Category Archives: family

Jet lag continues for the husband and the toddler, and the attempt to limit screen time for our toddler

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Chris has been pretty sluggish this week. He’s even been napping in the afternoons. Kaia has been napping occasionally at school… and then also almost falling asleep at around 4pm after a period of extreme quietness that the admin alerted me to. The admin was considerate of our need to get her adjusted and sleeping overnight, so she’d nudge her before she’d fall asleep and have her eat the usual scheduled supper before pickup at 5pm. We all knew Kaia was jet lagged, but it’s hard to force her to adjust since it’s just her body clock, and she’s only three years old. The concept of “time” at this age is a difficult one. The first few days of pickup, she’s been so exhausted that she refuses to even walk, so because I rarely take the stroller anymore for school, I’ve had to carry her myself several blocks. It was tiring, especially given she was feisty and almost like dead weight because she’s been falling asleep on the trains. She’s almost 30 pounds, so definitely not a little baby anymore! My arms have gotten an extra workout this week…

When she has been awake in the evenings, it’s been a little brutal. These “thrilling threes” have been full of even more intense tantrums, bigger displays of anger and frustration, and very few things, other then presenting chocolate or screen time, have seemed to consistently help. We did more screen time during our trip because of the long-haul plane rides as well as all the times we’ve had to sit in restaurants and finish our conversations and meals with friends and family, but we’re cutting it all off now that we’re back home. We don’t want to be those parents who just immediately give their kid screens to shut them up every single time they get upset. I was pretty unhappy when we were on our flight back to New York, and Kaia barely ate anything on the entire 14.5-hour-long flight. She mainly just had milk and cartoned apple juice (to my annoyance, this was her very first time experiencing juice boxes, which I’ve tried to hold off on for as long as possible since I want her eating whole fruit only). She was either sleeping or glued to the screen, watching Pepa. This was her very first flight wearing headphones and having sound with her screen time, which she was completely enamored by. The few times I tried to get her attention and block the screen, she got angry with me and yelled, “I can’t see! I can’t see!” (It’s also hilarious because she pronounces “can’t” the Austrailan/British way, not the American way). I do not want her to become a personality-less screen zombie in her youth. That’s one of my many nightmares.

Jet lagged toddler, jet lagged husband

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The last couple nights’ worth of sleep has predictably been broken. Kaia has lasted at most, four consecutive hours in her own bed before screaming and crying, taking at least three to four of her stuffed animals, and dragging them to our bed. Then, she’s been waking up anywhere between 3-4, wide awake and alert, demanding to be fed immediately.

“I want cheerios. I want milk. No milk?!”

“I don’t WANT mummy to sleep. I want mummy to GET UP NOW!”

“I’m hungry! I wanna eat NOW!”

A lot of demands, a lot of whining, and lot of “the world revolves around me” comments. ‘Tis the world of a thrilling three-year-old child.

The first night back on Sunday night, Chris woke up to Kaia’s demands for food. Because the apartment is absolutely freezing, unless we have the heat turned on in each room, the unheated rooms will be frigid. So, instead of setting up the high chair in the lounge area, Chris set it up in our main bedroom’s ensuite bathroom with the light on. That way, Kaia could get residual heat coming into the bathroom from our bedroom and actually see her cheerios, and I could get darkness while sleeping in my bed. As for Chris? Well, at 3am on Monday morning when Kaia was digging into her dry cheerios in her high chair in our bathroom, Chris was in bed, on his phone, digging into a bag of Australian All Naturals fruit gummies.

This was my world the last few nights with a jet lagged toddler and a jet lagged husband.

Family judgments and passive aggression

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At Chris’s and Chris’s cousin’s urging, Chris’s brother offered to host the wider family over at his place today for our fourth and final day of family festivities before everyone goes off and does their own thing until next year. The logic Chris’s cousin used was: it would be easy because we’d mostly be eating leftover food, and given we’d have a much later start (he asked everyone to come over at 5pm onward, as opposed to around 1pm onward for Christmas Day), he “wouldn’t need to do much” because we’d be playing games and chatting mostly. What no one actually did say in terms of effort, though, when it comes to hosting anyone over, is: you still need to… host. That means doing things like, doing what you can (in the leftover food situation) to tally and ensure there actually *will* be enough food); making sure you get everyone fed and hydrated, having adequate stocks of drinks, alcoholic and nonalcoholic; preparing and heating up the food; cleaning up surfaces and areas where leftover food could be; ensuring you have enough plates, cups, and cutlery for everyone attending. Chris’s mom panicked a little when she heard that her youngest offered to host: “He’s never hosted before. He doesn’t know what to do!” and when she asked him what he planned to serve, he responded, “Leftover food… and I can make everyone espresso martinis!”

