Tag Archives: my oldest

Best. Mom. Ever.

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I am using this title because I don’t know what to call this post. The original title choices were:

Called a Psycho Mom on Mother’s Day and am proud of it

but that would leave nothing of substance for me to write because the title is basically the story.

or

Possibly One of the Best Mother’s Day Cards

and that would most likely make my youngest child sad because he’s been planning his awesome mother’s day gifts for me for days

Mothers Day 2013

I love my youngest for remembering how to fold the crane after I showed him only once, and what my favorite candy is after I mentioned it in passing…

 

while his oldest brother admitted, with pride mind you, “Hey, mom. I made this card more than two hours before. Aren’t you proud of me?”

 

Mothers Day Card 2013

 

 

We all got a good chuckle again because we watched Psycho together last night and found it ironic and hilarious and maybe even fitting that Psycho was our family movie night choice on the eve of Mother’s Day. A discussion over “What is the best Mother’s Day movie?” continued over Mother’s Day brunch (yes, yes, how typically suburban…) and the Alien movie franchise was agreed upon as the best cinematic tribute to mothers. You want proof?

The fundamental myth in mothers (even surrogate ones) genetically coded to do anything to protect their young is obvious in this image chosen to promote Aliens.

Aliens poster

 

Just look at Ellen Ripley, so deliciously played by Sigourney Weaver. (Most of us cheered when she uttered that famous line, “Get away from her you bitch!”) From the other side, didn’t the Queen Mother (the matriarch alien) fiercely protect the survival of her offspring? Not to mention all those scenes of forced cesarean births…

Instead of leaving you to ponder the above, I thought I’d leave you with something more lighthearted: “Mother’s Day Cards That Should Exist” (Thanks to Mary Lee for a great chuckle!)

 

[Disclaimer] I am fortunate enough to have a great mother-in-law. In fact, sometimes I think I like her more than her son… Those cards though funny do make me a bit anxious from imaging my future daughter-in-law wanting to send me one of those…

[Sidebar Convo]: Being an overtly protective 21-century mother who feels guilty if not doing some helicopter-parenting and also if not providing my kids with sufficient independence that I am, I have not allowed my kids to watch any scary movie such as Fridays the 13th and A Nightmare on Elm Street. They can decide to watch crazy horror films from Asia such as Ringu when they are adults, but never ever when they are still under my watch in my house. I’ve seen similar horror films when I was little and I regretted ever since. Till this day, the memories of horrifying images and scenarios stay with me, and they always resurface to the top of my consciousness when I am alone in a hotel room while on business trips. It’s very tough to be on intensive business trips if you can only fall asleep after 3 or 4 am from watching all the  reruns of Law & Order you could find on cable. It’s ridiculous.

[One more thing] After the kids presented their mother’s day presents, we all looked at my husband. “Hey, I made you a mother!” I guess we should thank all the dads on Mother’s Day.

Nobody ever told me

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About a year ago, my son grew to my height, and he has not shown any sign of slowing down ever since. He’s about half a foot taller than I am now, taller than his father even. It is a very complicated feeling whenever I am startled by having to strain my neck in order to see his face. It also makes it very difficult to hold his gaze and reprimand him when he sort of hovers above my head.

Up until now, I still see him as my baby. Well, secretly anyway. On paper I am all, “You are a teenager now. You have your freedom and independence. You need to learn to take care of yourself.” Honestly though? My heart does a toe touch jump when he lets us tuck him in at night as he lies in the bed that’s barely longer than he is now. He has to sleep diagonally.

They didn’t warn you that this day is coming. Probably because, well, one is supposed to have known better. Babies grow. Everybody gets older every day. Why are parents caught by surprise at all when their children all of a sudden stop being children?

Still, I marveled, “Nobody told me to be prepared for this! I am not ready yet!” when my 14-year-old announced from the bathroom as he brushed his teeth, “Mom! I need to start shaving! Kids at school have been making fun of my mustache.” I ran upstairs and we both stared at the shadow just above his lips in the mirror. Him of pride perhaps? I of shock. Did it sprout overnight? How come I did not notice it until this moment? I was at a loss. “Dad’s coming home tomorrow. He could teach you how.”

Lately he’s been full of surprises. Only that he did not recognize these to be significant watershed moments in his life. One never does, I guess, and leaves the commemoration and the commiseration over them to one’s parents.

