on whichever blog I happened to be nursing at the time. Which means I should be posting my epic 18th birthday story around now BUT remember I said breakups on my birthday is kind of an ongoing thing?

Well, on my 21st birthday, no less than two days after I first posted about my 18th birthday, I broke up with a new guy I’ve been seeing for a while. It was an ill-managed long-distance relationship and the piss and vinegar was he didn’t call me on my 21st birthday to say, “Hello, beautiful. Happy birthday.” In fact, he forgot to call me altogether so I was left with no choice but to give that one the dreaded ax. Striiiiike two for me.

Which leads us to wonder, what is it with me and my birthdays? Why is it the hours confined within one particular day each year such prime time for shattered hearts? How is it I’ve let go of half of all relationships that have ever meant something to me on a day that’s supposed to be filled with cakes, balloons, and kisses rather than Dear John letters?

Maybe it’s just that. The mere expectation of feeling special on a day to honor my existence is killing my chances of having long-lasting relationships because each year “that” day turns the corner, I shed my I-don’t-like-attention-from-anyone disorder for a secret desire to be treated like, well, a queen for the day. Maybe I publicly dismiss any form of recognition on every day of the year EXCEPT that ONE day where I develop and harbor an intense appetite to be…loved.

Inevitably, the heightened anticipation of all things warm and fuzzy on my birthday invariably supersedes the reality of a day that is mundane and normal for everyone else so my relationships have suffered as a result. The events of the day usually culminate in a disaster of misplaced emotions and disappointment but I’m not asking for much, people. Simply don’t flirt with my friend and just CALL ME and we’ll more likely than not see another year together.

So birthdays are for breakups but I’m sort of in a relationship I can’t lose right now. When Patrick asked me last week, “Your birthday’s coming up. What do you want to do?”

I could only answer, “Um…” Take the baby for a day, treat me to an hour-long massage at Burke Williams, buy me a dozen Forever Roses, sell your baseball card collection to make more room in the closet for me, love me, LOVE ME, SPOIL ME!!!!! “Um…” I continue, “Just…be sweet.”

“I’m always sweet,” he tells me.

“Yeah, for the most part,” I say. “Just be sweet.”

“Sounds good. You’re easy,” he decides.

Happy almost-birthday to me.

Dark blue.

2011-01-29T03:20:00.000-08:00

“Patrick, I’m going crazy. And I don’t know how to make it stop.”

It’s 3 AM in California as I lie awake in our “spacious” queen-sized bed. I say spacious with a smirk and raised eyebrow because two grown-ups and a 30-lb baby can hardly fit between the sheets without some spare limbs dangling lifelessly off the edges of the bed. I’ve come to accept I shall never be able to experience the absolute luxury that is sprawling freely in one’s own bed so long as I continue succumb to my son’s adamant desire to slumber between his parents’ warmth.

It’s 3 AM and I cannot make the voices inside my head stop. My thoughts vacillate through a maze of the mundane and critical: Why is it so cold in here? Are Patrick and I ever going to get married? When will I make a million dollars? Will King be embarrassed of me one day?

I turn and see King, my life-changing baby, and kiss him gently on the lips no less than ten times before I can pull away from his velvet skin. I still can’t sleep and inform Patrick I’m going crazy. But he’s down for the count and if he heard me, it was in a mess of dreams.

“Patrick, I’m going crazy,” like I told him a month ago. Late December, King had a really bad accident and it was my fault. From guilt, pain, and complete devastation I shut the whole world out and became perpetually lost in my internalized self-torment. I wanted to make everything go away, to make King better, and found every excuse in the universe why I wasn’t happy to blame them all. Because it’s never me, it’s never my problem, because “I’m perfect” as I so often tease Patrick.

I turn and see King and pray he doesn’t turn out like me one day. Just be happy and take things slowly because you will grow up faster than you’ll ever know.

The room is blanketed in dark blue and a light flickers from the nightstand. I can’t sleep I can’t sleep so I open the screen of my laptop and log into my blog. Artemis Clover: The Real L.A. Love Story. Artemis—heh—here we go again.

Keep writing the story.

King with Grandma.

Walking underwater.

2011-01-06T22:00:00.000-08:00

Your body knows what to do.