It kind of panned out the way I thought it would: While Chris’s brother did deliver on making an espresso martini for everyone who asked for one, and he did provide enough plates, cutlery, and cups, he… didn’t do much else. As I expected, his mom took charge of things like reheating the food, laying out all the placemats and foods and ensuring people ate and drank, cleaning, loading the dishwasher, and helping people empty out their rubbish into rubbish bags. She spent most of her time looking preoccupied cleaning or rinsing or wiping something down that I came over a few times to remind her that she should sit down, relax, and eat, that this wasn’t her place. And she gave me this helpless look. “Poor Ben! He’s just all about his espresso martinis and just doesn’t know…” she said, with this sadness in her voice.

I refrained from saying this, but, no, he’s not poor. He’s so far from poor that he has no idea what the word “poor” actually means, in any sense of the word.

So, it was an interesting night at Chris’s mom’s house… I mean, Chris’s brother’s. And what made it more comical were some of the comments I heard Chris’s aunt make to me. Right before we started talking, I heard her ask one of her grandchildren to pass around the snack bowls that Chris’s mom had put together, because, “No one is passing out any food for anyone to eat. Can you go around and offer this to everyone?”

“Oh, just look at him,” Chris’s aunt said to me, with this half look of pity, half look of mockery. “He must not have ever hosted this many people in his life! You think he will ever find someone to marry? What do you think?”

I wasn’t sure if that was a rhetorical question, but I simply responded and said I wasn’t sure. Realistically speaking, how could anyone be sure who anyone would partner up with or marry or divorce or what? But it certainly felt like a jab not just at Chris’s brother, but also at their parents… for raising someone like Chris’s brother, who Chris’s aunt clearly was not very impressed with tonight.

Laksa station for Boxing Day

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Ever since late last year, when Hot Thai Kitchen published a video about how approachable laksa broth could be to make at home, I started accumulating a very pathetic, paltry collection of shrimp heads in my freezer, which are being stored in a bag. But I would really love to make from-scratch laksa, by making my own laksa paste. It’s easier said than done, not just from time and effort, but from the mere sourcing of ingredients. Candle nuts are an authentic ingredient used in laksa; they are hard, if not impossible, to find in the U.S. Prawn/shrimp heads are a must for real laksa broth, and unfortunately, in U.S. food culture, while Americans love shrimp, they usually have them with no heads and barely any tails. The prawn heads are where all the flavor is to make a delicious laksa broth. So when we were in Springvale in the first week of our time in Melbourne, I was in the spice aisle at an Asian supermarket and came across some promising laksa pastes. I chose one (based on the ingredients list/least amount of preservatives) and decided I’d make laksa at some point during this trip. As we approached Christmas, I came up with this idea that I’d set up a laksa station on the day Chris’s parents hosted. They hosted today, on Boxing Day (the day after Christmas), so I decided to set up my station: I pre-cooked some cut up chicken thighs, blanched snake (long) beans, tofu puffs, fish balls/fish cakes, bean sprouts, and Hokkien wheat noodles. I omitted the prawns since I figured we’d have enough protein. For the broth, it was really simple and quick: I combined the laksa paste with water and coconut milk, boiled, then simmered. And that was it! As family came in, I ambushed them at the door to ask them if they wanted laksa. They came to my station to tell me which components they wanted, and then I made each bowl to order. It was definitely a different thing to do, since usually on Boxing Day, we have leftovers all re-heated and set up potluck style, but I thought this would be fun to mix things up.