“Hey mom, you need to sign me up for driving lessons. Ktahnksbye.”

“I am going to the [school dance] with [girl’s name unintelligible],” he announced casually and went back to reading his Mad magazine, leaving me breathless.

I am at a disadvantage as I did not grow up in this country. Many of these rites of passage taken for granted are completely foreign to me. My knowledge is to the extent of John Hughes movies that I’ve seen. (That, and Porky’s which was, coincidentally, the very first American movie I’ve ever seen on a VHS tape at a friend’s house when the parents were away…) I knew to remind him to find out the color of the dress the girl will be wearing. But that’s about it.

“Geez. You really need to help me out here. I’ve never been to a dance in my life!” I started to panic.

I did not know any men (or boys for that matter) until I was in college.

I did not learn how  to drive until I was over 25.

I have never shaved in my life.

I have never brought up a teenager before.

I have never had to watch somebody grow up so fast. Too fast.

I have never known this subtle, almost imperceptible yet keen once noticed, restlessness inside my gut of pride and fear and joy and sorrow.

 

Nobody ever told me.

No. They don’t.

Graduation

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My oldest is graduating from Junior High tomorrow. Having grown up outside of the U.S., I was blissfully unaware of the tradition of throwing “graduation parties” for kids graduating from junior high and senior high schools. It was a puzzling concept to say the least. Where I grew up, it is kind of expected that you would graduate from high school. Junior high at the very least. Not even a question. [Disclaimer: My second oldest brother and his second son never graduated from junior high. But that’s another post I will never write] That being said, I am happy that Number One Son has several graduation parties lined up where he could go hang out with his school friends IN REAL LIFE and hopefully in the sun instead of spending all his waking hours indoors basking in the glow of the computer monitor on Minecraft.

IMO. The best parties are the ones not thrown by me.

I am going to sound like the old lady that I am by telling everybody, “When I was your age, I did not get squat for graduating from high school.” Well, I would be lying. When I passed the entrance exam and got into the best high school, my parents asked me, for the first time, what I would like as a prize. Without hesitation, I said, “Legos.” Legos were luxury goods back then. My parents kept their words and took me to the “American” toy store (Toys R Us) to pick out a Lego set for myself. It was one of those “dreams come true but then what?” stories – I think I enjoyed the fact of owning a set of Legos more than the Legos itself.

The day when the results of the college entrance exam were published, my dad came home with the newspaper and started looking for my name. When he found it, he asked what he could get me as a reward for bringing honor to the family. Ok. Kidding about the honor part. You didn’t really think we talk that way, did you? I told him, “I would like some cha siu bao [BBQ pork buns].” He immediately went out on his motorcycle and brought home ten piping hot pork buns. I ate them all in one sitting, much to my mother’s chagrin. To this day I know what I would say without hesitation if asked what my favorite food is in the world.

I never begrudge my children for “having it better” than I did. And really, are they really having it better? I never felt any want even though we were poor which I did not realize until much later in life, and only in retrospect. Life was easier for me to navigate because there was only one goal: study hard and get into a good school. (Of course, once you got into that good school, you kind of were lost. What now? …)

I am getting restless in anticipation of his graduation, but probably not for the right reason: I am dying to give him his graduation present.

 

 

 

Confession: I also wrote this post not for the right reason: I simply wanted to show you this awesome engraving.

 

 

 

The things I do for my children

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When last summer was over, finding pants that fit all of a sudden became my obsession. Oh not for myself (I mean, that’s another, sad sad story). For the strange teenager that took over my oldest boy. Overnight the pants from BOYS’ department no longer fit him and those from MEN’s department won’t for a while. My choice seemed to be either highwater pants or a barrel.

Of course my son was no help.

“Can’t you just ask your friends where they buy their pants? For sure you cannot be the only person built with crane legs!” He looked at me with horror.

For weeks I had to refrain myself from asking random model-grade teenage boys with legs rivaling Manga characters (ok, to be fair, so you won’t tzk tzk me, they look almost 20. I think.) where they got their jeans.

After repeated whining of “mom I need new pants!” for a few weeks, I managed to drag him along to the mall. To be honest, the only store I was familiar with was The Gap. But somehow their designers have decided that the waist on boys doubles as soon as they outgrow Size 18. I was gearing up to go home with Erkel when I walked past this store with a name that I could not (and still cannot) pronounce.

