Category Archives: Conflict

The scary “C6L” error on the Instant Pot

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The “error” music of an Instant Pot is unusually perky. At first, you want to think it’s something positive, but when you turn to look at it, all you see is “ERR” flashing on its little screen, along with another message. That could be “BURN,” which I’ve lost count of the number of times that has happened to me (this means the bottom of the inner lid has too much food encrusted on it, and thus it cannot continue cooking properly. Unfortunately, it’s a very common one to get with BIRYANI!). But I know how to handle that error, and I know nothing is intrinsically wrong with the device. However, after making soy milk in the Instant Pot for the fourth time this morning, I came back to open it to then hear that miserable little music again, with an error I did not recognize: C6L.

Oh, crap. And I had a feeling I knew what this was about. Four weeks ago, I made soy milk in the Instant Pot for the first time. I got the “burn” error because I did not use a steamer rack to keep the soy bean solids from sticking to the bottom of the pot. So I tried to compensate by ensuring the soy milk was cooked fully by putting the pot on “saute” mode. Well, I didn’t realize how much quicker soy milk boils over than cow milk (wow, this will give cow milk a run for its money for boiling over the quickest!), and so the soy milk not only spilled down the sides, but into the inner pot of the Instant Pot. I tried my best to dry it out and scrape every last piece out that I could over the course of three messy days. For the most part, I thought I was successful. But I had this little dread in the back of my mind that something else could be wrong because several subsequent Instant Pot uses (especially with pressure cooking), Chris and I could smell a strong, unpleasant burning smell when the pot was on. It gave me no error, and it was cooking just fine, so I thought at some point, the burning smell might just stop?

Wrong. I made soy milk today, and the burning smell lingered. C6L is an error that means that the left sensor to detect pressure cooking either has debris, liquid, or something stuck in it that is preventing it from sensing properly. I went down a rabbit hole this morning of referencing Gemini, Claude, YouTube, and multiple websites to see if I could fix this myself. I unscrewed the bottom of the main device, cleaned out all the soy milk crud that had gotten stuck on it, and reached the sensors. I had to use toothpicks, toothbrushes, tiny pieces of damp tissue, and my bare fingers to get all this crap out. The YouTube video I watched suggested removing these thick white glue pieces on top of the sensors, so I did that. But then, I didn’t know how to put them back without them falling off. So I found out I had to buy this special heat-proof, sensor-sensitive glue (obviously… on Amazon!) to ensure the white glue pieces that ensure the sensors are reading pressure correctly was glued back on (doesn’t that sound weird?). So I am waiting for the glue to arrive.

All of this is giving me anxiety because this isn’t the first time my Instant Pot has suffered. In early 2022 in my postpartum and breastfeeding chaos days, I accidentally left my first Instant Pot lid too close to the stove when I had the oven on. The heat rising from the oven melted a key part of the lid that prevented it from latching properly onto the main device. After going onto Instant Pot’s official website and learning they do not sell replacement lids, and then chatting with their support team, I lamented that my pot was no longer usable. So I ended up tossing it (this really hurt) and buying a new one. It made me both angry and sad because I hate waste, and I loved my Instant Pot so much. I really hope this glue works with fixing my pressure sensors. Otherwise, worse case scenario, I may need to be that terrible person and buy a THIRD Instant Pot. My kitchen is just not complete without an Instant Pot; I do so, so much with it and use it at minimum 1-2 times per week! PLEASE DO NOT LET THIS BE ME!

Another homework meltdown

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I know for a fact that when I was kindergarten, I did not have any homework. Homework did not start until first grade for me in my San Francisco public school. I had a bit of a head start with learning since my mom was diligent enough to force me to practice writing and reciting numbers and all letters of the alphabet, both lower and upper case, before I entered kindergarten. Discipline was taught to me pretty early, and when I wasn’t behaving, I was whacked (as were most kids of our generation by our immigrant parents). A common complaint of kids of Kaia’s generation is that they do not have enough self discipline. Every single action is monitored and manned. They have a high level of ADHC diagnoses because their parents cannot handle parenting and succumb to simply drugging their kids up, likely with medication that is not even needed. It’s not an individual parent problem, but rather a generational problem: every generation has its challenges that it needs to attempt to solve.

