Tag Archives: guilt is the trip mothers take often

Things I learned today

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I will never ever be able to fold a fitted sheet perfectly no matter how much time I spend on it. Fitted sheet, consider yourself folded.

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Checking my email is never going to be “QUICK”. I will always spend more than “Just one minute” when I log in my email account. I will be tempted to click on the links in the emails and it will always take longer than I think to read and comment on a blog post. And when you forget about your child’s lunch, he will hunt you down and demand lunch, but in a nice way that actually makes you feel even shittier.

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Corporate brand image does not necessarily mean Caution and Stodgy and Prim&Proper. “Inappropriate” innuendos are allowed in official press release; sometimes it makes it a WIN.

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"Clipart - Housewife Washing Up at the Sink Whilst a Man Sits in an Armchair Reading a Newspaper"

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My husband has blue hair!

My Chinese babysitter is going to FIRE me soon

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I sometimes feel very sorry for my children: because how I am caught between two worlds, they too are caught between two worlds.

Many of you have commented on my responses to the Tiger Mom Controversy with great insight, grace and kindness. One comment that made me pause and reflect upon the factual state of what I am doing to my children came from MacDougal Street Baby:

Nobody knows what happens behind closed doors. We can pontificate all we want about how others are raising their kids but, really, there’s no way to know what’s going on. Believe in your own way. Trust yourself. And then deal with the fallout.

It is this unwavering conviction that has been eluding me ever since I became a parent. I am torn between the “Chinese way of parenting” and the, for the lack of a better term, “Modern American” way.

So I wobble.

One day I am a Chinese mother. The next day I am an American mother. I feel so schizophrenic and now am worried what this kind of wishy-washy parenting is doing to my children: they have no way of knowing which mother will be greeting them every morning. It is like living with Eve White.

Either way, I am constantly feeling guilty because of the pressure coming from both sides.

I am either too strict and overprotective or too lenient and permissive.

The worst would be when I am “confronted” by other Chinese parents either in this country or back home.

I am not kidding when I mentioned my brother asking me whether he could discipline my children on my behalf. “Just a slap on the face will solve all your problems!” In fact, he did not even need my approval since he is my elder brother and as their uncle, he has all the “right” to discipline my children the way he sees fit. Even my nephew, who was a so-called “problem child” in his youth  (with petty misdemeanors, unfinished high school and truancy which constituted as “family scandals” that shall not be spoken of, and who, one would thought, should hate this kind of heavy-handed, literally, parenting style), asked quite a few times with exasperation, “What do you mean you cannot beat your child? Oh I am telling you, it pangs me to watch them misbehave so much that my hands are itching. Could I please just hit them upside the head?”

(If you are wondering WHAT crime did my children commit to deserve such wrath? My kids were simply, according to the American standard, “being independent, rambunctious boys”.)

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We have a babysitter that comes every morning to accompany Mr. Monk to his bus stop: I have to leave before that in order to catch my train downtown and my husband travels a lot. We are now on our second babysitter who started last month. Our babysitter does not need this job: she lives in a house bigger than ours and drives a Mercedes. As a fellow Chinese, she is doing this as a favor for me and for that, I am very grateful. But I am afraid that she is going to quit very soon.

Mr. Monk was reading at the kitchen table and ignoring both of us when we asked him what he would like for lunch. I could see his finger moving across the page. I could tell that he was frantically trying to get to a place where he could stop without losing his place on the page.

He is a child of many peculiarities since birth. I have learned to go along with these special requirements of his to keep a smooth and orderly existence. I have learned the hard way.

If it were his elder brother at the table this morning? I would have punished him for blatantly ignoring me.

“You are very permissive. I would have snatched that book away this instant.” My babysitter commented in Chinese.

I explained to her what Mr. Monk was trying to do and his needing such an order in his life.

“You should have fought to get him to change. You should have made him change through persistence. If it were my daughter, I would have taken that book away already.”

I made some feeble attempt to explain why I did not. Could not. “He’d be harping on this for the rest of the day if I did so. Maybe even tomorrow and the day after tomorrow. He’ll remember this for the rest of his life.”