Aéropostale. (I am still calling them Apocalypse just to annoy my children)

Why didn’t anybody tell me about this store? They call their two departments “Guys” and “Girls” for goodness sake! And because this store is for teens, there is no BASIC items, no STAPLES, no CLASSICS. You know what this means right? SALES. DRASTIC DISCOUNT, every season. Before the season ends.

$18 for a pair of jeans. 50% off of sales price.

AND they carry size 28*32 for jeans.

As I was grabbing at sweatpants, jeans, hoodies, shirts with the cut for gazelles, I was at the same time telling myself:

I am a good mother. I am a good mother. I will NOT wear matching clothing with my son esp. the way the clothes are emblazoned with the logo.

I did get a Peace bracelet for $6. And this:

Love the bag. It's now my favoriate bag. Only $15.

Love the fuzzy hoodie too. But…

I will not wear the same clothes as my son. I will not buy another hoodie for myself.

But, it is fuzzy. Did I mention that it is fuzzy. It’s like if you scalpe a teddy bear and line the hoodie with the fur. You head is cushioned by the dead teddy bear’s fur.

On top of that, once we got home, he repaid my kindness by pulling on his new jeans without unzipping first.

Zooom. The jeans were on him. Zooom. They were off.

Like a potato sack. It irked me to no end.

I am an adult. I will not wear clothes from the same store as my teenage son and his friends. I do not have anything to prove. I do not need to dress in clothes from “teen stores” nor will I covet those clothes. I am not going through some mid-life crisis. I will not (threaten to) steal my son’s cool new hoodie lined with teddy bear furs… (repeat the mantra)

I told him. I hate you. Seriously.

He beamed and demonstrated the ease with which he pulled on the jeans a few more times.

I said, “I love you. And that is why I will not wear clothes from this store so we won’t seem to be wearing matching clothes.”

He did not seem to appreciate the sacrifice I made for him.

 

* SHOES are the exceptions. Of course.

Cool Parents. Oxy. Moron.

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Confession: I have been obsessed with this website I came across from my 13-year-old’s Facebook wall. It is aptly named “I Waste So Much Time“. Unfortunately for my reputation, it is not a philosophical statement born from my existential angst. They omitted “On the Internet” in the name. This website is “curated” for middle schoolers… And I spent two hours the other night reading the posts and laughing out loud to myself when I should have been in bed. What can I say? Deep down I am a 15 year old boy. *cough* (Only that I do not “take long showers”…) Anyhoo, I saw this post, and it gave me pause.

 

 

This was of course said with pride. On this website and the others popular amongst the Facebook teen generation, such as My Life is Average, being normal means boring, a conformist; being weird means you know who you are, awesome. In fact, the kids who post on MLIA are so unabashedly geeky, smart with a great sense of humor, (and granted, a bit Harry-Potter-obsessed, but hey, they all hate Twilight and that means a lot to me) that I often read those posts to give myself some hope: “These are our future. Maybe one day high schools will not be dominated by drones of jocks and cheerleaders.” And that makes me want to give all those kids a big giant non-creepy bear hug.

I once thought too I would be the weird, cool parent. How many of you thought the same?  I did not even think. I just assumed. No way was I going to be like my parents. My kids are going to love me for how cool I am and we are going to have so much fun together!

The reality is, of course, my kids do not really want cool parents. Or rather, they do not want parents that out-cool them.

They do not appreciate being told that rad was a term popular even before my time.

They do not want you to teach them the correct pronunciation for Meme. (And definitely not the history of it. Who cares that Richard Dawkins came up with this idea in 1976 in his book The Selfish Gene?)

They do not want to admit that you introduced them to Spotify.

They do not want to listen to the cool songs you share with them. But of course they told you about “Pumped Up Kicks” a week after you sent them the song on Spotify.

They do not want your playlists.

They do not want to hear about the latest YouTube sensation from you.

They do not want you to be better at fixing computer than they are. Or to know how to use iTune.

They do not want you to know how to use “I took an arrow to the knee” correctly. (My apology to Skyrim players who are pissed by how this meme has been conveninetly co-opted by those who, like me, have not earned the “right”… Blame websites such as knowyourmeme.com, they have made it way too easy)

They do not want you to know every single Meme or Internet joke or LOLcat, and definitely not before they do.

