Happy Birthday!

8:30 PM       Kids f-i-n-a-l-l-y go to sleep.

8:50 PM      “What time does the mall close?”  asks husband

9:00 PM       Husband suspiciously says “I’m going to work out!” and leaves the house in a hurry.

10:30 PM     He is still not back from the gym.  Where can he be?  1.5 hour before my birthday, he can only be at 2 places- Target, or the grocery store.  Gosh, I hope he’s not browsing at the local gas station…

Rewind 8 years.  We’ve been married for 4 whole months, and we were celebrating my birthday together for the first time as a married couple.  We pulled up to a small fondue restaurant in Los Gatos.  My husband had a silly grin on his face, and was tickling from head to toe with excitement. He parked the car, took my hand and said “I have something special for your birthday.” 

I have to take a moment to explain that I LOVE being surprised.  I also LOVE getting gifts.  So his words “…something special…” floated in my head, and I was dizzy with excitement. 

He reached over to the back seat, grabbed a mysterious, wrinkled, and used brown bag.  A brown bag!  Ok, so gift wrapping is not his thing.  I took the brown bag, and opened it with anticipation.  I reached in, and grabbed a…

...Bathing suit!

It wasn’t just a bathing suit, it was actually MY old black bathing suit.  Puzzled, I reached in again to see what else was in the bag-

... Palm Pilot!

It was not a new Palm Pilot, but my old Palm Pilot.  Then came out of the bag my favorite pen, old wallet, sunglasses, and a hair brush. 

I sat there speechless.  Was this some sort of a scavenger hunt?  Where was my real birthday present?

“Happy Birthday!”  My husband said proudly.  I was totally dumbfounded.  I looked at all the stuff out of the brown bag, looking for a clue, a sign, anything!  And that’s when I realized, all the things I took out of the brown bag were things I had misplaced, and couldn’t find around the house-  It was a BAG of My Missing Stuff!

4 months turned into over 8 year of marriage.  One year, I got an omelet maker.  Another year, I got a homemade “coupon” for a massage, which I have yet to cash in.  Then the kids came, and celebrating my birthday became a ritual for the kids.  My husband even bought a Thomas the Tank Engine cake for my birthday one year.  Sometimes I would find the birthday card unwritten, sitting on top of the washer for months.  Every year, it became less and less important, and my expectation grew smaller and smaller.

So when he came back from his trip to “work-out”, I was not at all anticipating, excited, or hoping for a gift.  I was too exhausted and sleepy to care, so I went to sleep.

When I got up this morning, my husband was busy at the kitchen trying to make pancakes for me.  Turns out he was out till wee hours of the night doing grocery shopping to prepare for my birthday breakfast.  He made a dozen pancakes, stacked them together, and put candles at the top.  As I sat there listening to my husband and the kids singing the Happy Birthday tune, I realized something.   There were no presents, nor surprises, but I was still content.  Why?

I didn’t have to cook breakfast!!!

And that was good enough for me.  Yay, happy birthday to me!!

Little SALT in my wounds

I had the rare pleasure of putting the kids down early, and sneak away with my husband to go watch a movie last night.  Watching a new release, actually sitting in a theater, is a lost art and truly a rare treat in PK (Post Kids) era so I was thrilled.

Someone told me that I must go see SALT, so without a clue as to what it was about, we rushed to get the ticket, and got seated with anticipation.  Honestly, I couldn't care less what I was about to see, just to get out of the house without kids gave me enough thrill to watch just about anything. I was NOT prepared for the experience I was about to have for the next 90 mins.

The first scene opened with the female protagonist being tortured by the brute militia while being tied down wearing nothing but what seems to be her undergarments. I'm not going to ruin the movie by retelling too much of the plot, but this was a 90 min-roller coaster ride of mixed emotion.  Angelina Jolie did what she did best- beat the crap out of every character that got in her way while remaining mysterious and sexy in every way.  Basically, the movie was a Bourne Identity- the Jolie version.  

But what about this movie was so disturbing to me?  About a year ago, I watched Bourne Identity at home after a long day of chasing around kids.  The movie gave me such a satisfying escape, I didn't even mind the fatigue or sleep deprivation the next day.  Matt Damon was great.  The scenes from all the different European cities were great.  It was the perfect escape.