After pushing a 7-pound baby out, something in my blood changed seemingly overnight. My veins ran fast and clear, my skin tingling with electrifying intensity as I floated on cloud nine with my new baby King wrapped up in my arms. I felt perpetually drugged—as if I had overdosed on caffeine and other unnamed stimulants—and could whisk, wash, and fold my way around the kitchen and endless loads of laundry. “AND, I could be making dinner with one hand while breastfeeding with the other,” I often bragged to bemused friends. “I am THAT good at being a mom.”

Yep, my body did what it was supposed to do, and my brain knew better than to lag too far behind. Just as my body was running circles around the apartment, my mind raced with fantastic creativity. Blog, book, art, photography, music—I plotted them all and couldn’t wait to wake up each dewy summer morning to polish and refine the ideas I had spinning inside of me. Right after having a baby was a glorious season of everything new, powerful, and magnetic. A glorious season of wonderlust.

And then, just as quickly as I had entered the realm of divine living, I suddenly fell from the sky into the deep and dark end of the pool sometime in October. The fluffy clouds dissolved into molten lava and I could no longer stay standing as the demands of motherhood—of life—consumed me with hopeless tenacity. My words started coming out thinly and crude, the computer keyboard untouched for days on end. I desperately tried to find joy in writing, in my relationship, in my baby…but couldn’t. My “can-do’s” became “cannot’s” and all of my “possible’s” crumbled into an abyss of impossibility. Since then I’ve been walking underwater.

Today I think back to the last time I was truly and blissfully filled with happiness. Patrick, King, and I were already a few days into our Hawaii vacation when we decided to visit the beach for a late-afternoon swim. Because King was a mere 4 months at the time, Patrick and I had to take turns swimming in the ocean and watching King on the shore.

When it was my turn to jump into the turquoise water, I let the cool waves pull me farther and farther away from the glistening sand. I could no longer feel the sharp rocks beneath me when I turned my head to see Patrick and King waving “hello” to their mommy from the dry land a hundred feet away. I felt so free as elation filled my tanned body buoying up and down with the rhythm of sea. So free and joyful as if I were ten years old again with all the childlike promise and hope of a new day.

I want to be back at that place.

Pomegranate skin.

2011-01-03T23:19:00.000-08:00

King chews on pomegranate skin and I go to a basketball game with my brother to kick off 2011.

I'm still playing hide and seek with my life in Northern California but I'll go back to Los Angeles one of these days. I have to.

I miss Patrick.

Holiday.

2010-12-28T20:57:00.000-08:00

Patrick, King, and I spent the Christmas holiday at my parents' house in Northern California. Patrick's back at work now but I'm staying here for a bit longer to get some extra help with King. Whew!

Some photos from the weekend (I don't have my usual gear with me so pardon the quality):

Getting ready for Christmas dinner.

The tree this year. I see some presents!

Margarita.

Lobster for Patrick.

Yum.

Ice wine after dinner.

Almost bedtime.

Grass jelly for dessert.

Plenty of friends visiting King each day.

Happy holidays!

The party that almost never was.

2010-12-19T20:15:00.000-08:00

A true story about throwing a gingerbread house-making event no one shows up for. No, really.

The weather in Los Angeles has taken a drastic turn for the worst as a torrential rainstorm has replaced our once famously arid and sunny climate. It’s quite comical watching Californians dramatically dodge the bullet-like downpour as we dash outside for last-minute holiday shopping, shielding our precious Brazilian blowouts with nothing more than two copies of yesterday’s newspapers. Owning an umbrella is such a faux pas around these parts. Like, toh-tally.

Two weeks ago, however, we were basking in our usual December sun when it was spontaneously decided by my young entrepreneur club that a last-minute gingerbread house-making party HAD to be on our social calendar before year-end. “Sure, why not?” I seconded the proposal. “And Patrick and I can host it!”

We’ve done similar parties in the past and have had plenty of people show up for the candy-studded festivities. Putting together this particular fete seemed it would be a slam-dunk of a success as friends old and new gather around our non-existent fireplace to sip artificially flavored eggnog and reminisce about the good old times had in college. A guaranteed success. Yep.

