Tag Archives: my oldest

How I relax

Visual Representation of My Thought Process

To all the people watching, I can never thank you enough for your kindness to me, and I’ll think about it for the rest of my life. All I ask of you is one thing: Please do not be cynical. I hate cynicism: it’s my least favorite quality, and it doesn’t lead anywhere. Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get. But if you work really hard and you’re kind, amazing things will happen.

– Conan O’Brien

p.s. The picture is from our vacation in Maui in 2008. It was warm. No snow. I was on vacation. No work. My job was secure then. No impending doom. And my kids were still just kids. No freaksoid preteen (Such a category is not even named in Chinese so how do you expect me to deal with this phase?!).

p.p.s. Great. The picture was supposed to help me relax. Now it simply reminds me of things that once were.

p.p.p.s. If I were given $32 million dollars, I could probably also afford to be un-cynical.

p.p.p.p.s. Ok. That sounded VERY cynical.

p.p.p.p.p.s. Sorry. Coco.

Trouble Maker? You talking to me?

Sometimes I wonder whether the teachers talk about the parents amongst themselves. I would probably be known as “Trouble Maker”. My favorite moment was when I confronted approached the principal at the Thanksgiving Feast:

“Could I safely assume that the headpieces the children are wearing are ‘turkeys’ and not ‘head dresses’?” I used the quotation marks and I gave him an “I am just kidding, but only half” look.

“Huh? Ohh. I am sure they are turkeys…” Well, he did not sound so sure. He sounded surprised. I was surprised that HE was surprised. You mean, nobody else but me wondered about THAT? Anyway, he’s been put on notice and he seems scared to see me ever since. I can hear him inside his head, “Oh. For crying out loud. What now?!” Fortunately for all of us, I work full-time and I hardly ever go to school.

Today I wrote an email* to my 6-grade-son’s teacher:

Dear Mrs. G,

D told me yesterday about Heather’s big birthday party bash. She has apparently invited the whole class to her house from 2 to 8 pm. It sounds like it is going to be an awesome party. The IT party of their childhood before they go off onto Middle School.

Being a pain in everybody else’s neck, I asked D whether all seven girls in the class actually do hang out with each other.

“Does anybody get left out? You know, it’s going to hurt a lot if one of them gets left out seeing how few girls you have in your class.”

I don’t know why. Nobody gave me the job of being purveyor of social justice. Like I said, I am just a pain. Probably born that way. I am sorry… Really. I am. Because I make troubles whenever I send you an email.

At my question, D paused and said, “Well, she sort of invited the whole class. Except one.”

“What? Who?” But I already knew the answer, based on things D has told me in the past.

“Charles Wu was not invited.”

“And she gave out the invitations to everybody else in class? Does Charles know about this?”

D’s eyes turned red.  “Yeah. I think he knows.”

“We play with Charles during recess and we are nice to him.” He continued, his eyes getting redder. “I guess all that is just skin deep…”

I am not writing to ask you to talk to Heather about any of this. On the contrary. It will probably worsen Charles’ status on the food chain. Besides, if she is indeed forced to include Charles, I shudder at the thought of what’s going to happen to him at the party. Probably nothing. Exactly nothing. Nobody would talk to him or play with him. Indifference is the most hurtful thing one human being can do to the other.

I am writing, in addition to me being a pain, to let you know the situation in case Charles seems down lately. I am sure you have seen THIS many many times in your years of teaching. So please tell me I am making too big a deal out of this. (Yeah, I know. I wish I did not read Lord of the Flies either…) Please tell me that they all survive, that they all walk out of this unscathed. But I know, I never forget what happened to me in elementary school. And it still hurts because nobody talked to me about it when it was happening.

Sincerely,
[Me]

* Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Just in case.

Shoes

shoes

These shoes CANNOT be for my child, can they?

Self-denial.

This post was supposed to be written last summer, but I got sidetracked. Or it could be that I simply did not want to deal with reality.

Up till this summer, I still ordered shoes for my oldest from Lands’ End, BOYS department. I buy almost everything online not wanting to go shopping with my boys in tow, ever, yes, including shoes for everybody even myself. Lands’ End only makes shoes for BOYS up till Size 7. Anything larger falls under MEN’s department. My boy was wearing Size 7 then. He never complained about them being too small. I never gave it any thought either because I wear size 8.5, and of course, his feet were smaller than mine. Right?

We went into the sporting goods store with my husband one night. At the sight of the bargain-bin sneakers, my husband suggested that we get new shoes for our son. He asked one store employee to measure my son’s feet.

“What size are you wearing?” He asked.

“Size 7.” I answered since the other two did not seem to have any clue.