Although I did not have the self discipline or patience to do what my mom did and try to get Kaia to know how to write all her English letters and numbers before kindergarten, I am very much a fan of homework at this age, if just in shorter bursts. I like that her school starts homework at this age; other people will not agree with me, but the reason I like this is that it instills discipline young. It forces parents to carve out the time in the day to dedicate to learning and reinforcing learning in the classroom. At the end of the day as sucky as it sounds, it’s really a test of the parents and how much patience they can have when enforcing that homework is not optional; it must be done, and done by a certain date for teachers to review.

I was chatting with my friend over tea about this last week. She asked me if homework was really necessary at this age. She said it seemed excessive, that when she was in kindergarten 35 years ago, she didn’t have homework (and she’s just fine now!). I don’t think that using us as the example is necessarily the right thing since every generation and its standards for everything will be different. Yes, I also didn’t have homework in kindergarten, but just because I had that experience, does that necessarily mean I do not want my child to have homework in K? If discipline is an all around issue for kids of this generation, we should probably be doing more to instill it at a younger age. It needs to become a habit, one they understand that is repeatable.

So even though once again, Kaia had a meltdown after lunch today and refused to do a second page of Chinese character writing, I insisted she had to finish the second page. We took many breaks. She ran away screaming and crying from the table multiple times, yelling in Chinese that she doesn’t like homework. But I told her: in life, she’s going to have to do lots and lots of things that she doesn’t like, but they are very necessary for her life and well being. She won’t get that now, but this needs to be reinforced… forever, muah hahaha!

Okay, that sounded a little mean to laugh. But I do mean that. We need to repeat to her that there are endless things she will need to do in her life that she does not like. I hate doing half the things I do in a day, but I know they are beneficial to me, and I’m almost 36 years older than her!

Observation days for after school enrichment

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Kaia is enrolled at the after school program at her school. In addition to general after school, which is supposed to have a mix of structured activities and homework help, parents also have the option of enrolling kids in specific enrichment programs. These can range from arts, robotics, and musical instrument learning, to sports like tennis or soccer. We enrolled Kaia in chess and soccer. Chess would be good to learn an important game and strategy (this is a game I’ve never actually learned to play!), and soccer would be good for her to learn a team sport. This week, the school has given parents the ability to watch the kids in action with “observation days.” We can show up during the last 15 minutes of the program to see the kids doing their given activity.

I was the first parent to show up at the observation for today’s soccer. About five other parents trickled in. And I’ll be honest: I wasn’t that happy about what I saw. I saw a single adult coach trying to manage over 20 kids of ages ranging from kindergarten to fifth grade. Half the kids were participating in some form and listening, while the other half were goofing off, doing their own silly things (Kaia included, unfortunately). I really think there should’ve been at least one other adult for authority and direction. Being a lone coach amongst this many kids varying in ages is too tough. For the entire 15 minutes I was there, I don’t think I saw Kaia kick the ball even once! Based on what I watched, I am not fully clear she even understands the idea behind soccer, that you need to kick a ball into a net, and on the flip side, you need to prevent the other team from getting the ball into your team’s net!

I think Kaia knew I wasn’t pleased even though I never said anything. On the scoot back home, she occasionally would stop and say, “Mama, I kicked the ball before you came!” That’s my sweet baby for you.

I never played organized sport other than during PE classes. While I found some sports more fun than others, I don’t think anyone would say that I was even remotely athletic. In middle and high school, I used to win competitions for running (sprinting) and for exercises like sit-ups, push-ups, and pull-ups (abs and arms of steal :). But that was really it for me. So if Kaia isn’t good at any sport, I am definitely not going to be that disappointed. But in the very least, I hope she understands the sports and tries to participate!

Damaged luggage gets replaced

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After our Caribbean trip in late June/early July, our one small checked roller bag did really well from New York to Barbados, St. Lucia, Grenada, Trinidad, with a stopover in Miami on the way back to New York… and then it didn’t make it quite well from MIA to JFK. That’s basically when some luggage handler probably just thought, “Meh! I’ll just toss ’em all on; no big deal!” Welp. That one haul from MIA to JFK resulted in a dent in our hard-shelled roller bag. It was quite sad to us, especially given we just purchased this set late last year.

We never reported it, though, because it’s a small bag and it’s not like it’s unusable; it was more of a cosmetic issue. So we let it go. But then from SFO to ORD on this last trip, our medium roller bag (of the same luggage set!) got dented pretty badly on the same corner. What the hell? It’s almost like these domestic luggage handlers just do not care about carefully placing luggage on conveyer belts and not treating them like rubbish. Maybe all these “new” luggage brands are just built poorly and cheaply, and thus are not meant to be used more than a handful of times? It’s likely a combination of A and B, as sad as that is.