“My daughter remembers everything too. Oh she fought but I persisted. You just have to be persistent and make them change their ways. It is not possible for him to not change if you just work harder.”

“You must have been very strict with your daughter?” I asked, as a compliment.

“Yes, I was.” She beamed with pride as she should since her daughter is now a VP at a prestigious investment bank on Wall Street.

“Oh she hated me back then. I am pretty sure she hated me but I persisted. She is very nice to me now, she calls me all the time. I think she finally understands why I needed to do what I did. She can see now.”

“You know, I cannot do that.” I admitted to her. “It must have taken a lot of strength on your part to remain strict.” I stopped short at telling her, “But I need my children to like me, and I cannot stand the thought that they may hate me.”

“Yes.” She paused. “But I did what I had to do.”

In traditional Chinese culture, (Warning: Gross generalization ahead. Buyer beware!) your success as a parent is not evaluated by how happy your children are but by how obedient they are when young and how successful they are when grown-up. Providing your children with a happy childhood is not a requisite for being a good mother. I am not suggesting that Chinese parents go out of their way to make their children miserable but rather that IT is not a priority.  Or rather, the definition of happiness is quite different, and also who gets to define happiness is debatable since we were often told, “You don’t know what you want. You don’t know what will make you happy. You will know when you are older.”

I am happy for her and for her daughter’s accomplishment. As I said, I am grateful for her coming here every morning so that I could keep my job. But it feels like an indictment of me as a parent every single morning. I will be getting out of the house as soon as she arrives from now on.

The Need for Convenient Justification

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This is a different reaction from my reading of the controversy surrounding Amy Chua’s WSJ article, “Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior?”

Yesterday, I said, Bring it on! The can of worms has been opened! Today, I will continue to clear this raging case of “Oh oh oh I have something to say Pick Me Pick Me” via pontificating on my blog.

Disclaimer needed, again: I am not agreeing with Chua’s parenting style. This is simply ONE of my reactions as all these conflicting thoughts racing through my brains…

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Like many, I felt great anxiety and anger when I was reading Chua’s article. But I get anxious easily when it comes to parenting. Heck, I felt like screaming when I watched a holiday video from a Chinese friend showing her kids playing piano AND violin at a recital, speaking fluent Chinese AND French. Again, not because I wished my kids were better but because that video, akin to a resume for the future “survival of the fittest” audition, raised my anxiety level over whether I am doing enough to prepare my children for their future. And you know what? I wish my friend were a Tiger Mom, so I could easily dismiss her accomplishment as a parent by thinking, “Well, but her kids are like robots, and she is cold and unemotional.” They are not, and she is not.

To parent like this (ok, sans the name calling, BUT I did call my kids dumbasses more than once when they were, well, being dumbasses), it takes a lot of dedication and efforts. I am too selfish to devote myself like that to my children.  I cannot even spend an hour every day teaching my children Chinese. It really is easier to say, “To hell with it. Who needs to know Chinese anyway? [Ha!]” than to deal with all the crying and resisting. I WANT my children to like me. I don’t want to be the mean parent. My husband can be the bad cop. Me? I want to be the good cop.

I thank Amy Chua, not for the article since I knew all about “The Chinese Way of Parenting” and there was no surprise there, but for the 7000+ hateful comments and the public condemnations.  They reassured me, “Hey, what I am doing or not doing is OK. She thinks she is so successful, and her children are so successful, and her family is so successful, but you know what? They are all zombies with no emotions. And the Americans, including the Chinese Americans, HATE her.” Hopefully when I go home this February, when my parents cannot communicate with my children because they do not speak English, when people ask me why my children cannot speak Chinese and how come so-and-so’s American grandchildren can not only speak but read and write fluent Chinese and why I did not beat their asses so they would learn Chinese against their will, when my brother asks for the Nth time whether it is ok if he gives my independent children a beating and I say “Of course not” and he relents with a sigh “Americans…”, I will feel less like a failure.