And it seemed like in the end, it was a hit: even Chris’s cousin’s three sons, who are picky eaters, all ate some component of the laksa station. Two of them even said they liked the broth and didn’t find it too spicy. One of them ate my fish balls…. although slathered in ketchup. But you know what? I think it’s a win when a picky eater is willing to eat anything new for the first time. I also discovered some of Chris’s relatives’ eating neuroses: One of them has a slightly paranoid hatred of tofu in any form (he asked me three separate times to make sure that there was no tofu in his bowl) and has passed it down to his daughter, who greeted me with the same paranoia when I told her I had a bowl of tofu puffs. Another relative refuses to eat prawns, and when she found out the broth had shrimp paste, she said she wouldn’t eat it. Then, she subsequently told me excitedly that she is going to Vietnam with her husband, cousin, and cousin’s spouse in early January, but while this may be new and exciting, she’s terrified of eating the food (“No offense,” she insisted, knowing half my heritage is Vietnamese). “I just don’t like eating things that are unfamiliar!”

There is something about serving food to loved ones that always gets me excited. A bunch of relatives kept thanking me and saying it must have been a lot of work. But to me, a bunch of blanching, reheating a pre-made, store-bought laksa paste with some water and coconut milk, and a little stir-frying of chicken actually isn’t too much effort. Sure, it took time to set up everything, but all good things take some time. These are the times it’s yet another reality check to me that most of my from-scratch cooking isn’t done by most people of today; I’m truly an anomaly, even among people who love food. A cousin had exclaimed how amazing it was that I went to the effort to make laksa for the whole family, and to order, and I laughed it off, saying it wasn’t even from scratch; I used a pre-made paste! And he responded, “Oh, no — you don’t understand: in my household, that IS ‘homemade’! You don’t even want to know what we eat at our house most days!”

I may do another laksa station Down Under next year, or another made-to-order station in the same vein. I found this whole thing really fun! We’ll just need to tell people to make less food next year to prevent food waste.

Everyone’s aging this Christmas… and every day of the year

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It’s Christmas day today, and Chris’s 43rd birthday. Chris has been telling everyone that he’s been loving his 40s and that his younger brother, who is turning 40 next September, should be embracing this new era of his life. Chris’s aunt and uncle hosted Christmas at their house. We did as we usually did and had lunch/dinner potluck style, so everyone brought a bunch of dishes to share. Given that we had a good chunk of the family away in Canada this year, there were fewer people to eat the food, so there was probably far more food than we really needed. In addition, some of the kids are slightly picky eaters, so Chris’s aunt made some plainer dishes like penne with tomato sauce and sausages in buns to ensure they ate.

Chris’s aunt just turned 70. She told me that she is feeling her age: simple tasks that were easy to do make her tired now. She has had her three grandsons over more often for babysitting because her older son’s place is undergoing some unanticipated renovations due to water damage; sometimes, she’s even had them overnight. She’s gotten stressed feeding them because they are so picky; one of them claims he’s allergic to vegetables or anything green. But she said that with age, she’s also realized she has to just let things go. “Let them!” she’s said to me about her new attitude when people say or do things she doesn’t like or she can’t stand. She said that there’s a podcast she wants to listen to that is literally called, “Let them.” His aunt said that hosting Christmas and events is tiring, but someone has to do it, and she still wants people to enjoy. So it’s worth it in the end. Though this year, she said, she wanted to make things a bit simpler and use disposable cups and plates. “It’s just one less thing to fuss over!” she said. If it’s easier for everyone, why not? Sure, it’s less environmentally friendly, but it’s just a couple days a year.

It makes me wonder, though, when it’s really our generations’ turn to do the bulk of the work for “hosting.” I think it really should be… NOW. Granted, Chris and I don’t live here, so it’s not like we could do it (plus, we already cook a big chunk of the dishes for the gatherings). But I think that given our parents’ generation is getting older and many are already in their 70s, it really should be more on us to do the work for hosting, whether it’s using our spaces (really, Chris’s cousins’ or Chris’s brother’s), setting up, organizing, laying out the food spreads, cleaning up. It’s why whenever Chris’s parents host, I try to do what I can to help set up, cook, and clean up. It especially makes up for the fact that their youngest son doesn’t do any of the above and just rolls in like he’s a guest. Sometimes, I can’t understand why it seems like everyone in the family of our generation is helpful when their parents host, literally every year and every time… except for Chris’s younger brother. Where did things go wrong here?