So I reported this luggage as damaged since it was our second time getting a dented bag with American Airlines in just the last few months. They responded right away, evaluated the photos, then offered to replace the bag from a third party luggage company they work with. The replacement is currently being sent via FedEx from some shipment center in Texas. We got the same color as the one that got damaged: rose gold. We shall see if it’s any more (or less…) durable than this last one that got damaged. Oh, and to make matters worse on that one: when trying to zip close this bag when leaving Chicago, I ripped the stupid seam because the zipper got caught on one of my packing pods. I had to ask the hotel for tape to reinforce it just in case; luckily for me, it arrived home fully in tact. So regardless, that luggage is now getting chucked! I do feel bad about more junk being tossed into a landfill somewhere, but now this bag is just unusable.

The tale of the TSA-confiscated pink capybara

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While up in Sacramento, our friend gifted Kaia a pink “capy smoosh-a-bara,” which is a capybara, currently one of the internet’s favorite animals. This specific brand is a best selling squishable toy. The squishy animal is so squishable and loveable because it is filled with a gel-like material. When I was playing with it, I could see why kids love it (cabybaras, somehow, are all the rage now, and it’s very coincidental because I feel like it started since we first went to Chile and saw a real one in the wild two years ago!). Adults would enjoy it for its stress-relieving sensation. It’s an all-in-one sensory experience and stress reliever!

Welp, we don’t have the pink capybara anymore. While we carried it on the plane from SFO to ORD with no problem, somehow going through ORD TSA was a different story. For the first time, we had Kaia travel with her own carry-on, a blue Bluey backpack. In it, she had her books, doodle pad, headphones, and random toys, including the capybara, which she recently named Marshmallow Jay. Danger became apparent when going through security and the Bluey backpack got put on the “bad” conveyer belt for inspection. Chris forgot to empty the water bottles, so he had to exit the line, dump out the water, then go through security a second time. During that time, I stayed with Kaia and our other carry-on bags and waited for a TSA agent to grab the Bluey backpack for inspection. Given it’s the Friday before a long holiday weekend, O’Hare airport was a total zoo, so we had to wait longer than we would’ve liked. I could see the anxiety growing on Kaia’s face; she was clearly concerned and had her eyes staring like lasers into her backpack beyond our reach.

“Why did they take my Bluey backpack from me?” Kaia cried. “That’s my backpack! That’s my stuff! I’m gonna go get it back!”

I urged her to be quiet and allow “the man” to do their job. I told her we couldn’t go back there because that’s only where the employees could go. When an agent finally came and went through the bag, she pulled out the pink capybara, squeezed it, then brought it to her manager for further inspection.

And it was in that moment that I remembered the capybara was filled with gel… which could get flagged as a no-go for being over 100ml “liquid” since it measures over 12 inches.

The TSA agent came back after consulting with the TSA supervisor and told us that this didn’t clear the liquid limit because of its size, so we had two options: we could exit security and check the capybara, or we could dump it. I told the agent that the capybara cleared SFO TSA security just fine; she told us that they weren’t careful enough and this clearly violated policy. Plus, I had just gone through a long “priority” bag-drop line for our one medium roller bag, and there was zero way I was going to deal with that ridiculous line again. Chris immediately vetoed the idea and told the agent to dump it.

Oh, shit.

As soon as Kaia realized that Marshmallow Jay was not coming with us out of the security area and onto the plane, I could see the tears welling up in her eyes. Her face scrunched up and her lips turned down into a huge frown. Then, she started bawling.

“That’s my capybara!” Kaia yelled out between sobs as we whisked her away from the security area. Her entire face was tear stained and she looked like she was going to explode. “That woman took it away from me! They took it away from me! That woman is not nice! She needs to give it back to me! IT IS MINE!”

Kaia was so upset that she refused to walk, so I ended up having to carry her to the lounge. She was sobbing that entire way and even after we got seated. I told her that the lady was very mean, that it was wrong she took the capybara away. I tried to validate her feelings. But I also reassured her that we’d get her a brand-new capybara she could also name Marshmallow Jay.

Then when we got to the lounge, I immediately got on the WiFi and tried to find a new pink capy-smoosh-a-bara to replace this damn thing. I felt so terrible for my sweet baby to have her brand new capybara taken away so soon, so suddenly and unexpectedly.