SALT, was similar, but different.  In a way, watching this anime-esque figure beating up guys 3 times her size was exciting and empowering.  But, she also got beat up and tortured pretty badly in the process.  I didn't think twice when I saw Matt Damon get beat up on the screen.  But watching a woman get beat up took violence to a whole another level.  Double standard?  Absolutely.

In addition to female violence, there's the issue of children being manipulated and brain washed.   Watching the poor orphans being lied and manipulated to made me feel ill.  I knew that this movie is completely fictional, but I still left the theater feeling exhausted and strangely wounded.

We came home after midnight, but I was too wired to go to sleep.  Why did this movie disturb me so much?  Unlike Bourne Identity, this movie gave me no pleasure of "escaping".  Was it because I'm not a true feminist?  Did I change because I have children of my own?  Couldn't really tell why, but I just felt wounded.

I googled the movie that night to read the review.  That's when I came across the fact that Angelina Jolie filmed this movie only 18 months after she gave birth to her twins.  Crazy nuts!  Jolie was stick thin!!  If she had a postpartum weight issue, you couldn't tell.  She did most of her own stunts and rarely used a double. Not only did she just have twins, she also has 3, no excuse me, 4 older kids!  How does she manage to mother that many children, and still manage to be stick thin for this movie? 

That did it.  That was little too much SALT in my wounds...

Did anyone else see the movie?  Let me know what you thought!!

"Go MOM!!"

“Mama, your tummy is bigger than your milk (a.k.a -boobs)”

That’s all I needed to hear before dusting off my running shoes. After “letting go” and “just be happy” with my postpartum body, I haven’t done a single exercise, while eating whatever and whenever. I figured, the weight will come off when I stop nursing, just like the way it happened with my first child. I felt a sense of confidence, a feeling of freedom, in not caring about my weight. Besides, isn’t nursing the best diet out there?

All good things, including the euphoria of delusion, must come to an end. The innocent, but very observant comment from my 4 year old son brought me down to the reality. Unlike my first post-partum days, the pounds did not simply come off, and I am still miles away from my original size. The extra weight that moved in with pregnancy with my second child, stayed and hung around like an unwelcomed guest. Enough waiting around. It was time to do something about it.

I barely managed to squeeze into my old work out clothes, bribed the kids with snacks, and hit the pavement with the stroller. My legs felt heavy and immediately I began regretting not wearing another layer of a jogging bra. As I began to pump my arms, and tried to pound the pavement, I felt my body moving independently from me, doing its own rhythmic flabby dance. Didn’t matter. I was determined to get my work out.

I reached the stop sign down the street. My heart was pounding and I stopped to catch my breath. I waited for the light to turn so I can cross the street.

HONK, HONK!

I was startled by a jeep full of surfer –looking-dudes. Not sure why, but immediately, I flashed the biggest, ear-to-ear smile, and waved my flabby arms to say hello to the surfer-looking-dudes. If they raised their hands, I would’ve jumped up to high-five them. If they had a camera, I would’ve posed in my best angle. Call it adrenalin, or just an old habit, but I felt like I was 20 something all over again. I felt alive, and felt like I can run another mile.

Then the light turned green, and cars began to move. Just as I began to also pick up the pace, I heard the jeep peel away with a loud “GO—MMMMM oooooo mmm!!”

My legs froze. I was stunned. Can’t explain why I was so surprised, but I didn’t expect to hear a “MOM” cheer. Did they notice my kids sitting in the biggest double stroller ever? Did they see my muffin-top-postpartum-belly? All that energy and endorphin rush just drained out of me. I felt exhausted, old, fat, and completely unmotivated to take another stride. “Go-Mom”? Why did it feel so awful to hear someone say “Go-Mom”??

After moping around for another few weeks, I finally signed up for a Mommy Bootcamp. We meet at 6 o’clock in the morning, and now I love the freedom to exercise and work out with other moms, minus the kids. In a few weeks, I plan to go running again, without the kids. We’ll see who’ll “Go-Mom” me this time. I’ll let him have it.

What would I be doing today if I was not a mom?

I am back. After a few month of dealing with my husband’s lay off, starting my part time job, and interviewing on the side, I am back to Postpartum Rambling. I can go on and on, and write a book about how I’m dealing with the disappointment of my husband’s job loss, and our uncertain future, but I don’t want to waste my blogging space. Since today is a holiday of a sort, I have one burning question in my mind.

What would I be doing today if I was NOT a mom?