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As the kids and I hurried along Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago this Sunday night in the freezing temperature, I spotted a mother bundled up with her two children on the sidewalk. There was a can in front of them with a few coins inside. She was trying to cover the little one’s head with a tiny scarf. My heart skipped a beat. I stopped to give her some money and quickly walked away. My oldest patted my arm as we walked further.

“It is freezing. Those kids must be freezing.” I said. “I don’t know why she’s sitting on the sidewalk in the cold. There are shelters. Doesn’t she know there are shelters?”

In an effort to comfort me, he said, “I heard a story about this guy who would go into the city every day and beg and then every night he comes home to a big house and car and everything.”

“Do you know why this story became so popular and everybody likes to talk about it?”

“Because it gives you the justification you need for not doing anything?”

“Exactly.”

The Unnecessary Saga of the Travelling Jacket

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I have no idea what’s been going on with me as a mother. The fact that I am away from home on a business trip while leaving mu children to the care of a babysitter does not bode well for my chance of winning Mother of the Year anyway. But I did figure out why I am loving people over the Internet so much better in real life.

You do not witness my suckiness up close and personal.

You do not get to witness my parenting fails.

You do not get to be rubbed the wrong ways by my mere presence. My smugness. My suburban privileged life. My undeserved whining. My coy yet relentless pursuit of youthful appearances.

For that, I am grateful.

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Mr. Monk my recently-turned-8 younger child came home with the wrong jacket last Tuesday. It was size XL, way too big for him. When I finally noticed it on Wednesday afternoon, I rushed over to the care facility where he had to stay that Monday and Tuesday because school was out and I had to work on those days.

I made the director at the center check the coat hooks. The cubbies. Different classrooms. I made her call the “suspects” aka kids who were also there on Monday and Tuesday and were BIG enough to be wearing a size XL jacket.

No dice.

I became more and more indignant.

What kind of parents would not notice that their son had gone home with a jacket that’s too SMALL for him?! Wouldn’t they have noticed by now since it is freezing?! Are they keeping our better and brand new (!) jacket on purpose?! Jerks!

I was also mad, unfairly, at my child for coming home with the wrong jacket and for not noticing it till Wednesday afternoon, the day before Thanksgiving, with the entire weekend forecast to be cold cold cold. And on top of that, I had to rush to get everything ready for Thanksgiving. It was hugely inconvenient to say the least. [Oh how I sound like a spoiled brat inside my own head!]

I had purchased the jacket from Gap when there was a 35% off sale. I did not want to pay full retail price. Mr. Monk did not want anything else but his old jacket back because he had been wearing the same style for several years. And if you ever wonder why I am calling him Mr. Monk in this blog: Extremely dislike of changes or disruption to routines and sensory sensitivities.

It was my personal, trivial, perfect storm.

Oh it was a saga alright. Albeit a perfectly unnecessary one. And if I really think about it, quite embarrassing and I really should not be writing about it for the world to know… (i.e. of course I absolutely need to blog about it…)

There have been quite a few coupons floating around in the Cyber space for Gap but none of them could be used for in-store purchase AND the online store did not have the jacket any more. There was ONE left in our local store and I do have a 35% off coupon for in-store but that did not become effective until this Friday. So on Wednesday, after much whining from Mr. Monk and everybody else that had to help him zip up the hand-me-down-too-big-and-a-bit-tattered-with-a-non-working-zipper jacket, I broke down. I called the store in the morning and asked for the jacket to be held for me till the end of day. I drove over there at night and lo and behold, the road to the mall was closed. No problem. I would take the detour. When I finally got there, with 10 minutes till closing time, LOOK! Best parking space ever! Why? Because the entire mall was shut down due to power outage!

I went back again the next day, clearly agitated, and paid for the jacket in full price, fully aware that if I had waited one more day, I could have got the jacket at 35% off. But I did not want to risk the possibility that someone could have walked in the store on Friday morning and snatched that stupid prized jacket away from me.

I hate paying full price. I absolutely hate paying full price for clothing items. I really really do. I hate it. Hate it. HATE IT!