I should have known better when out of the 40 or so Evites sent out, we received only a handful of “maybe’s” and not much more. No, that can’t be right, I tried to justify in my head. Hot cider, mulled wine, and spiced cake galore—I mean, who WOULDN’T want to come? I began to obsessively refresh my browser in the weeks leading up to the event but it didn’t make much of a difference. The numbers never budged. Except that one time a “maybe” changed his response to a “no.”

Like waking up on your birthday and seeing only one friend had remembered to wish you a “Happy Birthday” on your Facebook wall, I then started to make excuses for all the people that hadn’t responded yet. The Internet MUST be down in a lot of places, I told myself. “Or people just aren’t coming,” Patrick, ever my voice of reason, interrupted my thoughts.

This morning, the day of our fated soiree, Patrick reminded me again we probably wouldn’t have much of a party if no one has confirmed they were coming. “No, you don’t understand,” I explained. “People in L.A. just don’t RSVP for anything anymore. But they will still come,” I was all too sure. So graham crackers and candy were bought, sangria and hors d’oeuvres were made, and we even whipped up a big batch of edible cement to glue the gingerbread houses together.

And then…drum roll please…NO. ONE. SHOWED. UP. Like that miserable scene from Valentine’s Day, waiting for your own party to start is worse than having your teeth pulled at the dentist. I’ve had it done so trust me, I know.

I tawt we were having fwends over.

Almost an hour and a half later, we had two brave soldiers come to our door and we welcomed them like an over-zealous puppy left alone at home too long. Oh how we fussed and fussed over our two sole guests as if they were kings and queens. I was so thankful they came if I’d not had a baby yet, I would have promised my first-born child to their tender souls.

So this year is really turning out to be a year of first’s for me: First time I’ve had a baby, first time I’ve been laid off from a job, and first time I threw a party (almost) no one showed up for. But, I keep telling myself, it’s all that nasty rain we’ve been getting.

It MUST have been the darned weather. It must be. It...

Dagummit.

I miss photography.

2010-12-15T11:11:00.000-08:00

One of the sweetest bloggers I know (Becky from Life With Kaishon!!) just posted an interview we did together about my not-so-secret past life as a wedding and portrait photographer before I stumbled into mommyhood. Ahh I do miss those days.

Check it out HERE and happy Wednesday! :)

And PART 2.

Christmas Failure

2010-12-13T11:18:00.000-08:00

It’s beginning to look a lot like…summer in Los Angeles. The balmy breeze and high sunshine make it hard for me to don my pointy green felt hat and showcase my elf prowess in an assortment of delicately painted sugar cookies. All I want to do is jump into a bikini—stretch marks and all—and tan on the makeshift rooftop of my apartment complex. Or not.

I so desperately wanted to make things feel like Christmas I’ve been bundling King up in his reindeer jumpsuits only to discover his excessive sweating makes his feet smell all grown up…like vinegar. And then I hear stories about peanut butter thumbprint cookies, molasses bread, chocolate haystacks, and…wait, did I miss something? Did you want me to bake something for you, too?

But I don’t bake, much to Patrick’s disappointment, and I unabashedly slept in for Black Friday shopping so I’m starting to resemble someone who rhymes with “finch” because although my list of people I’d like to get things for this year is pages long, I’ve crossed off precisely none.

This holiday season is rapidly going down the path of EPIC FAIL but that green scowling face is not a good look for me—it’s really not—so I wake up this morning with steadfast vengeance to finally get in the spirit of paper snowflakes. And a certain Mr. Claus.

“But I’m not sure King will grow up thinking there is a Santa Claus,” I matter-of-factly inform Patrick. “I don’t want to play make believe with my child when he’s inevitably going to find out one day we lied to him.”

“Yes, but having cookies and milk out for Santa Claus is still one of my favorite memories of Christmas,” Patrick tells me as he rolls out of bed. “Even though it’s not real anymore, for a good five years it was the most magical and exciting time of the year for me.”

So for King’s first Christmas, will there be presents under the tree from Santa Claus? Yes, no, yes…I think I’m choosing to believe so YES.

The Making of King Ch. 15 (2 of 2)

2010-12-08T20:26:00.000-08:00

But I was really pregnant, and definitely more than just a little bit by October. My wedding date was fast approaching and I dreaded thinking about it. I was still working fulltime at my corporate job and it was already a disastrous struggle to keep my mind and body sane everyday confined within the four walls of my small office. Add to that the zoo that is planning a full wedding and I quickly became a walking blob of misplaced emotions and morning sickness.