Unlike many perplexing, unanswerable questions out there in life, I actually know the answer to this question. I don’t even have to think about it. The truth is, I never thought I would be a mother. Do most other women grow up thinking, dreaming that she would be a mom one day? Not I. Not sure why not, but I never thought I would actually be a mother. Even if I did think I was going to be a mom, I had no idea what “being a mom” would entail. Clue-less. Absolutely clue less.

So, if I wasn’t a mom, who would I be today?

Immediately, I thought about work. If I wasn’t a mom, I would be working, putting in 80+ hrs/week, trying to climb the corporate ladder. I would get up in the morning, check the news and quickly check e-mail, then go to work where I would catch up with co-workers, buy cafeteria coffee, before sitting down at my desk. I would work, work, work, then meet a friend for lunch, then go back to work before finally leaving the office after dark. I would put in a quick work out at the gym, pick up some food at Trader Joe’s then go home and eat in front of a TV or a computer. I would watch a show or two, then read e-mails again, and prepare for the next day. Then I would read a book, before falling asleep, too exhausted to dream, uninterrupted till the next morning.

On weekends I would sleep in, hang out at farmer’s markets, then take day trips near by. I would definitely be on my 2^nd or even a 3^rd car, and would weigh 20 lbs less. I would obsess about my skin, hair, and clothes. I would go shopping recreationally, hang out with friends frequently, and call my parents regularly. I would eat spicy food and I would be eating out of glass plates rather than plastics. My car, house, and clothes would be clean.

That would be me.

But, if I wasn’t a mom, I would still be the most important person in my life. It was all about me. While that can almost sound appealing, it’s really kind of frightening. It’s one thing to be a child who is self-obsessed, but it’s a different ball game to be an adult who is self-obsessed. For that, I thank my children for being in my life. Everyday, they give me opportunities to be little less self-focused, and little less self-entitled.

So, my mom friends, who would YOU be if you were not a mom today? Better yet, for my non-mom friends, what kind of a mom would YOU be? I want you to write it down, so we can laugh about it together over a cup of tea one day.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Haiti

Almost 18 years ago, I spent a summer working as a volunteer at an orphanage about 40 mins away from Port-Au-Prince. Full of idealism, hope, and adventure, I went to Haiti to experience the 3rd world culture, to learn, and to offer my time. I helped in the infant wing, and took care of 9 babies. 2 of them had HIV virus. One died in my arms. I remember falling asleep to the dull sounds of voo doo drum, and waking up to gun shots out on the street. Live babies were found in hospital dumpsters. I witnessed what poverty does to humanity. Haiti broke my heart.

The recent earthquake in Haiti brought back the familiar pang in my heart. Now that I'm a mother, the thought of children becoming orphaned, or mothers unable to give food to their children makes me... crazy. How do you deal with such devastation? How do you digest such suffering?

My prayer goes to Haiti. I've been checking out what's going on with my old orphanage via web.Rather than being depressed by Haiti's devastation, I decided to share this website, and ask people to do something, anything, to help Haiti's unreached mothers and children. A good friend also told me about Giving Children Hope. If you know of other good organizations where help can go to mothers and children, please share.

Here are some old photos I dug out recently.

The Threesome Marriage

OK. I’ve got to vent.

Tonight, I sit here pondering about “why do men hoard stuff??” I mean, not to be a sexist here, but I understand why women hold on to things- we appreciate sentimental reminders, we love getting gifts and we adore beautiful things. Most of us love to shop, which means we have more stuff.

In my case, I just have nicer stuff than my husband. 5 months before we got married, my husband and I bought our first home and I moved in first with my stuff. My sweet husband called a few of his buddies and they moved all my stuff into our new home. No questions asked and there were no eyebrows raised about my stuff taking too much space.

A few weeks before our wedding date, my husband talked about scheduling a U-Haul to move his stuff from his apartment. “What for?” I blurted, I honestly didn’t think he had that much stuff to actually fill an U-Haul. I didn’t want to hurt his feeling, but looking around at his bachelor pad full of hand me downs and mismatched stuff, it didn’t seem like there was ANYTHING worth keeping, and worthy of our new home.

When my husband moved in, he neatly stacked his boxes in the garage. Weeks went by. Months went by. The boxes remained exactly where he first put them. I didn’t give much thought and didn’t mind the boxes being in the garage- as long as it didn’t actually make it into my new home, I was happy.