I came home with the jacket and guess what? The zipper did not work!

By then Mr. Monk was so defeated and had come to terms with the fact that he simply had to live without his jacket. [Oh the Horror!] It was like Morgan Freeman telling me to give up on this stupid prized jacket and hop over to Lands’ End to order a jacket with their 40% off +Free Shipping promotion. I bit the bullet and ordered a damned jacket and by doing this, I triggered some Cosmic Law about lost clothing items:

Guess what? The jacket, the original one, came back.

When I picked up Mr. Monk from the weekly Chinese school on Sunday, he presented me with the beloved jacket.

I was horrified.

For this meant many things:

1. I did not notice that he had come home with the wrong jacket for an entire weekend PLUS the Monday AND Tuesday AND Wednesday Morning.

2. I had shown my indignation by mistake.

3. I now need to track down the too-large-jacket that he had come home with [Are you still with me?!] that I had shoved into the hands of the childcare facility director, mind you, with great, visible, indignation and annoyance.

4. I need to go over and pick up the jacket from the childcare facility director with my newfound humility and embarrassment, offering up apologies for causing her so much unnecessary trouble.

5. Then I need to bring the jacket back to the mother of the jacket’s owner who asked incredulously, “You mean, you did not notice it was the wrong jacket when you picked up your child last time?!”

She proceeded to tell me how she had made her son wait with her when the school ended.

“I told him that for sure the mother would notice that the jacket does not belong to her child and she would bring it back right away! How can you not notice that the jacket is too big?!” She laughed jocusingly (Joking + Accusing). And then she said it again for good measure, “You mean you really did not notice it until later that day?”

I did not tell her that not only did I NOT notice it that Sunday, I did not notice it until the following Wednesday afternoon…

As I was leaving the Chinese school with my boys in tow, crestfallen, embarrassed (Did I ever tell you that “fear of embarrassment” is one of the two driving forces in my life?), I was accosted by another mother who made an effort to traverse all the moving and converging children in the hallway to deliver her assessment of my appearance that day,

“You really do look cute in that age.” She delivered her line with a smug expression, indicating the hat I am wearing, pointing it out to the young girls surrounding us (who probably are in the right demographics to be sporting this hat…)

Bah Hum Bug! The hat I am sporting this winter season...

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Did I ever tell you that I hate Other Mothers even though in a different telling of this story, I am probably That Mom?

I am on the down cycle (i.e. Y < 0 ). Catch you all when I come up from below the X axis…

Let Them Eat Cake

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The night before Thanksgiving my then 7-year-old boy, Mr. Monk, found it difficult to fall asleep because he was giddy with excitement: grandparents and uncle were flying to celebrate the holiday with us, and his birthday fell on Thanksgiving this year.

“Mom, you know why I love Thanksgiving?”

“Why?” I asked, knowing he was excited about his birthday and the presents.

“Because I can ask you to cook and you wouldn’t ask, ‘So are you going to eat it?’ And you wouldn’t be too busy to cook.”

Yeah, I am Mother of the Year.

Because of his temperament, Mr. Monk has never really looked forward to a big birthday party at one of those dreadful places with crappy rides, screaming ruffians and giant horrid animals (Think: Chuck E Cheese). Since his birthday is always in the Thanksgiving week, he is content, and possibly happier, to simply celebrate it with the grandparents.

This year though I feared that he might have been shortchanged. On the morning of his birthday, after I wished him a Happy Birthday with lots of kisses and hugs, I started dishing out assignment for him to help get the house ready for our guests from out of town.

“I know it’s your birthday, but Thanksgiving takes precedence today!”

Mother Of The Year.

To make it up for him, I let him help me prepare the dishes.

The morning after Thanksgiving, I was beat. I slept till 10:30 am when Mr. Monk came to wake me up.

“Mom. Mom. Mom. Wake up. WAKE UP!”

“GO AWAY!”

It took me another half an hour to remember that it was supposed to be his “make-up birthday” day.

Mother. Of. The. Year.