They do not even want you to be able to say LOLcat correctly.

When you twirl like a crazy child in the living room to whatever music they are playing, they eye you with a bemused expression and possibly even shake their head, and for one moment, they look older than their age.

When you think you are being cool and awesome, you are actually being weird, weird, like really weird, not the cool weird, and you embarrass them.

“Why can’t you be like the other parents?”

They eye you with suspicion or confusion when you slip in a few “youth-oriented” lingo in your conversation.

Do not try to be that cool parent because then you are just a try-hard.

It’s what demarcates the “boundary” between youth and age. We’ve got the experience. We’ve got the dough. We’ve got the authority. Without the coolness factor, what’s left for the young to claim as their own?

 

I have been pondering on these for a long time now but am not able to formulate a cohesive thought around this subject. As I was working on this draft, my 13-year-old walked by and read it out loud, “Our generation today will be the weirdest grandparents… Yup. That’s true.”

“You know,” I said, “When I was your age, I thought I was going to the coolest parent.” Just to burst his bubble (because that’s how we show love in this household).

He laughed. There was a silence.

“Well, you are kind of a cool parent.” He said quietly.

I was made speechless.

Well played, young padawan. Well played.

 

 

 

On a related note, I saw this posted inside the high school my son will be going to. Somehow I know that he will be ok there.

 

Damned if I do. Damned if I don’t.

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Because of my racial/ethnic/cultural/educational make-up, I do not watch what I tell my children: I tend to over-explain everything and over-analyze everything for them. I also like to point out instances of racial/cultural prejudices and stereotypes disregarding whether they may be too young for such identity politics theory talks. Sometimes I feel sorry for them ’cause I have ruined quite a few “plain, good old fun” movies and shows for them.

A downside of such vigilance (or as the mainstream society likes to label it, Paranoia, or as Fox and Friends like to call it, Rampant political correctness that’s ruining this country’s cultural identity and core) on my part is that once in a while I would slip and my kids get to call me out on it.

Then they pile it on thick.

 

While we were discussing my 13 year old’s birthday party earlier this year, he mentioned that he really would like to go to the penny arcade before the sleepover at our house. Naturally, I tried to talk him out of it.

“Are you sure your friends will like the penny arcade?”

“Duh. It’s the arcade, mom. Of course they’ll like it!”

“How about the twins? They don’t seem to be the kind of kids that would be interested in going to the arcade.” Honestly, I said that based on my observations of how their parents care really about academic performances and how studious these two kids are.

“Mom, don’t be such a racist! Just because they are Indian, you just assume that they like to study all day long and they don’t like to do anything fun?!”

My bad.

 

On our way home from the blockbuster movie Thor, The Husband asked Mr. Monk, our 8-year-old, who he would like to be if he had to choose: “Thor or his brother Loki?”

“What kind of question is that? Why did you ask him that? Who would have chosen Loki? Of course everybody wants to be Thor!” I interjected because of the whole sibling rivalry thing and I did not want Mr. Monk, sensitive that he is, to dwell on the fact that the younger brother Loki is less than ideal in the movie. (Let me just put it this way so I won’t ruin the movie for you…)

Beside, from a pure aesthetic point of view…

 

From the backseat a voice immediately piped up, “Oh sure, everybody wants to be Thor. Everybody wants to be the blond-haired, blue-eyed guy.”

Mind you, The Husband is of Scandinavian descent and sports blond hair and blue eyes. (Alas, there ends the similarities between him and Chris Hemsworth… I just need to keep on telling myself that I do not like hairy men…)

“Oh yeah, the blond-haired blue-eyed people are the good guys. And the dark-haired guy nobody likes him.” My oldest continued. “Yeah, let’s just kill the brown-haired guy and the dark-haired people. This is a Hitler movie! A Hitler movie!”

 

(I have been sitting here for 15 minutes, trying to come up with a tidy ending for this post. I don’t know how to end this post. So I am just going to end it abruptly and go to bed considering how it is 4:43 am…)

Thirteen

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My firstborn is thirteen today.

It’s official: I now have a bona fide teenager on my hand.