The boxes stayed untouched, unopened, and unsorted for 3 years- till we moved to North Carolina. I decided if those boxes in the garage still remained untouched, we needed to re-evaluate their worth before we paid people to drive them across the country.

While my husband was at work, I finally opened one of his boxes. The box was full of his old college applications, old financial aid forms, taxes filed since 1988. I was appalled. I opened another box and it was full of classroom notes from high school & college. Another box full of not only old photos, but its original negatives (yes, definitely pre-digital), another box of outdoor camping gears including rock climbing gear, high school wrestling shoes from freshman year, a sculpture project he did in Jr. High School, and on and on.

I tried to reason, plead, bribe, and threaten my husband to get rid of those boxes but he remained unmoved on this issue. We moved 7 times in our 7 years of marriage. Every time we moved, the dumb boxes full of “trash” moved with us and we fought over them. When my husband got an internship for 3 months in Miami, he actually drove down with all those boxes promising to sort them, and they actually came back from Miami, untouched and un opened.

When we were preparing for the move down to San Diego this summer, I decided this was my chance to finally get rid of those boxes. Conveniently, my husband had to move to San Diego before us and I followed the following. I would walk by those boxes and throw them a menacing smile. I’ve waited so long to dump those boxes, and this was the chance I’ve been waiting for. I knew my husband would NEVER even notice.

The night before leaving to San Diego, I fell asleep before my husband as he was finishing packing his car. I barely managed to peel out of my bed to say our good bye at 5 AM. He left behind a whole house full of responsibilities and the task of now packing for our family. But I didn’t care; I was about to have a PURGE fest.

A few hours after my husband’s departure, I walked into the garage, almost giddy with excitement. I’ve waited 7 years for this moment and I couldn’t waste another second. When we didn’t have any kids, I tolerated those boxes because space was not an issue. But now, keeping his stuff meant less space for the kids’ stuff, and hardly any space for me. I would commit my crime now, and apologize later. After all, isn’t that what marriage is all about??

I walked into the garage. I walked over to the corner where the boxes have been stacked, untouched for the past two years since we moved into our house. Then I froze.

The boxes, the trash of old stuff, were ALL GONE!! I mean they completely disappeared into the thin air. Not one box was left behind. My heart started pounding, and I can feel the blood rushing to my head. I ran out to the garbage can to see if they were there. Nope. I looked around the garage to see if they have been moved. Nope. I even searched my curbside to see if they were left out for the garbage people. Nope. They were nowhere to be found.

Of course, my husband brilliantly managed to stay up all night and packed those stupid boxes into his tiny car for the 400 miles+ ride. Somehow, he was totally onto my scheme and managed to save his boxes of trash. Now, those boxes sit in our paid storage in San Diego, mocking at me, ready to move with me wherever I go next.

“We live in a constant fear” said a friend’s husband. “We never know what will go missing when we come back from work”.

Apparently men ARE sentimental. Who knew? I guess marriage is a threesome arrangement between you, your spouse, and the pesky packrat who just won’t go away.

The packRAT? Really Attached to Trash I say!!

Ta-Ta For Now: Part 1

It all began when I was 8 month pregnant with my second child, I joined an outdoor hiking program for my toddler who was 2 yr old at the time.  I wanted to spend as much quality time with him as possible before the new baby was born.  Since the class was also open to siblings, I thought it would be good to join something where I can attend with both kids at the same time.  Plus, I wanted to meet other moms with multiple kids, and learn how they juggle and keep their sanity.

 

When we showed up for the class, I immediately saw a boy from my son’s gym class.  I said hello to his mother, and we chit chatted while waiting for the hike to start.  She also has an infant daughter, and she told me that her part-time work keeps her sane.  I told her that we should get together sometime for a play date, and we said our good byes at the end of the class.

 

Well, it turns out this particular mom, works “part-time” as the Co-Founder and CEO of a very well known and large on-line photo cards company. Realizing that a play date is unlikely in the near future, I decided to venture out and meet more moms in the class.  I met another very friendly mom, who has 2 same as kids as mine, and seemed eager enough to get together for a play date.

 

I came home that night, told my husband about this new potential friend.  Much to my surprise, my husband recognized her name right away.  It turns out this woman was my husband’s classmate from college.  She also turns out to be a founder and CEO of even a bigger start-up company that sells party favors.   She has celebrity customers and her products have been featured in InStyle, Real Simple, Good Morning America, just to name the few. 