A well-meaning and loving mum-in-law / Suma

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I cannot count the number of horror stories I’ve heard from friends, colleagues, and in my different social media groups about people’s mothers-in-law. The common thing I always hear is that people generally always get better support from their own parents when they have kids versus their in-laws, who can, in some cases, even be oppressive. People have also just assumed this is the case with me, and I’m pretty quick to correct them. The sad thing is — I cannot relate to those sentiments. My in-laws are far more supportive with Kaia than my parents ever have been. When we’re in Melbourne, they’ve babysat for her a number of nights when we’ve gone out to be child-free. My mum-in-law does all our laundry, including Kaia’s. She helps with cleaning her up if she’s there when Kaia’s finished a meal. She pays careful attention (and I wouldn’t be surprised if she even took NOTES) to what we say Kaia likes and doesn’t like. She even thinks about things I don’t think about. During our first year here with Kaia as a baby in 2022, she bought baby/child-safe insect repellant for her since the mozzies can be quite aggressive down here. Back then, I was touched when she would roast and air fry vegetables for Kaia and prepare them almost exactly as I prepared them back home for her in New York; she carefully watched all the Instagram stories I posted about what I was making Kaia as a baby (my massive baby-led weaning feeding project) and did it all for her when we came.

This time on our first day, my mum-in-law baked mini banana muffins for Kaia modeled after the healthy snacks I’d occasionally bake her. She also asked her friend for her recipe for healthy oat-nut cookies that she’d bake her grandchildren, since she knew that Kaia loved having healthy cookies at home made by her mummy. When we arrived on our first day, she casually mentioned she had them in the cupboard and fridge for Kaia over our lunch. And I just felt floored that she’d go to this level of effort. She’d already made us this elaborate and delicious lunch to welcome us back, a low-sugar vanilla birthday cake for Kaia, and now she’s also made TWO additional healthy baked treats?!

I tell Chris this all the time, but I don’t think he or his brother appreciate his mother enough. She really does try so hard in so many ways. His mum has a really high level of empathy, and she’s always trying to do the right thing whether people appreciate it or not. The level of effort she exerts to cater to Kaia’s needs based on what she knows I want and prefer has been really touching; I was nearly moved to tears when she showed me the container of healthy, low-sugar oat cookies she made. They even had little chopped nuts and dried fruit in them. She’s been following all of my social media and trying to replicate what I do for Pookster while we’re staying at her home here in Melbourne. I could only wish my mom would go to even a fraction of the same effort, but instead, she would just insist her way is the best way and that I lack wisdom to know what is best for my own child.

Happy 3rd birthday to my precious little miracle baby

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To my sweet baby Kaia Pookie, aka Pookster, aka Hoji, aka xiao bao,

Happy 3rd birthday, my precious little. It’s crazy to think that exactly three years ago, I thought my uterus and vagina were going to explode when I was in labor with you. But somehow I didn’t die and made it through with flying colors, and out came sweet, affectionate, thoughtful, curious, cheeky, flavor-loving YOU.

Every day you surprise me with what you learn and absorb in this world: your massively increasing vocabulary and syntax in both English and Chinese, your thoughtfulness, your adventure seeking ways, and your love of travel in all forms, whether it’s on the bus, subway, high-speed train, or airplanes; your crazy good memory that remembers faces and names of those you’d seen ages ago, as well as who is whose mummy and who is whose partner.

My sweet Kaia Pookie — I have loved and appreciated far more about life and love since you literally plopped out of my body and into my world. It sounds ridiculous to say this, especially given how many women get pregnant and how many babies are born every single day, but sometimes, I truly feel astounded that I was lucky enough to get pregnant, carry, and birth you. There are so many people in the world who would love to be mummies and daddies and do not get the privilege or pleasure; infertility/sub-fertility are on the rise globally, and not a day goes by when I do not remember that or hear a related story that is affecting a friend or colleague, or someone else tangentially related to someone in my circle. Daddy and I were lucky on our IVF journey. Not everyone else is so lucky who embarks on that tumultuous road. That’s why every day, I know exactly how lucky I am to call you my baby, and for you to call me your mumma.