I sort of made it up for him by letting him help crack the eight eggs required for the recipe, zest the lemons, squeeze lemons with the citrus press, bake his own birthday cake, make the frosting, and frost the cake.

This was our first try at making a “fancy” cake (i.e. NOT cupcakes) from scratch complete with homemade frosting: When I saw Velva’s Luscious Lemon Cake on her blog Tomatoes on the Vine, I knew I had to make this for Mr. Monk because

1) he’s been begging for a homemade birthday cake forever (Remember he somehow envisions me to be some sort of a June Cleaver without even knowing about June Cleaver)

2) he loves the lemon loaf at Starbucks (and yes it IS indeed kind of embarrassing how familiar he is with Starbucks)

The results?

The cake was a hit! (Thanks, Velva!)

Mr. Monk had loads of fun in the kitchen with mom and grandma.

And he LURVed the lemon frosting.

It was well worth it even though I burnt the hand mixer making it, with smoke coming out of it and all…

So.

Mother of the Year?

Freak out!

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Almost 3 pm the day before Thanksgiving. House. Not cleaned. Laundry. Not done. Thanksgiving dishes. Not planned. Ham. Not picked up from the store yet. Pies. Ditto. Grocery list. Nope. Grocery shopping. Ha!

My parents-in-law are flying in tomorrow arriving at 11 am. Vegetarian brother-in-law. 3 pm.

I am running around not knowing which task to tackle first. Mr. Monk has started the timer for 20 minutes: time to leave me alone so I can regroup and breathe. But he kept on coming over to talk to me so he graciously agreed to add 5 more minutes to the timer.

I am ashamed to admit: This scene happens every Thanksgiving.

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Oh, yeah, I had to come back and ETA (“Edited to add”): Tomorrow is also Mr. Monk’s 8th birthday. Yeah. I forgot. I have been forgetting it every day. I just did, even after he reminded me today:

“Will you at least wish me a happy birthday tomorrow morning?”

So add to the To-Do-List: Buy birthday presents for son. And do not forget his birthday again!

While I go freaking out some more, running around town like a headless chicken turkey, please enjoy this.

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Or this version by The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain. (Not kidding, Elly! In fact, I won’t be surprised if you have applied for a chair there already…)

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First Day of School – The Obligatory Post

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Actually this year, the first day of school IS special:

My oldest will be going to junior high. THIS, is the first day of the rest of his life without his mama hovering over him…

Or at least that’s how it feels to ME. I am pretty sure from his perspective I am a pesky fly that won’t go away.

I could tell he was nervous because he woke up at 6:30 this morning without an alarm or me threatening to pour cold water on him. Well, that and the fact he said, “I am nervous.”

“I am nervous too, honey.” I said. “Ooops. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you that, huh? Probably didn’t help…”

Tentatively I suggested that I drive him to the bus stop because of “the huge heavy bag of school supplies” (and not because I wanted to be there on his first day as a 7th grader). He startled me with a brilliant smile, “AWESOME!”

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You can never be sure when they want to be treated like an adult, and when, a child.

Trial and error.

Today, when I thought that he would want to look cool and not be seen with his mom, he asked, “Are you going to bring your camera?”

“I wanted to but I was not going to because I assume you will be mortified?”

“Nah. I don’t care…  Where is [younger brother]? Is he still asleep? I want him to say goodbye to me at the bus stop…”

Today is full of surprises. The two of them sometimes behave as if they were mortal enemies.

“Well, go wake him up then. Tell him that you are going to a different school from now on. That the two of you will never be in the same school again.”

When my oldest came downstairs again, I asked him whether his brother was going to the bus stop with us.

“Nah. He’s still asleep.”

“Oh. He didn’t want to wake up? What did you say to him?”

“Nah. I just said ‘I am going to junior high today’ and then I kissed him on his cheek.”

Today is indeed full of surprises.

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It is still possible that when he comes home from his first day in junior high this afternoon, I am blamed for ruining his life.

For taking pictures of him at the bus stop even though I tried to do it surreptitiously by hiding behind the neighbor’s big SUV.