“I’m going to jump in the shower,” I yelled to Patrick so I could get some more time alone to think about my conversation with Sherry. I turned on the water, waited for it to get piping hot, and let the heavy beating of water drown the incessant thoughts—baby, work, Patrick, wedding, family, baby—racing through my mind. I couldn’t believe Sherry risked telling me about her secret in hopes of guiding me towards a better plan of action as I was beyond itching with temptation to spill the beans to my parents. And there was still so much I wanted to ask Sherry: What was going through her head while she was getting the abortion? Did it hurt? What did her boyfriend at the time think? Does she ever think about her unborn children now?

I lathered up my stomach and obsessively rubbed soap into my skin. Don’t worry, I will never get rid of you, I almost said out loud to my baby. Just like how Patrick wanted the baby deep down, I wanted our baby, too. I heard everything Sherry was trying to get through to me but despite some of the external day-to-day problems Patrick and I had, I truly wanted to believe we were meant to be together in the end and the baby was all part of a greater plan for us. And at this very moment, everything seemed to be okay.

“Hey, you okay in there?” Patrick asked as he lightly knocked on the bathroom door. “You’ve been in there for quite some time.”

“Yep, just finishing up,” I let him know even though I had been finished for a while. I was just standing in the downpour of water, hypnotized by the methodic sprinkle running down my body, and I went from thinking about Sherry to my baby to…my wedding day.

Patrick agreed to marry me before the birth of our child so we were moving fast to get our plans underway. After some back and forth with dates, we finally settled on Saturday, January 9, 2010 for our wedding ceremony—just enough time to put together a whole wedding but not so far along in my pregnancy that I would be comically waddling down the aisle instead of a pacing an elegant march.

I was so exhausted after a long day at work I didn’t have even an ounce of energy to cook myself dinner each night let alone begin thinking about location, theme, menu, cake, and all the fun details brides usually relish in handpicking out. Carly did her best to support me and tried to get me excited about the wedding-planning process. Even after thumbing through countless bridal magazines, visiting all the craft stores in my area, and scouring the Internet together for whimsical reception ideas, by the end of my first trimester, there was only one thing about my wedding I knew for sure: My maid of honor will be Carly.

The water was beginning to run cold when I stepped out of the shower. I grabbed for a towel and dried myself off as quickly as I could before goose bumps started to appear on my damp skin. Still wrapped in my towel, I opened the bathroom door and found Patrick behind it, as if he were standing there the whole time waiting for me.

“There is a chance that the rest of the world thinks something different than us,” I told him in a huff. “But we are keeping this baby.”

“Of course we are,” he said as he wrapped his arms around me. Tightly. “I was beginning to think you fell in the toilet.” I laughed softly at his comment and breathed in the faint smell of his cologne leftover from earlier that day.

“So while you were showering, I looked at some rings online,” Patrick continued as he pulled up a page on his laptop. “What do you think about some of these options?”

“You mean, like, an engagement ring? For me?” We had talked briefly before about buying me a proper diamond ring but because we already were scrambling to plan our wedding, I didn’t think having an engagement ring was a priority. Looking at the shimmering rings online, however, brought out a schoolgirl flush in my cheeks and I smiled when I imagined a sparkly band studded with little diamonds wrapped around my ring finger.

“Yes, I know you were saying rings weren’t important right now but what kind of a ring would you want if you were getting engaged for real?” Patrick asked as he studied different kinds of settings for engagement rings. “Like look, you can choose the number of prongs you want, the shape of the diamond…you can practically build your perfect ring!” Patrick showed me in delight.

On that particular website, “Find the perfect ring for the perfect girl” flashed on the screen in big and bold letters. Perfect ring, perfect girl, perfect ring, perfect girl danced in circles around all the dazzling white gold and platinum bands, each ring preciously showcased and sacred like the human heart. Perfect girl I repeated once more in silence.

Me, the perfect girl.

To be continued...

The Making of King Ch. 15 (1 of 2)

2010-12-07T11:05:00.000-08:00

Missed the last chapter? Read it HERE.

He could be everything I've ever wanted.