Motherhood is all at once the most infuriating (oh, your tantrums and strong AF opinions!) and most incredible thing I’ve ever done. But I thank you for giving me the privilege and opportunity to be your mumma – mumma to the cuddliest little globe-trotting tiny human I’ve ever known. I love you to the ends of this earth, my sweet baby. You will always be my baby no matter what — even when you are 5, 15, 50, and 100. As I tell you in Chinese every night before bed; Every day, mama will take care of you, protect you, and love you — always.

The sketch Wall Street pool where Kaia had a makeup swim class

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We were able to get a free swim class from Kaia’s swim school since they were doing a limited time promotion: if families upload an Instagram reel or TikTok video praising the school and our experience with them, then we can get a free class redeemable by the end of December. So on Monday of this week, after I picked Kaia up from school, we took the subway down to Wall Street to the makeup swim class location at a pool I’d never been to. The pool was located at Wall Street Bath and Spa. The directions to get there seemed a bit weird: Look for the Spa 88 sign between a sandwich shop and a dry cleaners. I saw the school sign and walked down a dark staircase with Kaia. We poked our heads into the place and asked if this was where the swim class was. They confirmed we were correct. We then walked down another flight of stairs, through a steamy sea of half naked old men, sipping away at their cocktails and beer and reading newspapers and books. I had to walk through this strange area just to get to the women’s locker room. But once I got there, I discovered it was actually a very fancy spa-like locker room, complete with complex hair styling accessories and even a whole shelf of pool-side sandals that I could borrow while on the pool deck. I was pretty happy about this since I had forgotten my flip-flops.

I thought to myself, what the heck kind of sketchy place is this? It’s supposed to be a Russian bathhouse, but given that about 99 percent of the clientele were all 50s+ old white men who were barely clothed, I wasn’t totally sure this was a child-friendly place. I spoke with the instructors of the class, and they said that they didn’t even feel comfortable walking through the place, so they set up a tent on the pool deck to allow their students to change into their swimwear inside. This whole time, they didn’t even know the locker rooms existed and that you just had to walk through the sea of half naked men! I had to show them that day!

The journey and experience were worth it, though. Kaia basically had a 1:1 private swim lesson given how few kids there were versus the number of teachers. This whole visit to the bath house just made me realize exactly how hidden and discreet a lot of these secrets spots are all over New York City, and that “if you know, you know,” and if you don’t know… well, you may find out given these strange and unexpected opportunities.

Last full day in Paris: beautiful food and floral displays, La Biblioteque Sainte Genevieve, and Place Vendome

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I don’t know how it seems like even the littlest displays of fruit and food are always so gorgeous here. There can simply be a florist shop on a street, and it will look like someone with a keen artistic eye spent a lot of time arranging all the flowers, pots, and accessories so that every object is just so to make the scene look perfect. Today, we ate at a cute little bistro called Le Petit Cler on Rue Cler, and on the same street there were endless little grocers, shops specializing in specific types of meats, seafoods, and other epicurean delights; each simple display looked like it could be photographed for a magazine. But all those foods, whether it was a display of fruit or a very earthy setup of mushrooms in baskets, all were edible and ready to be purchased, cooked with, and eaten.

There was also an architectural wonder I had on my list for a while that I never got around to: The Sainte Geneiveve Library just a block away from the Pantheon. The library is known to be a beautiful place to read and study and houses about two million historic documents that date back to the 9th century. What is crazy about this place is that as a student, you have to book a time slot and an actual assigned seat in the library, showing proof of your student status via a university ID. And any old visitors are not welcome at any time, as you cannot simply walk in. You have to book designated (and very limited) tours at specific hours, and the areas where you are allowed to stand/look are very small.

I didn’t do my research on this beforehand and thought we could just walk in. Alas, my timing was fortuitous because as I poked my head in to ask the security guard if we could enter, a library employee had just come back from her break. Without hesitation, she ushered me in, telling me in French that they usually don’t do this, but she’d make an exception for us given we were tourists from out of town. We got to stand in the same limited standing area overlooking the reading rows. And I looked up and snapped a few photos of the big windows, reading rows, and interior. And I remembered how I first learned about this library: the Boston Public Library, very well respected for its architecture both on the exterior and interior, was modeled after La Biblioteque Sainte Genevieve.