For standing too close next to the neighbor who was chanting, “Junior High! Junior High!”

For laughing too loudly when she called out, “You guys are moving up in the world! Look, your bus has tinted windows!”

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For raising my hand and waving as the bus drove away. It’s a force of habit. I will try and remember to stop doing it.

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Two little monkeys jumping on the bed, one fell down…

Now that his older brother is going to junior high, the quieter, less outgoing Mr. Monk will be for the first time by himself in the school. No more living under the shadows of his older brother. He will be known by his name, not a little brother, and definitely not “So and so’s brother”.

He looks all of a sudden so grown-up. His own person.

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This is so silly on my part since this is not the first “First Day of School” I have gone through. Yet I know many mothers are the same: We cannot help the tears coming out even as we laugh at ourselves.

When they turn around to wave goodbye as they step onto the bus…

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When you look at their anxious faces through the window…

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Something tugs at your heart.

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Sarah Connor I ain’t. Ay, there’s the rub.

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I tell my kids frequently that when the dinosaurs come, RUN. Don’t wait for mommy. Because mommy will be the first one that gets eaten.

They always reply, after they are done rolling their eyes, It will not be dinosaurs in the end of the world scenario, mom. Don’t you watch any movies?

Well, dinosaur or no dinosaur, that’s not the point. The point is: Survival of the fittest, ergo, death to the weakling, y’all.

Me.

I hate reinforcing stereotypes. But I was, by the book, your stereotypical dorky coke-bottle-wearing no-extra-curricular-activity-whatsoever studying-till-dawn excelling-at-test-taking kid. I have no physical, practical skills to speak of. No physical strength. No kinetic memories of any sports. No agility. None. Nada. Nil. Null.

This lack of physical strength had not been an issue until I became a parent. When you became a parent, movies of a certain sorts ceased to be enjoyable: I sill cannot bring myself to watch “The Other End of the Ocean” and “The Changeling”. I was so distraught by the scene at the swimming pool that I failed to comprehend what happened later in the movie “Minority Report”. I freaked out over “Mystic River” because WTF if you cannot trust people who claim to be policemen. More than any other kinds of movies, I can no longer whole-heartedly enjoy disaster movies, the end-of-the-world mega blockbusters. Instead of being caught up by the actions, intrigued by the plot and storylines, and mesmerized by the big-budget special effects, my brain cells are busy calculating the chance of my children surviving the same event happening on the screen. My stomach churns at the thought of my children having to endure endless darkness and starvation, which is the least horrifying scenario of them all.

When the kids were younger, it was a lot more agonizing. I worried about what to feed them should we ever be trapped in the basement for a long period of time. How about if the baby would not stop crying and risk being discovered? What about diapers?

Now that they are older, I sense that I am becoming a liability when the world is being attacked by dinosaurs, brain-sucking Zombies, or aliens. For starters, I seriously cannot run. When I run for the train in the morning, it takes me the entire commute to get back to my normal breathing rhythm. I am such a slow runner that my husband can walk beside me while I attempt to jog. Running and I do not mix.

On top of that, I am as blind as a bat. Without my contact lenses or my coke-bottle-thick glasses, I cannot even locate the chart on the wall of my optometrist’s office. As soon as my glasses fall, as we all know, one of the dinosaurs is going to step on it and crush it like a peanut. That’s it. The end of me.

I just want my children to move on without me so I can buy them more time…

I don’t like watching disaster movies any more. It sucks.

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We are on our annual family beach vacation with the in-laws this week. It is probably not a surprise that I cannot swim. In fact, I failed gym class in high school because I could not hold my breath long enough to swim the passing length of 15 feet. In contrast, Mr. Monk, my 7-year-old boy, has come a long way from being dastardly afraid of water, i.e. screaming bloody murder when his hair was being washed, to braving the waves with his boogie board all day long.

I gladly accompany him when Mr. Monk wants to swim in the ocean. I make sure that we do not get too far from the shore and that the water reaches no higher than my waist. I am not worried about the fact that I cannot friggin’ swim since my feet can always touch the bottom.