I am still wavering about whether I should have made this birthday into a big deal or not. I hope he was not expecting a big to-do. I hope he was not expecting a PlayStation 3 this morning as he opened the box containing a bunch of Wii accessories. They are all in black. That should count for something. If he’s disappointed, he did not show. This kid, No. 1 Son, is turning out to be a surprisingly thoughtful young man, despite his natural tendency to be a sarcastic smart aleck. (Well, I wonder where he got that? And son, if you are reading this one day, notice that I did not call you “smartass” on this post dedicated to you on your birthday)

He has shown great capacity for kindness and empathy (even though he could have shown more of this to his own younger brother…)

He has shown great potential for wisdom (despite the day-to-day harebrained ideas and actions).

He’s given me hope that he will turn out to be a-ok when he declared in the first week of being a 7th grader, “I’ve decided to not worry about being cool any more.” THIS and many other small moments were what prevented me from Homer-Simpson-choking him “You Little!…” during the more trying and frustrating hours.

To be honest with you? I am freaking out. I have been at the state of perpetual freaking out ever since I became a mother so nothing new here really. My husband knew me so well that in 2003, when No.1 son was only 5 years old, he flat out told me to skip the movie “Thirteen”, “You are going to freak out even more if you watch that movie.”

 

My freaking-out state reached a crisis yesterday when I received this SMS from No. 1 son:

 

 

By the time I got home from work, he’s already ready to forgive me, well, kind of, because I could not stop laughing even as I was apologizing to him, mind you, with the utmost sincerity.

So what did I do in the wee hours when my oldest was turning into a teenager during his sleep? I made someecards. What else?

 

Mens Size Small

13 Replies

This Sunday I dragged my kids shopping.

I would like to emphasize how unusual this was: I am not crazy. I do not go shopping with them any more because I treasure my sanity and I dislike turning into a banshee inside the store. My secret banshee identity is reserved for inside the house, away from prying eyes. Thank you very much. I shop online. I shop online for everything, including shoes for everybody. But there was a rumor that it would start snowing on Sunday night. And that it would continue to snow the whole week. (Later I checked online and could not find any evidence of such a rumor even existed. I decided to change my radio alarm clock away from the classic music station because Mozart must have given me that piece of false intel when I was still groggy at 6:45 am on a Sunday morning… I was perhaps extremely susceptible to such intel because of 20 Prospect’s pictures of snow-covered MLPS which is only, after all, 7-hour drive away.)

I was on a mission: Winter jackets. Snow shoes. Snow pants. Gloves. Besides, Gap and Old Navy was having the 30% off everything sales.

Like almost all 7th grade boys, my son does not want to be bothered with his outward appearances. T-shirts. Sweat pants. If I ask him to dress up, he wears jeans. He does not own clothes with collars except his band uniform polo shirt. Don’t get me wrong: this coolness towards fashion, I am pretty sure, saves us a lot of money and I am not complaining.

But there was a sale going on at Old Navy! I practically had to beg him to let me buy him some clothes since Christmas is not far away and I prefer not to have to pay regular price for “emergency good clothes” later. As soon as he granted me the permission, I realized that he has outgrown the Boys’ Department.

We are now in Men’s territory. My son, according to the fashion industry and the arbitrary sizing chart, is now a young man.

A rite of passage. Right inside the dressing room at Old Navy. He is now Mens Size Small.

I am not sure whether he saw this as anything significant, but he clearly was energized by the clothes that I brought into the dressing room: Military-inspired Dress shirts (which by the way was $15 plus 30% off. SCORE!). Zip Pullover Cable-Knit Sweaters.

He looked all of a sudden so grown-up in these men’s clothes and he himself noticed it too. For the first time, I watched him “modeling” in front of the mirror, soaking his new image all in, feeling self-assured, proud, and probably a bit cocky too.

He showed me the latest dance moves. (When did he learn these things?) The pop singer hair flip. Then he did what he called an “ab roll” (Huh?) and I realized that my son actually has a six-pack or at least the sign of it and he clearly has developed some nice biceps. When did this happen? Is this the same picky eater who is able to put on and take off his jeans without unbuttoning first? He topped this all with that famous dance move by MJ. (At this, I had to roll my eyes and tried hard not to laugh while giving him the tsk tsk appropriate amount of disapproving look)

He’s growing up so fast. Noooooo. 12 is still a small number in the scheme of things right? Right?