In the evening, after a last stop at the Paris Christmas markets, we walked through Place Vendome on our way back to the hotel for the night. Paris is one of those global cities that really takes Christmas seriously: all the department store facades were decked out in holiday cheer, and the plaza of Place Vendome and the shops that lined it were the definition of Christmas’s “merry and bright.” The lights twinkled all along the plaza, and it even had this beautiful children’s carousel with endless surrounding yellow and white twinkling lights, wreaths, and glittering Christmas trees.

While walking through the plaza, I actually thought about my mom and how even before she became a Jehovah’s Witness, she never enjoyed Christmas. She used to find the entire holiday a chore, from buying and wrapping gifts to making food to even having a Christmas tree with lights on in the living room. She used to insist that if she were sitting or lying down in the living room that the Christmas tree lights had to be turned off. She would complain and say, “They hurt my eyes! Shut them off!” So when she started studying to become a JW, it was an easy argument for her to completely nix any Christmas tree and lights. And while walking through Place Vendome, I just felt a little sad for her. Had she experienced so much trauma and hate in her life that she couldn’t find it in her heart to embrace this one “merry and bright” season of the year, especially since she knew her kids loved it so much?

But that’s why we learn from the past and try to create better experiences for our future. It’s why I’m so happy that I can create new family traditions for the own family I’ve chosen and formed and move away from all that inherited negativity of the past.

The Vietnam (American) War from the eyes of a Vietnamese person

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In my adulthood, I’ve tried to find more books to read that would educate me about China and Vietnam, my father and mother lands, that are written from the perspective of people who are actually Chinese and Vietnamese. It’s been a pretty big mix of movies, documentaries, fiction, non-fiction, and perhaps one of my favorite book genres — historical fiction. It’s been easier to find books on Chinese culture and the Cultural Revolution. It’s been more of a challenge to find books that are written on Vietnam’s rich history (especially the French colonial period and the Vietnam War) that are NOT told from an American or European perspective, but rather that of a native Vietnamese person. Then I finally stumbled across a book recommendation in my Modern Asian Moms (MAMs) group called The Mountains Sing by Nguyen Phan Que Mai. From the first page, I knew it would be an easy read, a real page turner of a book. And oddly enough, it was just published in 2020, so it’s a relatively recent book. Some people criticize the book and say the language is too simple since the book was written in English, which is the author’s second language after Vietnamese (someone on Good Reads actually complained that he had to look up words in a dictionary only a handful of times as a person who knows English as a second language… because apparently, that should be the barometer of “complex language”).

When I say the book was an “easy” read, I meant that it took no time to get into the story. It’s actually a really hard book to read when you think of all the brutal portrayals of hardship, death, rape, hunger, and exposure to Agent Orange and its effects on not just the people it physically touched, but future generations; one baby born in the book (this was a time pre ultrasounds) was born without any arms or legs; she had a forehead that was three times the size of her body, and she died within seconds of being born. But it made me realize even more how flawed the western portrayal of the Vietnam War was, as it was nowhere as simplistic as it was taught to me in school. There were people in the North who were recruited to the Southern Army and vice versa. There were many people who were pro French and actually reaped plenty of benefits of French colonialism. And there was a mass re-education camp that was like a prison after the war, which pretty much everyone on the Southern Army was forced into. The land reform of the 1950s created immediate violence and destruction across all of Vietnam; people who were wealthy were stripped of everything they owned and many were executed publicly and brutally.

I thought about what my mom said about growing up poor and the contradictions of the stories she shared. Her dad, my paternal grandma, died when she was only 6, from choking on his own mucus. But he was a highly educated man who was fluent and literate in both Vietnamese and Chinese. She said in her younger days, her dad was a respected “high official” in government. What that meant for her family once the war started, I’ll never know because my mom doesn’t like to talk about it. I don’t even think she’d like to know I’m reading books on Vietnam or the war at all. She seems to want to wipe all that out of her memory, which is not unlike many others who lived through that difficult period in Vietnamese history.

There are two protagonists we shift point of view from in the book: the grandma in the 1950s and her granddaughter in the 1970s. The grandma says, “Do you understand why I’ve decided to tell you about our family? If our stories survive, we will not die, even when are bodies are no longer here on earth.”

It’s the stories of our families, of our lives that keep people alive. And though I’ll probably never fully know my mom’s stories of Vietnam, I’ll have sources like this historical fiction book for me to lean on for at least a glimpse of what she experienced.