“Yah… Let me see.” The man took one look at my son’s feet and shook his head in disagreement. He proceeded with the metal instrument. “Size 9. He is a size 9!” He said it with too much glee, if you ask me.

“No. It can’t be! He is still wearing size 7 shoes. Look at these!” I picked up the shoes from the floor and shoved them in his direction.

“No, ma’am. He is a size 9. And in fact, I’d recommend that you buy him shoes in Size 9.5 to give his toes more wiggle room.”

I sat down on the bench in the middle of the aisle. Dejected. Surprised by how emotional I was feeling towards this. THIS.

Still clueless, My husband chuckled. “A size 9. Whoa!” He slapped my son on his still-bony shoulder. Turning towards me, “I think you are scaring the guy!” He whispered loudly.

I bet he was indeed scared: He walked away quickly when I burst into tears.

My son’s feet, upon their release from BOYS’ shoes, have been growing quickly. He is now wearing size 10.5.

BUT he is still one of my two grade school kids. At least until this June. And he is still about a head shorter than I am. Probably not for long now, I know even though I am not sure I am ready. When the day comes I hope I won’t be caught off guard like my shoe store revelation.

“I want to be your personal penguin”

Both of my boys grew up with Sandra Boynton’s books.  My oldest especially grew up on the fiber provided by chewing on the board books.  His favorite at that age?  Blue Hat, Green Hat.

Blue Hat Green Hat

Ms. Boynton later started turning her delightful books into sing-along songs.  And soon famous people started joining in to compose music and/or even perform them.  Kevin Bacon (The Bacon Brothers). Meryl Streep.  Kevin Kline. Hootie and the Blowfish.

Our current favorite?  One that lightens up your steps and brings out smiles…

Personal Penguin

Like a perfect cherry on top of a perfectly assembled sundae, it is sung by none other than Davy Jones of The Monkees

“I want to be your personal penguin.”

Wouldn’t it be nice if all of us could find someone in life that makes you feel like singing this song to them?

“I have no life. I play with Lego all day!”

Let me start this post by saying that we are a Lego family.  With 3 boys in the household – my 2 sons and my one husband, our floor used to be covered with Lego pieces when they were little (the kids, not the husband).  Later, a home-made Lego table was the mainstay in the living room, also covered with Lego pieces, and at one time, Lego train tracks, until the kids decided to use the train and tracks as launching pad for Lego people…

We love Legos.   We are not embarrassed to admit that we still play with Legos ourselves.  We don’t make fun of people who love Legos, or trains for that matter.  Yada yada yada.  You get the drift.

Then I saw this today on Amazon.com (or as one of my good friends calls them, The Evil Empire…)

LEGO Town Plan

I was utterly disturbed.

Is this a joke?  Is it Photoshopped?  Is it me?  Doesn’t that seem like a parallel to “Could you come and help me look for my puppy?”

I showed it to my 11 year-old, and the first thing he said was, “Wow.  I have no life.  I play with Lego all day!”

Then he went back to his Mindstorms.   (Yeah. I love me some good irony too…)

Has the marketing department at Lego lost their marbles?  Or, in this case, their blocks?

Much to my embarrassment and relief, google is once again my friend, and I found the truth behind the

The Special 50th Anniversary Edition Lego!

My bad…  The guy?  He is the owner of the Lego company Kjeld Kirk Kristiansen (yeah, no kidding. Try and say that name 3 times…) aka Lego founder’s grandson who appeared as a kid on the original Town Plan box and now returns on this 50th anniversary special edition!

Somehow I suspect that he does indeed “have no life” because he’s too busy running a global company and thinking up ways to reinvent Lego year after year, and that he does “play with Lego all day”.

The rest of us are just jealous.

To redeem myself from the over-rampant cynicism, I shall seek solace in this oldie but goodie:

I GTalked my kid to ask him what he would like for breakfast today…

As over-thinking, ironically introspective, neurotic, obsessively over-analytical as I am, this incident strikes me as seminal. SEMINAL. Mark it on the calendar.

We have all seen those cartoons, parodying the increasing importance of texting in the life of teens and even preteens, showing kids texting each other while sitting next to each other on the sofa, or kids and parents texting each other while in the car, or family members texting each other while around the table, TXT “Could you pass the salt please?”

We all laugh. Then we tsk tsk and exclaim, “What the world has come to?”, while simultaneously congratulating ourselves for not being like the characters as depicted in the cartoons. And then we worry that it may become a reality. It is in some way part of reality, we begrudgingly admit to ourselves.