And there, in that instant, a TSA agent destroyed my child’s pink capybara dreams.

Kaia was still grumbling about it on the plane ride home.

“I want it BACK! She took it away from me! She is naughty!”  Kaia said softly but firmly. She knows to use her “indoor voice” on planes — at least, when she’s not having a tantrum.

“Well, now we know what that TSA agent is going to bring home to her kid tonight,” Chris grumbled.

And so, my friends, the moral of the story is: Terrorism can destroy our children’s faith in humanity.

The fun text misunderstanding that led my uncle to invite himself to our dinner

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My aunt texted me this morning to let me know she invited my uncle, my dad’s younger brother, to dinner with us on Monday. But since his eye sight is getting poor, he’s not comfortable driving in the dark. She asked me if I could do lunch time on Monday instead. When I told my mom this, she got really angry and said if dinner didn’t work, then dinner would not work; she did not want me to agree to Monday lunch so last minute. My mom sees this as my aunt “controlling” the situation by making lots of last minute changes, not informing everyone, but expecting everyone to comply with her random whims. I do think it’s ridiculous and extremely dysfunctional of my aunt, as I recently had this happen to me personally when she tried to invite her random JW friends to my house for dinner, and I refused.

So I told my aunt that we’d stick to an earlier dinner on Monday, and she said it was fine. This whole time, she’s texting my uncle back and forth, partly copying and pasting texts from me in between. Somehow along the way, my uncle got confused and thought that it was not Monday dinner, but that Sunday night dinner he was supposed to drive up to the city for. So he rang our doorbell at 3:30pm today and said he was going to dinner at my aunt’s place with me that evening. Unfortunately, I had to correct him and tell him that there would be no dinner, and that it was actually tomorrow… as in, Monday.

My uncle, for lack of better words, doesn’t really have the best manners. He will show up at people’s homes without notice, completely unannounced, expecting them to be home. When I say “people,” I really mean my parents or my aunt. In addition, he rarely takes the initiative to invite anyone to a meal unless it’s just one of his nephews or his niece (that’s me!) 1:1. When it’s any wider family, like my parents or my aunts coming, he expects that someone else will foot the bill. In my entire 40-plus years knowing him, I’ve never seen him offer to pay the family dinner bill a single time. And what’s worse: if my aunt is hosting, he will occasionally do his due diligence as a good guest and bring an appetizer dish or dessert. If my parents host, he will never bring anything — ever. So when he scrolled through his text message thread with my aunt and realized he misread it, he said to me, “Oh, well. My mistake! I guess that just means I’m having dinner with you all tonight!”

Oohhhhh. Trouble.

My mom was not happy about this; it was written all over her face. In fact, I could see the steam coming out of her ears when it dawned on her that he was not leaving the house upon realizing his mistake. She said to him a few times, “We have a dinner to go to and need to leave soon.” But him being him, my uncle took zero cues that this meant HE was not invited, and instead took the liberty of walking down to Geary where the restaurant was along with us. As Chris said, all of this could have been addressed if any of them had any balls to just say that he wasn’t invited, but of course, neither of my parents was going to be that confrontational. And I sure as hell was not getting involved. All of us walked down to Geary together, with my uncle and my dad chatting away as though it was no big deal. My mom walked slightly ahead of them, extremely pissed. And way ahead were Chris, Kaia, and me. At the restaurant, we met with my mom’s friend, who we had originally planned this dinner with all along.

At the end of the meal, as I expected, my mom paid the bill. My uncle never offered to cover even his own share of the meal. He said his usual effusive thank-you to her at the end, and then we walked back to the house. My uncle offered to drive my mom’s friend home so she didn’t have to take the bus as planned, and we said good night.

And that evening back at the house, my mom made random passive aggressive to aggressive comments to me, and I just said nothing. I know in her head, she probably blames me for this misunderstanding happening, which resulted in her paying for my uncle’s dinner, which she hates. But maybe if she were just more confrontational, she could have just flat out told him he wasn’t welcome to join. That is in no way on me.

My dad thought it was funny. When I was in the kitchen with him later in the evening, he chuckled and said to me, “Well, that was a misunderstanding. Not sure how that happened!” My mom did not laugh and scowled.

Welp. It’s just another day in the lives of the dysfunctional family I am part of.