 

I was down right depressed.  I had joined a toddler hiking class for the over-achieving moms!! Forget play dates.  These moms went from changing diapers, to getting orders from Tori Spellings on their iPhones.  Where did they find the time, energy and creativity to start and run successful business “on the side”??  I barely had the time to take a shower!!

 

They say in Silicon Valley, if you don’t have a start-up on your resume, you are a nobody.   I decided I have got to start a start-up of my own.   Dang it, I've got to be somebody.

The hiking class?  I quit that after the second class. 

And that’s how it all began.

 

 

Bubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble

I have a confession.  I hate attending my husband’s company events.  I don’t care how fancy and FREE it might be.  I just don’t enjoy it.  Don’t get me wrong… I love to party.  But my very smart, yet slightly “scientific” husband built his career in the Bio Technology industry, which means most of his co-workers are also very smart, and even more “scientific” (a.k.a – nerdy).  Just not my crowd.  I am way too cool and hip and definitely an outsider to the “scientific” community.  You also have to be somewhat cautious because you don’t want to be your hubby’s career limiting wife and become the talk of water coolers.

However, it’s only been two weeks since landing in San Diego and our family wknd calendar is somewhat bare so I welcomed the invitation to join my husband’s annual company picnic at the local beach.   We packed the car, packed the kids, and headed off to the party.  Anywhere is better than spending another day in corporate housing. 

My kids were thrilled to find that the party included a huge indoor pool with the biggest bouncy house I’ve seen in my mommyhood career.  We each took a child, changed them, and swim diapered the baby and went into the pool.   After about 5 mins, my ADHD baby wanted to get out of the pool, and go in to the bouncy house.   We only brought a small hand towel for the entire family so I decided to save the towel and just bring my baby to the bouncy house wet.  

“Please dry off before entering” said the sign on the entrance of the bouncy house.  I conveniently ignored the sign, and just slipped my baby in the bouncy house.  There were two other much older kids jumping and having a ball.  I should note here that this was my child’s first bouncy house experience.  She knew she wanted to go in, but once she was placed in the bouncy house, my baby realized she didn’t know how to actually jump or bounce.  She was locked in a crawling position, completely bewildered.   “Bounce baby, bounce.  Bounce like a bunny!”  I tried coaching her from the outside.  Nothing.  She didn’t move a muscle.  I cheered even louder for her to bounce.

That’s when I realized that she was indeed moving a muscle.  She was actually peeing!  Not a big deal, I thought no one would notice since she was dripping wet from the pool water anyway.  But much to my dismay, she kept on peeing and peeing for what felt like an eternity.  I didn’t know that toddlers can pee THAT much.  She simply wouldn’t stop.  What da heck?  Why did I pay a fortune for that swim diaper that doesn’t even work??  I stopped cheering and tried to pretend that I didn’t notice that she was actually peeing.  

“Oh my god- that baby is peeing!”  One of the parents of the other kids scremed.  Now, EVERYONE was looking, and the kids who were bouncing went nuts!  They started screaming, and tried to get out of the bouncy house but couldn’t because my baby wouldn’t move an inch, sitting right by the door.  To make the matters worse, when the kids tried to get out of the bouncy house, my baby’s pee would simply spill over to the next groove, then to the next groove.  Not only did it overflow, it actually started to bubble up, and there were bubbles getting bigger and bigger from my daughter’s pee!!  I didn't know pee can bubble up like that.  Bubbles were EVERYWHERE!  

I stood there totally flabbergasted.  I went right back to that place when my first child over-flooded the toilet at his friend’s birthday party.  How do I wipe down the bouncy house?  How do I try to wipe down my baby?  Should I pretend that she is actually NOT related to me?   Frozen by shock and dread, I was totally helpless.

Now I have a brand new perspective on company picnics.  Apparently I am NOT too cool and NOT too hip for the “scientific” community .  .  .  I now have to make sure my kids also don’t become the topic of the water cooler talks.  It’s a whole different level of stress.  Sighh…

 

 

 

 

Traveling Ramblings: Jersey Shore

Today, we packed the car, the kids, and grandparents and drove down to the Jersey Shore.

When we arrived, we soon realized the beach was also packed. We found a spot between a group of teenage boys playing volleyball, and some long legged girls tanning in their bikinis. Looking around, I suddenly felt too old to be there in my miracle-shape bathing suit.