Well, they could always touch the bottom until the time when I almost drowned.

It happened so fast. One minute we were safely playing in the waves near the shore: Mr. Monk was happily swimming around me and under the waves while I screamed and jumped to keep my head above the water with each wave, the next minute I found myself under the water, my feet not being able to reach the bottom. I panicked. I swallowed water. I struggled to get my head above while sensing the impending arrival of the next wave. I could see the shore and it now seemed so far away.

What happened? How did we end up here?

The second wave submerged me under the water. I had braced for it and waited for it to subside. My head was above the water again. I could see a man no more than 30 feet away from us. And the water was at his waist. I saw Mr. Monk swimming along and he did not seem scared.

I started to peddle. To move myself closer to the shore. Inching my way. By this time I was painfully aware of my uselessness and I had determined that I needed to save myself first.

Remember the instruction the flight attendants give on the airplane for the oxygen masks?

“Make sure to put the oxygen mask on yourself first before attempting to help someone else put on theirs.”

I often wonder about that statement. How could a parent ever think of themselves first? It was an agonizing, yet split-second decision.

At that moment, I deliberately abandoned my own child, left him to his own device. I needed to save myself first so I could secure him. That realization panged me; it still does.

All I wanted was for my feet to be able to reach the bottom so I could regain control, goddamnit! I was furious at myself.

How could you have let this happen?

The third wave was coming. I knew if I let it, the wave would push me closer to the shore, and we could have been saved. So I swallowed some more water and let the pounding wave carry me in further. When the ocean retreated, YES, I felt the bottom with my tiptoes.

I stood up on my tiptoes and turned around to look for Mr. Monk. He was swimming behind me, leisurely.

“Hurry up. Come over here!” I yelled as I inched further forward by bouncing along.

He smiled at me.

“NO! We have to get back to the shore. RIGHT NOW!”

He was not listening. Now I was yelling and pleading at the same time.

“Please. COME HERE NOW!! Mommy cannot reach the bottom and I cannot help you at all!”

The man looked in our direction with a puzzled look, probably because he heard me yelling. He soon turned his gaze in some other direction since there was no clear sign that we were in any imminent danger.

As soon as Mr. Monk was within my reach, I pulled him in. We trudged onto the sandy beach.

“Hey, we need to be more careful. We have lost track of where we were headed while we were jumping in the waves. The waves carried us too far away. We got too deep. IMy feet could not touch the bottom and mommy almost drowned.”

“You almost got me killed!” Mr. Monk commented. “You were pulling me down! You should let go my hand next time. I can swim and you can’t! Mom, you should try not to be responsible for your child’s death.”

God only knows. That is one of my biggest fears ever since I became a parent.

Do not fuck up.

All of a sudden I remembered Linda Hamilton doing chin-ups in Terminator 2. I became envious of her ability to protect her child, deeply disturbed by the lack in me, and simply, straightforwardly, exhausted.

Sarah Connor, Baddest-Ass Mama

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After all the soul searching and self-condemnation, I am grateful that I seem to be the only person traumatized by this event. The very next day Mr. Monk pleaded,

“Can we please please please go swimming again?”

“Ok honey. But this time we will stay where the water does not go above my knees.”

Mother’s Day Double Feature: Why I don’t deserve a holiday in my name

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This is the second part of a rare Double Feature, in celebration of Mother’s Day.

No, my dear readers, Chef Ping’s was sadly not on my itinerary… Not that I haven’t tried though. I decided at around 4 pm that yes, we are going to go to Chef Ping’s because It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to. We didn’t manage to get out the door until 5 pm because my kids kept on saying, “Ok. Mom. Ok. Just until I finish this episode, this game, this chat…”

We drove to Chef Ping’s, not without a passionate discussion on WHY. The wait was to be 30 minutes.

My dear readers, I lied in my previous post when I said “No expectations. No disappointment.” Apparently though I had no expectations for my children to behave differently from any other day, I did expect to be able to go to my favorite Chinese restaurant at 5 pm on a Sunday! I was devastated.