“Sherry, wait. Hold on,” I said into the receiver as I jumped out of bed and rushed into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. “What are you talking about?”

“Your mom told me everything about the baby and your wedding. And you really can’t have the baby. It’s a huge mistake,” she relayed with great urgency. My stomach dropped again, twisted in tight knots of baby hormones and now more drama. Patrick called for me from the other room to make sure I was okay and I didn’t know what to tell him. No, I’m not okay. The hurdles seemingly never end. If it’s not one thing, it’s always another…

“Yeah, just on the phone with a friend. I’ll need a minute,” I told him through the walls. “Sherry, everything is fine with me and I am happy with my decision. Everything is fine,” I tried to convince her. And myself.

“Missy, I’m a lot older than you and have more experience in life. Just hear me out and please reconsider what you are doing,” she explained. Even though I’d always considered Sherry a part of my generation, she was in fact on the teetering edge of it since she is more than ten years my senior. Living on the other side of the country, I didn’t get to see her in person much anymore but we had the type of chemistry where months could pass before we spoke to each other again and it would still seem like we talked everyday.

“I’ve never told anyone this before,” Sherry continued, “but I got pregnant with a boyfriend of mine when I was 17 and then another time in my 20s. I got an abortion both times and I am so glad I did. The guys weren’t right for me and I was in no position to have a baby. I was a child myself!”

“Really? Wow, I had no idea. So why don’t you have kids now?” I asked her.

“Money. Sean and I need to make sure we are financially stable first before we can support a family. But what I am saying is a lot of people get abortions but never tell anyone about it if they get pregnant at the wrong time with the wrong guy. I think you must reconsider what kind of a life you are setting yourself up for. We all worry about you and I know you want to keep your baby. But from what I’ve heard, you and Patrick had a lot of issues in the past and they won’t just go away with a baby. They will get worse with the stress of a child. Really think if Patrick is the right guy for you, if he is who you want your husband to be. Make sure you are not selling yourself short,” Sherry went on to say.

“Trust me, I’ve thought about it all and I will never get an abortion. Patrick and I are committed to working things out and he could be everything I’ve ever wanted,” I rebutted.

“COULD BE, Missy! But is he now?? Just because you get pregnant doesn’t mean you have to have the child, and it doesn’t mean you have to marry the father.”

Is Patrick everything I’ve ever wanted? Is he all of that…NOW?

“Sherry, I hear what you’re saying but I am sure this is what I want,” I assured her of my decision.

“Okay, it’s your life but I just wanted to remind you that you have options and you are not stuck in any situation you don’t want to be in. I support you and everyone will love your baby no matter what. I’ll see you at your wedding and until then, please call me if you need anything,” Sherry said before hanging up. I sat down by the bathroom sink, my head echoing with the revelations I just found out about my dear friend, and I needed a minute to myself before I could go back into Patrick’s room to hang out for the rest of the night.

A part of me felt so bad for Sherry that she had to carry around her abortion secret with her for so many years and a part of me felt angry that yet again, another person wanted me to just get rid of my baby as if it were that simple. I looked down at my stomach and from the outside, I was still not showing and I myself had a hard time believing I was growing a life inside of me. That something so small could have such a huge impact on my life.

Part 2 coming tomorrow...

Just a piece of paper.

2010-12-04T00:25:00.000-08:00

Patrick and I had a baby out of wedlock. Scandalous, I know.

So scandalous that when I first found out about my unexpected pregnancy last year, I immeditately threw myself in a wedding-planning frenzy. It didn’t matter I really hadn’t known Patrick well enough at that juncture to embark on “forever” with him; if getting married meant quelling all the looming gossip and speculation from my friends and family over the surprise baby, then sign me up. I’m all in.

Plus, I guess there was that giddy and naïve side to me that couldn’t believe my good fortune in being able to “have it all” in one go. Seemingly overnight, I was on the verge of being a wife AND a mother in a single year. Isn’t this what schoolgirl dreams are made of? A fairytale fantasy of bagging the bad boy and his baby in one fell swoop?

Except I should have known better. If it sounds too good to be true, it is. Always. Halfway through planning my shotgun wedding, things all sort of blew up in my face in an embarrassingly ugly debacle. Patrick and I tried to but ultimately couldn’t get married before King was born and months later I’m still trying to heal and figure out what truly happened in the midst of such pivotal life changes. If stories about forbidden love spiked with a couple extra shots of baby hormones are your thing, I’m writing it all down in The Making Of King.