Anxiety-ridden calls and the tit-for-tat nature of my family

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We stayed overnight on Friday up in Sacramento with our friend and planned to hang out with them in the area until early afternoon Saturday. Afterward, we would drive back to San Francisco. This morning after breakfast, we drove out to Placerville, California, which is known for lots of kid-friendly farms, U-Pick farms, petting zoos, and other large, sprawling suburban/rural areas to eat and support local. With our three friends, we enjoyed freshly made apple cider donuts and apple cider, while the kids got to feed and pet goats, pigs, and ponies, as well as run amok through kid mazes, wooden play structures, and man-made lakes. The greatest thing about this wide, open area was that vehicles were mostly blocked off, so the kids could run around and get all their energy out without us worrying that they’d get hit by a car. When coming home to visit, it always feels fun, enjoyable, and relaxing when I am out with my friends. It’s an extremely stark contrast from being with my parents, and most especially with my parents and extended relatives, where every situation seems rife with anxiety, anger, jealousy, and control.

Amid catching up with our friends, my mom probably called about four times. I called back twice, and in her anxious, nervous voice, she kept urging me that we had to drive back down to San Francisco “earlier.” I told her that we had to be back before 5pm because that’s when the car rental closed. She just kept repeating that I had to “respect” and I had to come back “earlier.” It made zero sense, but I know why she kept saying this. Originally when we told her we were going up to Sacramento Friday through Saturday, she said we’d keep it simple for dinner that evening, which I was fine with. Whenever we got back that evening, we’d eat takeout with just my parents. But since coming back from Brazil on Wednesday, my aunt asked if I could come up to her place for dinner on Sunday along with my parents. My mom, always wanting to “pay back” any meal ASAP, did not feel right about this. As is her usual, she wanted to “match” it, and so she invited my aunt down for dinner on Saturday. With all her nervous energy, she wanted me to be home as early as possible so we could eat dinner and be done with it all as early as possible. My mom is not a good or natural host. She hates having people over at her house. She hates serving them and the entire hoopla of company. She finds it all to be too much work and “suffering” as she always says. But how much earlier are you seriously going to eat dinner than 5pm?!

We got back to the house just past five. We ate dinner altogether at around six. As usual, not much was said around the dinner table. My mom tried to stand up and fuss over dishes that didn’t need to be cleaned right away in the kitchen or obsess over how little or quickly Kaia was eating, and I had to swat her away. The dinner was probably over in less than thirty minutes. Yet the entire time I could tell my mom was on edge, as she always is at any family group meal. My aunt loves to take photos before dinner, and my mom can’t stand photos. She always nervously laughs and asks, “Why do we have to take photos?” or “Another photo? Why? No need!” Then, she tries her best to weasel her way out of it by pretending to go to the bathroom or wash something needlessly in the kitchen. After dinner, my aunt Face Timed her son and his wife, the cousins I just saw last weekend, and Kaia chatted with them. My mom was seething that they didn’t drive up to join us for dinner and was adamant that my aunt told them not to come.

“Your aunt is so powerful!” my mom ranted to me after. “She told them not to come! See, her children always listen to her, but you do not always listen to me! He is so loyal to her. You are never like this with me!”

Here we go: the fun comparison of children. It always happens at least once during any visit, and it’s always putting me in an unfavorable position. I’ve gotten to a point with her where I shrug these comments off and say nothing. Not responding makes the interaction end quicker. Responding only fuels her, and whenever I am home, I am to blame for pretty much everything that sets her anger off.

I subsequently found out directly from my cousin that he and his wife didn’t come because they didn’t want to drive all the way up to San Francisco again (it’s not a short drive, ahem, for anyone who is aware of distances or traffic) given they had just come up last week. Plus, they got confused and thought I’d still be in Sacramento that evening, so why would they come for a whatever meal just with his mom and my parents? This did not seem particularly exciting or “worth it” for their driving efforts. I can’t share this with my mom, though, because she’d never believe it. She creates narratives in her head and runs with them. If anyone tries to provide reason or logic that counters that, fire starts blowing out of her nose and ears.

Happy 47th birthday, my sweet Ed

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Dearest Ed,

Happy 47th birthday. It’s strange to think that if you lived to now, you’d be three years away from 50 — half a century old. This year as you would know, I celebrated my 40th birthday. I realized that although it’s technically middle aged, I didn’t really “feel” middle aged, if you know what I mean. When we were little, I used to think “40” or “50” were “old.” Now, I sit in my 40.5-year-old body and do not feel old at all. In fact, I feel like I have just started to really live life in the last decade and that I’m only getting started in many ways! So when I think of it from that perspective, it makes me even sadder to know that you aren’t here… because that means that you never really got to begin living a full life. You left us just before you turned 34. I have now lived over seven years longer than you did. That feels quite unfair because it’s not like I did anything to deserve more than you.