I forgot that today is Mother’s Day aka The Bane of My Existence.

Choking back tears that surprised even myself, I resigned, “Let’s just go home.  I will make you guys food, and I will have ramen noodles.”

“Mom. Let’s just go to some other restaurant! Because now you are just guilt tripping us!” My 12-year-old said with keen perception.

I kept an eerie silence as I drove aimlessly home. But not before I yelled at the boys for the 258th time to please shut their mouths if they could not stop bickering. The passive aggression was so thick inside the car I could practically lick it.

But I did still need to feed them. Taco Bell! A 90-degree emergency left turn brought me to the drive-through window.

“Do you want any sauce with that?”

“Yes. Medium and mild please.”

“Ok. Mild and Hot. Here you go. Happy Mother’s Day!”

“Wow. That lady’s hearing was not very good.” My 12-year-old made another keen observation.

” *sigh* I am too tired to correct her. Sometimes I am so tired of living here.”

“Do you prefer to live in Taiwan?”

“To be honest with you, I don’t know what it is like to live in Taiwan. I have never had ‘lived’ in Taiwan for real… I don’t know. I was going to school, living with my parents, then I came here. I don’t think I know what it is like to live in Taiwan…  It is confusing. I don’t know.”

“Yeah. It is confusing alright…  Do you remember when you were a kid?”

“Yes. I do of course.”

“I don’t want to grow up.” My 12-year-old concluded after a pause.

“I hear you, honey.” Strike one, mom. Way to motivate your child!

“Being a grown-up sucks!” Interjected my 7-year-old.

“Being a grown-up is 99% of your life!” His older brother admonished him.

“Mom. Doesn’t being a grown-up suck?” My 7-year-old continued.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I think the sucky part of being a grown-up is mainly associated with being a parent…” Strike two. Good job, mom.

“HEY! Your life is going to be so boring and miserable if you didn’t have us!” My 12-year-old protested.

“Ha ha. You are right honey.”

“Have you ever wished that you didn’t have children?” My youngest pursued.

Beat.

Beat.

Beat.

I could not bring myself to answer this question. Strike three, mom. Let’s hope they turn out to be writers so they can use this episode in a positive way.

“I am sure she did when we really really pissed her off!”

So here I am. Making three different kinds of ramen noodles. But not before we went to Blockbuster, my youngest had a meltdown because he absolutely had to watch The Karate Kid III TODAY and his brother absolutely did NOT want to watch it, and my oldest and I had a passionate discussion on why we couldn’t rent Ninja Assassin…

What’s the point if I have to clean on the Monday AFTER Mother’s Day?

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Sure I can take a rest today. Sure I can go out and have fun and enjoy myself. (Well, I actually can’t since my husband left for Canada this morning… So I am single-parenting for the next ten days…) But really, if things are not taken care of at home TODAY, I know I have to do it TOMORROW.

What is the point?

I hate Mother’s Day.

I am celebrating it by allowing my children to be on the computer all day.

Ok. I don’t really hate Mother’s Day. Over the years I have learned to treat today just like every other Sunday. No expectations. No disappointment.

THIS is also the motto of how I live my life.

Although it kind of became worse when Mr. Monk threw a tantrum because he didn’t like the restaurant I suggested for dinner.

“I don’t want to go to Chef Ping’s!!”

“But today is MOTHER’S DAY!” I guess I can guilt-trip with the best of them.

“I hate Chef Ping’s!”

“Would you like a grilled cheese sandwich instead?”

“I WANT TO GO TO A RESTAURANT FOR MOTHER’S DAY! BUT I DON’T WANT TO GO TO CHEF PING’S!”

“You don’t eat anything else but white rice honey when we go to a Chinese restaurant!”

“NO! I DON’T! Wah wah wah wah wah wah wah wah…”

Oh lord. Will this day never end?

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Flowers for me from my 7 yo. He took the picture also. This is one of the hundreds of pictures he took of the same subject

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