So after the wedding was called off, I all but gave up on ever having that one day where I will be the ultimate princess decked out in my stunning lace gown and offwhite Louboutin shoes. My hair, meticulously shaped into a side-swept chignon, is magazine-ready as I march gracefully down the rose-petaled aisle. And my parents, one in each arm, walk me down proudly as they swallow bittersweet tears from finally having to let their little girl go. The string quartet plays a funky rendition of “Sweet Child O’ Mine” until I reach the alter where my dad gives Mr. Amazing my hand and reminds him, “Be good to her.”

Funny thing is after we called off the wedding and had our baby, Patrick is becoming my "Mr. Amazing." GASP I know, but better late than never. And I usually don't openly acknowledge my fondness of him on the days he wants to be sweet (since I pretend to be a cynical pessimist anyway. It's the writer in me) but maybe...maybe he will be the one for me. Maybe we are very good together in that forever sort of way. Maybe this is it.

But I had my chance at having a real wedding—you know, with bridesmaids, limos, and an open bar—and I am okay with never going back there again. Heck, I might even be okay with never marrying Patrick. After all, marriage is just a piece of paper, right?

“I really think Patrick and I have a shot at truly making things work,” I told a family friend last week. “I want a house, a future, and…more babies with him?”

“Do you think you will get married then?” she asked.

“No. Yes. I mean, we are practically an old married couple now so it wouldn’t really matter. Marriage is just a piece of paper. A wedding is just an expensive piece of paper.”

“But I think deep down, you would want a wedding still,” she prods.

“No, almost been there and done that. It won’t—it can’t—happen again,” I try to explain.

“You want a wedding and being married does mean something,” she says with a wink in her eye.

No, no you’re wrong. Everything with Patrick and me is finally almost all okay. We are happy and being married is not important to me anymore. Proclaiming our love and commitment to one another in a wedding ceremony is not necessary. Being married won't magically guarantee he will not let me down again or I will never hurt him. Because I will, and he will, and being married doesn’t change what we will do to each other anyway. It won’t and I don’t want it, I don’t, I...I do.

I do.

Parenting advice from Kate Gosselin.

2010-12-01T22:42:00.000-08:00

She’s one hot mess if I’ve ever seen one.

In a weird, twisty, deep-down-in-my-soul kind of way, I’m newly fond of Kate Gosselin.

Deer hunting and bountiful puppies is how they do!

Ugh, I know. De-friend, unfollow, blacklist me. After all the crap in her life that’s been publically and humiliatingly fleshed out for the world to judge and snicker at, there’s not much left to like about her, right? Sure, it was the asymmetric and obnoxiously trendy haircut first. Mostly harmless but throw in the nasty divorce, bodyguard scandal, overly botoxed eyes, unruly kids, AND Dancing With The Stars? She’s one hot mess if I’ve ever seen one.

And definitely not someone you'd ever take parenting advice from, huh?

King meets one of his great grandmothers in NY.

Patrick, King, and I just got back from a luxuriously long visit to upstate New York last night and upon my return to our Los Angeles apartment, I just lost it. Like hyperventilating, hiccupping, blubbering with mascara-dripping-down-my-face LOST IT. Like Charlotte from Sex and the City 2 locking herself in her kitchen pantry to escape her relentless crying kids variety of LOST IT.

I can’t pinpoint specifically what had me jumping off the deep end but I suspect it had something to do with coming back to the daily grind of my reality as a stay-at-home mom. I love King more than I love myself but with very little family and community support in bustling L.A., raising a bitty baby is a far cry from the cozy dollhouse make-believe shiz I grew up playing with. So leaving New York where we had a lot of help from Patrick’s family to come back to L.A. was hard for me.

Somewhere between the “I can’t do this anymore”s and the “I feel so trapped in all of this” spewing out of my mouth last night, I found myself escaping to my bathroom to try to find some semblance of sanity and calm lest I completely and irreversibly scar my dear child’s life forever with my manic episode. I sat on the edge of my bathtub doing the hee-hee breathing I learned from labor and saw the image of a flawless blonde on the cover of a People magazine I’d stashed away as bathroom reading material a few weeks ago.