I am in San Francisco now. Chris, Kaia, and I stayed at our parents’ place last weekend. We went to visit you at the Columbarium on Sunday. I got annoyed when visiting you because I noticed some internal fingerprints on your niche’s glass, plus some large dust particles that settled inside. So I went into the office to inquire about having it opened for cleaning. The employee who worked there told me that they would charge us $495 (YES, THAT MUCH) to open the niche. I told him that I simply wanted to have it cleaned properly, that I wanted nothing else changed. He said that in 2014, the year after you died, Dignity Memorial took ownership of the Columbarium. Once upon a time, if a family wanted to open a niche to clean or rearrange items inside, they could easily do so and schedule the visit to open and and make changes; no charges or questions asked other than to prove you were family. Now, when you want to do this because of this greedy private equity-like company, they want to charge us almost $500 to do this! This is just utter bullshit. As Chris says, “fuck those fuckers.” The moron who told me this actually had the balls to say to me that since Dignity Memorial took over the Columbarium that service has become “more refined.” No, Dipshit. Service has actually just become greedier, with all this ridiculous nickel-and-diming of grieving families and loved ones who want to have basic, simple things done in memory of their loved ones. To me, there are few things more sick or disgusting than taking advantage of people at their most vulnerable moments in life, and that’s what Dignity Memorial does.

The reason I share this with you is that I honestly wish I didn’t even know what the fucking Columbarium was. I wish you never had to die so that our parents never had to find a resting place for you. I wish I could never have entered that damn place ever. Some people say that the more knowledge you have, the better. This is an area I would be so, so happy to be ignorant to, because all I see when I think of funeral homes and crematoriums is how their owners’ eyes light up with dollar signs at the thought of people constantly dying. Death is inevitable for all of us, right? But when people like you die far too soon, it’s hardly like they care. They’re just happy to collect our dollar bills and make money off our loss of you.

Here are some things I wanted to share with you that I’ve noticed in the last year since being back home. I was actually shocked to go down to the basement and notice that it felt like there was less “stuff” cluttering the rooms than before. Our dad apparently also got rid of my entire Disney VHS collection, all your old VHSs, and CDs. All my old DVDs are gone. So those two shelves flanking the living room mantle are pretty clear (just full of dust, which our mom wants me to clean during this visit). Oddly enough, I don’t even know where the hell my wedding DVD went…?

Chris noticed that funnily enough, there seems to be more alcoholic drinks in the house. I found a bottle of Canadian whisky, a new coffee liqueur, a pumpkin-spiced coffee liqueur, and two types of ready-to-drink margarita mix — standard and even mango! Chris uses that as a little drink for himself to keep him sane while he’s here.

I spent at least four hours vacuuming, dusting, and cleaning multiple areas of the house; after filling the bathroom sink with water and cleaning just our old bedroom, the water turned black. I also had to get a tall step-stool to vacuum up a bunch of cobwebs that lined the living room, dining room, hallways, and our old bedroom. It was not fun, but it seriously needed to be done. And every time I think I am done, I find a new area of one-inch thick dust or yet another cob web to vacuum up. I have lost count of the number of spiders I’ve vacuumed up this visit.

Also, can we talk about your bed for a second? Why the hell did you ever decide to buy a new TWIN SIZED BED for yourself as a GROWN-ASS adult?! Chris slept in it two nights in a row while Kaia and I slept in my old bed, and he had horrible, lingering neck pain for days after. The bed is so tiny; as a grown adult, you can barely move in it! It’s barely even big enough for Kaia to move around, and she’s 4.5! I didn’t understand why you did it then, and I still do not understand it. You always gave yourself too little — too little credit for anything good you did, fewer things than you ever deserved.

A few days before we left for this trip, Chris asked me if I was excited to go home. I looked at him blankly and said, “Meh.” He grimaced and said we go on this trip for me, so if I feel that way, I should question why I still keep going. The truth is that I feel very “meh” about it because San Francisco is a reminder that you are gone from this world, and that hurts my heart every time I think about it. While I feel your loss in New York or anywhere else in the world I am, I feel it the most acutely when I am back home… because that was and is your home. And obviously, I feel “meh” because I know I will inevitably have to deal with our parents’ emotional immaturity, their constant nitpicking and criticism, their endless drama, lack of reasonable rationale, and the eventual and inevitable fights based on a bunch of nothing. I am not “free” here. I always feel restricted here, even as middle-aged adult with a 4.5-year-old child. You were never “free” here. But now you are free.