All of a sudden I regretted ever forcing him to look less like a bum. Looking like a bum is fine by me now, really. I swear!

“Do you really think I look good in this?”

“No you look absolutely awful!” I said with exaggeration.

He laughed. “Good. Could I get these please?”

The new shirts and sweaters are now hanging in his closet away from his day-to-day clothes (t-shirts, sweat pants and jeans) which are crammed into his dresser. I wonder how long before he actually remembers the older him that he had a glimpse of and decides to wear the Men’s Clothes we got him this Sunday.

Update:

One tricky thing about parenting boys during the awkward period (say between 12 and 18?) is that you never know which one you are going to get at any given moment, the boy or the man?

My son is sitting here at the kitchen table doing his math homework. I thought I head him humming, “It’s raining men. Hallelujah!”

“What? Are you singing ‘It’s raining men’?” I chuckled.

“Oh yeah. So that’s it. I thought it says ‘It’s raging mad’…”

Opening up a can of whupass

30 Replies

I am fuming. Ok, what’s new, right? But this time it is something personal. It may be trivial but it has consumed me ever since I had the following exchange with my son this past Friday. After a whole weekend of thinking it over and calming down, my anger and indignation has been only stewing and seething… Oh my dear friends, the Mama Bear inside me has reared her ugly head. Hold me down please before I get ourselves run out of town with pitchforks and torches…

In a casual conversation last Friday, my 7th grader brought up that he was reprimanded by the lady of the house at the bottom of our street to “Get off of my driveway!” He in passing mentioned something else the woman said to him which got my attention. I did not think that I heard it correctly or that he had remembered accurately so before he went to bed, I interrogated him. Hit them when they are groggy and sleepy.

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Me: Can you tell me what happened at Mrs. S’ house today?

Son: Me and N (another 7th grader from the same block) were racing and he was on his motorbike and I was on my scooter. He said that he won, and I said that I won. And then he said the F word. [F _ g] Then E [Mrs. S’ daughter who is also a 7th grader] came out and she’s like, “Hi Guys.” Then she said, “Don’t say that. My mom is here.” We kept talking and then Mrs. S came out and said,

“Hey, get off of my driveway. I don’t want you here, especially you, [First Name of my son] [Last name]. One of these days we’re going to look in the newspaper and see that you are in jail.”

Me [taking a deep breath]: And you are very sure you are not the one that said the F word?

Son [looking me in the eyes]: I am sure.

Me [taking another deep breath]: And do you think she said that because she thought you were the one who said the F word?

Son: I have no idea. At first I thought she was sarcastic. She said, “One of these days you are going to get into big trouble, mister!” But I don’t know. She did the sarcastic thing wrong because she was not smiling. I didn’t say anything bad though.

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I really thought long and hard about how this could have happened and what to do about it. I of course tweeted about this already and several of you have offered to put a foot (or two feet) in her ass, beat her with a shovel and a riding crop. (Thank you m’ladies for getting my back!)

It’s possible that she was upset because she heard some kid using the F word and she totally went berserk? If she is such a strong proponent for LGBT rights that she has such a strong reaction from hearing this word spoken right outside her house, perhaps I should give her the benefit of a doubt?  I tried to put myself in her shoes but still I can’t see myself saying anything like that to anybody’s child. I would have admonished the kids, told them to not use such hurtful languages and possibly threatened to have a talk with their parents.

What do you think?

And I’ll own up, yes, I want to open up a can of whupass on this woman who will not know that I am opening up a can of woopass on her right here.

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cartoon from nataliedee.com

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Hey, it’s making me feel better already so it works, and that’s all that matters, right? Sigh. Parenting sucks. Parenting sucks ass when you are forced to see other parents as adversaries.

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p.s. Although children do lie to save their own behind and my son is definitely not a saint, he knows to not use the F word or even the word “gay” in the “wrong” way. I monitor all his email communications, IM and Facebook, and although he’s constantly surrounded by kids using the word “gay”, he has never used it even when other kids use the word to diminish him and his possessions. It is possible that he does after all take my “death by wrath” threat to heart. As for the other kid, N? Oh he knew he was in trouble. Or he thought he would have been in trouble since he told my son before he ran home, “Ok, I said ‘Fatty’, ok? That’s all I said!”