It was Kate Gosselin, clad in none other than a barely-there white bikini, and try as I might just stay out of her life and how she got that perfect beach body, I still proceeded to aggressively flip through the magazine to find her feature article as if my life depended on it. And considering last night, it probably did.

Back to Kate, her velvety tanned body and those abs—THOSE abs!—sent a twinge of envy as I felt the extra folds of skin on my stomach I now carry from having one child. And she had eight. Ugh. Yes, there is so much to dislike about Kate and then, nestled somewhere between her dieting advice and beauty tips, she threw in three simple words that sang like divination from the angels above: “Just keep going.”

Really, Kate? Is it that simple? Just keep going? I looked at her cover picture again, her proud smile and glittering eyes beaming with inner satisfaction, and maybe this mama DOES know a thing or two about parenthood. About life. So just keep going she says. Okay, I guess I have no other choice, I whispered to myself as I wiped my tears dry with toilet paper.

I came out of hiding and walked back to the bedroom where Patrick and King cuddled up in, my boys holding each other close while waiting for me to enter my life again as Mommy and just keep going. Just keep going, one foot in front of the other.

Just keep going.

Cousins!

King on Thanksgiving day.

So many presents you'd think it were Christmas.

Other great Grandma!

On our flight back to sunny Cali, King celebrated the welcome warmth of the west by shedding his clothes on the plane.

View of Los Angeles from our plane.

Not quite the city anymore.

2010-11-21T21:52:00.000-08:00

This holiday season, Patrick, King, and I are trading in our lives as city-dwelling scoundrels for the earthy simplicity of countryside folks. We left the L.A. homestead in search of family on the east coast but we're discovering much more along the way as well. Like deer.

I'll keep you posted this week on our trip. Happy Monday!

My butt's gone a missing.

2010-11-19T09:58:00.000-08:00

When losing too much weight after pregnancy backfires. Literally.

You may have seen HERE and HERE a glimpse of my on/off relationship with food. Some days I am completely smitten and obsessed with its deliciously nurturing qualities and other days I curse its tempting ways when I start getting that arm jiggle again from over-indulging. Like many people, I’ve lived most of my life following the “calories in/calories out” equation to stay slim and just silently held my breath for a magic pill that could one day give me the best of both gastronomy and vanity worlds. And then I found it: Childbirth.

You may have read HERE how I lost all the baby weight. Now, six months later, not only have I shed the belly flab and puffiness, I’m ten pounds skinnier than what I was before I got pregnant. HUH?!?

Some friends gush, “Wow you must have worked out sooo hard!” Um, if you count carrying around my 25-pound baby a workout, then sure! My family balks, “You don’t look healthy—eat more!” If I’m not eating, then how am I still producing gallons of breast milk? Breast milk…yes, that could be the holy grail of weight loss secrets. Perhaps in breastfeeding my son I’ve found the Mecca where gluttony peacefully co-exists with finally being able to slip into my skinny jeans. And boy does that happy place feel good.

But, and there is a butt in this story, I’ve lost my butt. Somewhat restricted by my Asian genes, I’ve never had much of a booty but at least it was there. At least it said “hi” to me each morning in the mirror and at least it cushioned my bones as I typed away in my office chair. These days, my body symmetry is so unbalanced as I’ve gained the two breast friends I’ve ever had and then it all sort of whittles down to nothing until you see my size 7 feet. My butt’s gone a missing.

Patrick hasn’t said anything about it—bless his heart—but if I were a guy, I’d totally be a butt guy. I’d take a nice apple bottom over the milk jugs any day. When other women walk into a bar, my eyes dart across the room faster than the men’s as I just unabashedly stare in awe when I see a solid behind. I can’t help it because I want THAT.

I’ve openly proclaimed if I could buy a butt, I would. But seeing as I don’t have much money, I guess I have to resort to the old-fashioned way to put some hottie into my patottie. This Thanksgiving, I’m committed to downing some serious eats because enough’s enough and I need my butt back. I hope things will start looking pretty rotund assuming the newly acquired fat cells know to go straight to the butt and nowhere else. It’s a gamble I’m willing to take.

King just thinks Mommy is silly.