Much to my amazement, there were a ton of dark, I mean really leathery sun bathers at the beach. There were people of all shapes and sizes, scorching under the July sun. We were huddled under two SPF 100 umbrellas, and I dressed the kids in long sleeve sun guards, and covered their face thick with sun block lotion. I felt old and out of place.

I decided to take the kids to the playground at the beach. At the playground I saw a group of boys laughing and playing near the swing set. I thought how nice it would be for my son to be able to hang out with his friends like that when he gets older. I walked to the swings to put my daughter in the baby bucket seat. Then much to my surprise, one of the “boys” took out an actual cigarette, and lit it.

I was stunned. I looked at the boy, and he looked no more than 9 or 10 years old. He had perfectly groomed eye brows, and a diamond stud earring. His friend climbed to the top of the swing set, and started making indecent gestures at the girls across the playground. How old were these “miniature” people anyway? Were they just really young, but “urbanized” or were they actually much older, just developmentally pre-mature? I couldn’t tell. I thought smoking was something we dealt with in the 80’s. I didn’t realize that now 10 year olds are smoking. I dragged my two toddlers kicking and screaming out of that play ground, just in time so they don’t pick up on all the “f” words, and get lung cancer from second hand smoking.

Being back in New Jersey brings back certain memories of childhood. I was no angel, and I’ve done my share of sneaking out beyond my curfew and crashing my parent’s car. But somehow, motherhood had a way of fast forwarding life that I’ve now become one of those adults who frowns upon smokers, sun-tanners, and kids growing up too fast.

“Being a cool mom doesn't mean to set your kids free without boundaries, but it is important to give your kids room to move and learn things for themselves. This will help you to enjoy parenting and help your children to enjoy being raised. It's a win-win situation.” -- WikiHow

I’m sure some 14 year old wrote that parenting advice on WikiHow because the thought of letting my son grow up and letting him hang out with those boys at the playground gives me a panic attack.

I am most definitely NOT a cool mom.

Traveling Ramblings: New Jersey

How do I describe New Jersey? Being a true Jersey girl, I’ve always been very defensive about Jersey. I didn’t realize it was the butt of every joke until I went to college where I first heard it being described as the “armpit”. To me, Jersey was always an extension of New York- just a little bit less crowded, nicer, greener, and much cheaper shopping.

Here are some interesting facts:

- This week, Gas is only $2.35/gallon. That includes the full service. They actually get offended if you come out of the car and start pumping the gas yourself.

- There’s no sales tax on anything you wear- that means no sales tax on clothes, shoes, etc,. Heaven!

- Others might call Jersey the “armpit” but the Jersey people call it “the Garden State”

- There are no “freeways” – every highway has tolls. To cross the bridge from New Jersey to New York, you would have to pay stinkin’ eight dollars!

- Jersey people really do have an accent. I’ve been denying it my whole life, but there’s no hiding it. Thanks Tony Soprano for letting the whole world know how we talk.

In Jersey, I intend to get spoiled and pampered by my parents. I plan to catch up with old friends, go shopping and get lots of R & R.

Home sweet home...

Traveling Rambling: San Jose Airport

“What? Are you insane?” a friend asked me. Call it ignorance, a pure fantasy, a delusion for being landlocked for what felt like an eternity with young kids, but I really thought it was a good idea to travel for a month with my two under-aged travelers- without my husband. Since our family is in the process of moving to San Diego anyway (hubby got a job there, and has been working there since May), why not use the opportunity to go and pay over-due visits to friends and family across the country?

So I began my cross country trip. I love to travel. I love just showing up at friend’s houses and surprising them. I love to go to places with nothing planned, and just “figure things out” when I get there. Unannounced, unexpected, and unpredicted was my style.

Now that I have two toddlers, and most of my friends have toddlers, anything “unexpected” is usually NOT a good thing. Knowing this, I arrived at San Jose Airport 2.5 hours prior to my departure time. Knowing that the evil airlines would charge me a fee for checking curbside, I got a luggage cart, and began loading 2 large suitcases, 2 car seats, my jewelry case, oversized diaper bag and a stroller. With my one year daughter in a baby carrier, and holding my 3 year old son’s hand, I began to walk towards the check-in line. Wednesday afternoon with the economy the way it is, I expected the airport to be empty. To my dismay, the check in line was packed, there were only 2 agents working at the counter and the airport was anything but empty.