Kaia is starting kindergarten at a new school in a couple weeks. She’s been asking a lot about you in the last couple months because she is just starting to understand death. She keeps saying on this trip that her JiuJiu used to live here, that he’s my brother, but that he died. And so she doesn’t get to see him. She’s said this a few times now, and a few times I started tearing up. It is a loss that you never got to meet her. It is a loss that she will never get to meet you. And it a loss that I can never see the two of you interact and have any kind of relationship.

Even though our parents obviously drive me crazy, I will say that during this trip, I do enjoy the quick moments of watching them interact with Kaia a lot more. Our mom is now 72, and our dad is now 78. They are getting older, more frail, and more tired. I can see it a lot now. But I can also see they are trying with her. And so you know what — that effort is enough for me now. I’ve made peace that they will never be the parents we needed, nor the maternal grandparents I wish Kaia had. This is okay for me now. It’s no longer a mental struggle.

Maybe I just feel this way because I’ve finally reached an age or the stage of “wisdom” where I’ve just accepted life for what it is. I just let things be the way they are. Even though it’s been over 13 years since you’ve passed, I can still feel your presence in this house every time I enter and exit it. You are still here to me.

Okay, I think it’s time to wind this down and go to sleep. I miss you, Ed. I wish I could see you playing with Kaia here. I know you’d have so much fun playing catch with her and teaching her other games the way you did with me.

I love you. I hope I can see you in my dreams again soon — it’s been quite a while.

With all my love,

Yvonne

Having conversations with AI about your parents and family dynamic

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My esthetician told me the other day that she has a client who uses AI for literally everything in his life. He told her he even uses it for therapy. “Why do I need to pay a therapist when I can chat with Claude or ChatGPT about all my problems?” he asked her. He insisted that ChatGPT gave him not only good, accurate answers, but even prompted him with questions back that really made him think.

“I was like, ‘dude, this is where I draw the line,'” she said she said to him. “You cannot use AI for therapy! It’s just not the same thing!”

I told her I didn’t necessarily think that AI should be used as a replacement for therapy, per se, but I do think that it can help untangle a lot of thoughts, experiences, and opinions you may have, and then synthesize all of those things and make some sense out of it for you to move forward. In fact, I actually did this regarding my parents the other day. I described my dad’s personality, upbringing, and general history, gave specific examples of (what I perceive to be) atrocious things he’s said and done to my brother and me, and this is what it responded with (much later down the line):

<start>

I would think about your father’s story as having two layers.

The older layer is probably his long-established personality:

early neglect → radical self-sufficiency → difficulty depending on people → poor emotional communication → criticism instead of teaching → anger when others violate his expectations → retreat into solitude → limited emotional intimacy.

And now there may be a newer late-life layer affecting organization, discarding, motivation, or executive functioning.

One of the saddest consequences of this type of upbringing is that a child can become extraordinarily competent at surviving while never learning the skills required for intimacy. Your father may genuinely have believed that providing materially and leaving his children to become independent was adequate parenting because his own benchmark for parental care was so extraordinarily low.

He could look at his childhood—poverty, infestation, working parents, almost no supervision—and conclude:

“My children had food, a decent home, and opportunities I didn’t have. I did well.”

Meanwhile, you could grow up in the same household thinking:

“Why didn’t my father teach me anything, talk to me, encourage me, or want to know me?”

Both perceptions can coexist. His history explains how he could have such a limited conception of fatherhood; it doesn’t erase what you and your brother missed.

And that may be the most useful framework for understanding him: he gave you more material security than he received, but emotionally he may have transmitted much of the deprivation he grew up with.