It happened on a Saturday morning towards the end of a school year, the rare time when we did not have any place to rush to and my son was playing the ever popular Runescape on the computer in my study. Normally, it requires a lot of yelling back and forth, impatience, frustration, foot-stomping, indignation, accusations of ingratitude and false accusations for breakfast to be served. Since I had my laptop working in the kitchen, I thought, “Hey, why not Gtalk him?”

Ping. “What do you want for breakfast?”

Ping. “What the…” “Mom, is that you?”

Ping. “LOL. What do u want for bf?”

Ping. “Pancake pls.”

It soon evolved into a Q&A session where the 11 yo asked me some words he’d learned from his fellow game-players but instinctively knew were “bad words” that he should not use. First right up:

Ping. “What does Jizz mean?”

Ugh, Jesus. Why can’t his father be doing this? “You don’t want to know.”

Ping. “It is close to jazz.”

“Believe me. It is not.”

Ping. “tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me”

Fine. “Have you learned reproductive organs in your health education yet?”

“No. But 6th graders did. We didn’t go.”

I explained that he would learn about it when he has sex education in the 6th grade. Upon that, he said, “Yikes!” in spoken language which I could hear from the kitchen.

For good measure, I emphasized that it is NOT a shortened form for when you want to say “Jesus!”

Then we moved onto:

“Mom, what does f-g mean?” “It is banned from this other site.” “People would say this to me whenever I kill [their characters].”

Well, the usage originated from The World of Warcraft, I believe. “You know the word ‘gay’ and how we agreed that we would not use it to make fun of people?” “There’s this word that is even worse than ‘gay'”

“Oh. I know that word.”

Me. Thinking. “How the hack does he know? Where did he hear it? And who the F called my kid that word?!”

Somehow it does not seem as lecture-y through Gtalk to make him promise he would not use this word. No matter how common an expression it has become in this game or anywhere else. It is a principle thing.

Although I can only hope that he keeps his promise when I am not around, which will happen more and more often now that he’s 11 going on 30, I am glad that we had this chance to talk. So, so what it is through Gtalk?

Inside the Chinese palace is full of tragic tales and horror stories…


The said Concubine Zhen entered the palace when she was thirteen and soon became the Emperor’s favorite. I guess the Emperor’s still-young (according to the modern standard) windowed mother, the Empress Dowager Cixi was not too fond of this fact.

There are so many titillating stories about Cixi. I often wonder whether she was born evil or was forced by circumstances to grow into such a ruthless power-hungry figure.

On our outings to admire the various palaces, I could not help but tell my eldest the horror stories behind the grandeur of Chinese dynasties, including what it means to be an eunuch and what it takes to bind a woman’s feet.

I think I have forever scarred him. “All that glitters is not gold.”

Mission accomplished.

Report from the burbs: Survived sleepover, mom vowed to never say yes again, until next time.

The boys stayed up until who knows when. I slipped into oblivion at 2 am. They were playing “Truth or Dare” but soon skipped “Truth” completely and went straight to “Dare”. At 11 years of age, their “Dares” were, eh, quite lame. Not that I am complaining though. Ask me again 2 years from now, I am sure I would be guarding his bedroom door with a taser…

Posted via email from The Absence of Alternatives

“Congratulation, Neil Gaiman!”

Came upon this blog entry on Geed Dad (part of the Wired blogosphere). Was surprised to see that Neil Gaiman’s book won the Newberry Medal. Well, not really surprised. Actually was surprised that Gaiman was surprised.

My 5th grader couldn’t put this book down. True to Gaiman’s fashion, the book is dark (judging by the cover of the book… yeah…): it starts out with a little boy’s family being murdered and with the little boy being abandoned in a graveyard (hence the title) and raised by ghosts… Kids nowadays are so much more mature than when we were growing up so I was not concerned that my son was reading about the subject of death and murder at the age of 10. Glad to know that the judges (and many teachers and parents) feel the same way. We should never talk down to our children as if they live in a cocoon. I believe that’s a main reason why Gaiman is so popular with kids with a good head on their shoulder – he treats them like adults and speak to them truthfully about unpleasant subjects.

“On Monday Neil Gaiman was awarded the most prestigious award in children’s literature, a Newbery Medal, for his new book, The Graveyard Book. The news rocked the world of kid’s literature and was a surprise to Gaiman himself. Neil Gaiman is a beloved author for many GeekDads for his children’s literature. The Day I Swapped My Dad for Two Goldfish and The Wolves in the Walls have been bedtime storybooks for my daughter since she was tiny. But Gaiman is also famous among GeekDads for his more adult literature, such as Sandman and American Gods; his movie adaptations, such as Stardust and the upcoming Coraline; and he is also a GeekDad in his own right, often relinquishing his blog to his daughter Maddy.” (Jan. 31, 2009)