“57 lbs. That will be $50” said the ticket agent. WHAT? I packed and weighted the suitcase myself just yesterday. “53 lbs, that will be another $50, total of $100. Would you like to pay it by cash or credit?” CRAZY!! I just waited 45 mins in the line so I can avoid paying the curbside fee. I was NOT about to pay $100 after waiting in line for that long. “I’ll rearrange my luggage” I said adamantly. The ticket agent rolled her eyes, and let out a loud sigh that screamed “I’m too busy to cater to you.”

I opened my over-sized and over-weight suitcases, and began to rearrange the load frantically. I can feel the eyes of disgruntled travelers behind me. How can my bags be off by 10+ lbs? Was my scale off? Have I’ve been weighing myself on the broken scale all this time? DOES THIS MEAN I AM ALSO 10+ POUNDS HEAVIER? There I was, in front of the ticket counter, with packages of Pampers, Ziploc full of wooden trains, clothes, and toiletries scattered everywhere- all eyes were on my 10+ lbs over-weight bags, and on my 10+ lbs over-weight self.

After several unsuccessful attempts at trying to magically get rid of the overweight lbs, I finally ended up with the unanticipated penalty of $50, a 67 lb suitcase, and a very visible fluorescent “heavy” tag hung like a scarlet letter on my suitcase.

The two hour flight to Denver was anything but easy. But the worst part of my trip was definitely the unanticipated $50 plus the unexpected weight gain. Sigh…

So began my month of travel. Next stop – Denver. Stand by for more unexpected, and unexpected happenings.

The Percentile Please!

Managing two kids means twice as many doctors appointments to remember. With my first child, I was anal about everything- making sure to book the appts so I don’t disturb my baby’s feed/nap/poop schedule, dressing the baby appropriately so he wouldn’t freeze on the examining table, etc,. I even took time to review and research before the appointments so I can maximize my 5 mins with the physician and ask the right questions.

That woman is now only a distant memory. Now I skid in to the garage, park completely crooked, and run madly with my kids flying behind. 4 months after my son turned three, I finally managed to book my son’s 3 year check up. No time to research my discussion topics. I only had ONE burning question in my mind.

I have to pause, and describe my son’s doctor. When I first met him, I was shocked at how young he looked. He couldn’t have been more than late 20’s, early 30’s at best. He looked too young, too hip, and too friendly to be a respectable doctor. (To all my doctor friends, apologies ;-) But the minute I saw him interact with my son, my skepticism dwindled. And the minute he turned to me and said “…and how are YOU doing…?” I knew I liked him.

With my ONE question, I waited patiently in his 10 x 10 examining room. My young, hip, Banana Republic wearin’ doctor finally walked in, and we chit chatted a little bit, then he began examining my son. Weight- 95 %, Height- 97%. Eating well, playing well, sleeping well, potty trained, etc,.etc,.

“Do you have any questions?” my pediatrician asked.

“Yes, I do have a question” I blurted out before I changed my mind about my question. The young doctor looked concerned and put down my son’s chart.

“ I’ve been working on teaching my son to pee standing up and noticed that he is not peeing straight. I’m wondering if his circumcision was done correctly. ” The thought of having to re-circumcise my son made me feel faint. But I had to ask and consider the unthinkable- just in case.

The doctor examined my son. “Everything looks normal with his circumcision. Circumcision is difficult sometimes because baby’s the baby’s penis is so small.”

My heart sank. Now, I had a much bigger problem.

I asked hesitantly. “Did you say my baby’s penis is small? Did you mean relative to other babies or did you mean all babies have small penis because they are babies?“ Would my child be made fun of at school? Would he be shy in locker rooms? Would he have a poor self-image?

The young doctor paused. Then he panicked. He looked away, searching for an appropriate response. “Your son’s penis is just fine. Normal in every way. I simply meant all babies have small penis and circumcisions are sometimes difficult” He added, “I wouldn’t worry”

This still didn’t comfort me. Now I was REALLY worried. What does "normal" really mean? Did he mean normal big or normal small?

“Can you show me the percentile chart?” My child has always been a very big, off the chart child. He must certainly be proportionally-correct, right?

Needless to say, my doctor went on to explain patiently how such a comparison chart does not exist, and he emphasized again how my son does not need to be re- circumcised.