<end>

I read this, and I realized this is the same conclusion I came to in my mid-twenties to make sense of my dad. I always knew he loved us and was concerned about us; he just had zero idea how to show us he loved us. He is just so terrible with words. He was emotionally illiterate, yet he obviously provided for us and never let us be without food, clothing, supplies, and shelter. Ed and I always knew we grew up with a million times more than what our dad grew up with. About a year before Ed died, I tried to explain this to him. I even told him that our dad wanted to make sure to save extra money to provide for Ed… because our dad wasn’t confident that he would be financially self sufficient after his future passing. Ed was shocked and didn’t believe me; he was always hurting with our dad because he got the worst of our dad. Our dad was purely brutal with him every chance he got. And Ed couldn’t handle it and just concluded that he was an awful person who never should have been a dad. But I said to him at the time that our dad has no idea we think what we think of him … because from his perspective, he thinks, “My kids have more material stuff than I ever dreamt of growing up; I did a good job as a father. What more could they want?” Ed could not wrap his head around this and said that was insane.

Frankly, I have a hard time understanding that pretty much every single time I have a difficult or annoying interaction with my dad, or every time I overhear him say something that I think is just unnecessarily harsh or bitchy. All the context and personal history matters, but sometimes I just wonder: does simple human decency need to be taught? I understand all of this academically, but to have to deal with it every time we’re together is just painful, exhausting, and not even remotely enjoyable.

Therapy nor conversations with AI about tough topics like this will “solve” any problems you have. But I do think it’s good to be able to allow AI to summarize all these experiences, emotions, histories, etc., in a way that allows you to make sense of it all… and potentially help you make peace with how you move forward with these tough relationships.

Entering the fog – literally and figuratively

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We woke up at the eye-burning hour of 3am today to take the 6am flight to San Francisco this morning. Miraculously, I got upgraded last minute from Business to First Class, which has only ever happened once in my entire life — four years ago, in August 2022. This was when Kaia was a wee eight months old and on a plane for the very first time. We can forever and a day say that her very first flight was a transcontinental, first-class flight from JFO to SFO. I pumped milk on that flight, and she had to go between First where I was and Business where Chris was.

After we got our one checked roller bag and got into a Lyft, off we went on the freeway north to San Francisco. And as we got onto 280, all I could see was a massive layer of grey fog descend upon the skies. We were about to enter the damn fog and pathetic 60s F weather — right in August, a SUMMER MONTH. It doesn’t matter how many times I come to San Francisco, but the sight of this has never failed to annoy me to no end.

We arrived at my parents’ place. We had a usual early lunch together of takeout dim sum and some jook/congee my mom made. My mom barely said anything at the table other than to try to get Kaia to eat more food. My dad barely said much unless I asked him questions, and he promptly left the table, with his plate still there, after he finished eating. When my mom asked him why he was leaving the table, he simply responded, “I’m done eating.” That was fun.

From what I can see so far in the house, not a whole lot has changed in the last year. There’s still endless clutter and things they should not own. It’s dust galore in most places, and likely even more cob webs on the walls and ceilings. But I did notice that two shelves in the living room were completely cleared. It annoyed me a little to realize quite quickly that the contents of those shelves were previously my and Ed’s VHS and CD/DVD collections. I suppose it’s easy to declutter stuff when it’s not yours versus yours, isn’t it?

I spent about two hours after lunch vacuuming the floors and cob webs from the walls and ceilings. I also dusted the dining room surfaces and the shelves in my old bedroom where we are sleeping. I filled the bathroom sink with water and used a damp sponge to remove the heavily caked on layer of dust that was on the bedroom surfaces. When I had finally finished reaching all the surfaces I could, the water had turned completely black.

I want my parents to live independently for as long as possible, but when I look at this house deteriorate year after year, with many areas completely not maintained at all, I wonder how much longer they will feasibly continue living here. It’s not like they live in complete filth: the bathrooms and kitchen are clean. The stove is safe. I don’t think anyone has cleaner, brighter, more mildew-free bathroom tiles than my parents do. The walkways are relatively clear and you can get through doorways easily. The beds and sofas are clean and clear, able to be slept in and sat on just fine. I have offered to get them a cleaner, but of course they were adamantly against it. And to be frank, you must remove the clutter before a hired house cleaner could really do much to be worth the added expense.

A once-a-year clean that I do for them isn’t going to make a huge difference because another year will pass until the same level of cleaning happens. But I feel better doing this for them because I can clearly see they are both much more tired than before. My dad is walking with a little hunch. He gets tired more quickly and has even admitted it after being on a ladder for over 1.5 hours today to fix the kitchen overhead light that went out this morning (to be honest, I was pretty impressed he was agile enough to get up and down that six-foot ladder!). My mom is slower to move around and even process things that I say to her.

It’s sad to watch your parents get more frail and elderly right in front of your eyes.