I still remain somewhat skeptical. I will never know how my son compares to the rest of the 3 yr old boys. In the mean time, I’ve got to figure out how to deal with keeping the toilet clean. Why do I have so many toilet related issues?

Sighhhh…

Women needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle

“A woman needs a man, like a fish needs a bicycle” said Gloria Steinem (she was quoting Irina Dunn).  For the majority of my singlehood, this was my mantra, my declaration of independence, and my anthem of empowerment as a woman.  It is in this confidence and delusional state of mind, I encouraged my husband to go to Tahoe with some friends while I stayed behind with our two kids for the weekend. 

Everything went smoothly on the first day.  I took the kids to the farmer’s market, we played at a local park, went to the library to get some more books and Thomas DVDs.  I fed them, changed them, cleaned them, and entertained them.  First night after the kids were deep in sleep, I sank into my futon, enjoying a glass of wine.  Silence.  I loved it.

The second day also sailed smoothly.  I began to think “single parenting is not that bad.”  One of the things that really irk me is on seldom occasions when I leave the kids with my husband, I came back to a house where dirty dishes, messy rooms, and scattered laundry is “justified” because “I was too busy watching the kids”.  At times, I even dreaded going out because I knew I would come back to more work, staying up even later to clean up, and be more tired afterwards.  This weekend, I wanted to set an example.  I wanted to show him how to solo-parent while managing the house as well.  I needed to raise the bar.

After the kids went to bed, I began to chop, steam, sauté what felt like a month’s worth of food.  I started the laundry, started the dish washer.  Feeling really proud of myself, I began to clean the counter top, and even started mopping the floor.  All was going well.  It was past midnight and after I was done with cooking, cleaning, folding the laundry and showering, I was spent.   I loved going to sleep knowing that my house, specifically my kitchen, was sparkling.  I crawled under my fluffy comforter and closed my eyes.

But, something was not right.  I went around and made sure all the doors and windows were locked.  I came back to the kitchen to see if the dishwasher was done.  That’s when I saw my kitchen sink, completely clogged, and the yucky water kept on rising slowly. 

They say traumatic memories are remembered by not only your brain, but by all of your senses.  Some of you might remember my incidence with a clogged toilet.  Plumbing has never been my forte.  I froze.  I was alone in the house, and it was past midnight.  My husband wasn't scheduled to come home for at least another 16 hours.  I turned on the garbage disposal- no luck.  I tried to clear out all the vegetable peels and scraps of meat in the sink.  Still no luck.  I tried to think clearly.  Unfortunately, thinking clearly at 12:30 AM is like asking a sleep walking man to fill out his taxes.  I began to search the house frantically for a plunger.  No time to read the kitchen sink instruction.  No time to google.  I had to do something and do it fast.

I grabbed the plunger from the master bathroom, and ran back to the kitchen.  The thought of putting in a plunger which I assume was used for toilets previously, into my kitchen sink worried me.  But I didn’t have the time to sanitize my plunger.  Brushing off all other hesitations, I began to “plunge” my clogged sink.  At first, I was very careful.  But soon I realized I was not solving the problem.  I began to push up and down the plunger, like a mad person.  That's when I encountered "it".  

"It" totally, completely caught me by surprise and "it" shot up to my ceiling and landed on my hair.   "It" shot up, from the tiny silver knob next to my kitchen faucet, which I've never noticed before this moment.  "It" was my private Old Faithful, my geyser of filthy, muggy kitchen sink water, filled with old carrot peels, meat scraps and other questionable things.   My exhausted brain barely figured out that there was a cause and effect.  Harder I plunged, higher my geyser. My geyser shot up once, twice, then again and again every time I pushed down the plunger. I was in my own nightmare.

I wish I didn't have to end this story with me staying up for another 2 hours of cleaning, sanitizing, and showering...again.  I wish I didn't have to go to sleep at 3 am, only to get up at 5 am to nurse my baby.  But let me tell you, by the time my husband came back on Sunday afternoon, I nearly leapt into his arms, and felt so thankful that I don't have to hold the plunger again. 

A woman needs a man, like a fish needs a bicycle?  Obviously, Gloria Steinem was perfectly ok with taking care of her own plumbing issues or she knew a female professional plumber somewhere.  But today, I find it completely liberating to say - I AM MOST DEFINITELY PLUMBING CHALLENGED AND I OUTSOURCE ALL THINGS PLUMBING TO MY HUSBAND.