There are a lot of things I will never quite get over: that racism and sexism are still things in the 21st century, strangers who want to control my uterus and sex life, how people cannot like sweets, veganism (there, I said it), why Chris’s parents are always so freaking happy, and how awkward my dad can be.

Here’s a snapshot of today’s phone conversation:

Dad: So, what’d you do over the weekend?

Me: I had a birthday hot pot dinner in Elmhurst with a bunch of my friends. We ordered a cake and celebrated there.

Dad: Oh, okay. Well, that sounds like fun. Wait, whose birthday is it?

Me: Umm…. it was mine. For my birthday. Daddy, don’t you remember it’s my birthday tomorrow?!

Dad: Well, yeah, I do remember. But why did you celebrate on Saturday instead of Tuesday?

Me: Because not everyone is available on a work night to celebrate and stay out late!

Dad: Oh… I didn’t realize that. Okay.

Dad will never quite get it. Sometimes, it’s cute and amusing. Other times, it’s just flat out exasperating.

There is something about coming back from a warm, summer climate to a sad, cold, and dreary winter climate that is so depressing. I just spent about three weeks in warmth and sun, and I am returning to 20-25-degree-Fahrenheit weather, snow, and big waterproof boots. Nothing is exciting about this. All these people in my Facebook and Instagram feed, complaining that they grew up in warm climates like California and never got to experience a snowy Christmas — you guys are so short-sighted and delusional. I have no idea why you think you were deprived. In fact, I feel sorry for people who had to deal with snow and all the disgusting aspects that come with it. It isn’t all fun and games and sledding and snow ball fights when you have to deal with snow chains, salting and shoveling snow out of a driveway, and flight delays and cancellations because of low visibility due to snow. Stop trying to romanticize snow. It’s not romantic. It’s sad.

So, you can imagine how excited I sounded to talk to my parents. Talking to them regularly means I am back in New York, as negative as that sounds. Today, my mom asked me, “So, are you expecting?” WHAT? No, I am not expecting. I am not pregnant. I will not be pregnant this year. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with expecting or getting pregnant. You are married and at the age!” she exclaimed. Why do you think I am expecting? I asked her. I heard you may be, she said, oddly. “Who in the world would you ‘hear’ that from?!”

In fact, she heard it from no one. She was just hoping. And she also said I sounded so grumpy that she thought I was getting mood swings from pregnancy. Great.

I am plagued with a negative subconscious. When I remember my dreams, which hasn’t happened much in the last month, they tend to either be confusing, conflicting, or flat out negative. Oftentimes I am having an argument, aggressive or passive with someone, and it’s not going in the direction I’d like it to go. Someone is dying in the dream or getting beaten or battered, or I am screaming for some reason.

Because my jet lag is always the worst coming back from Australia, I knew my first few nights of sleep back here would be disturbed, resulting in waking up every few hours. However, what I did not anticipate was that all of Chris’s dreams would literally be about fun and rainbows. In between small snores, he keeps repeating “wow, look at all the rainbows. Look at all the different colors. So many.”

It doesn’t seem to matter whether he is conscious or unconscious, but he always seems to experience better things than I do. Why can’t I have blissful dreams like that?

When we first visited Chris’s paternal grandma in Patterson Lake our first week back in Melbourne, she was so excited to tell me that she had bought a little present for me that she’d give to me later. As I looked at her sink, I noticed a little heart-shaped scrub sponge sitting on it. “Oh, Yvonne, I got one just for you,” she said, as she gestured toward the sponge. “It’s very useful and good for cleaning stains and spoons with the mouth (of the sponge)!”

His Nana looks at me and thinks of her grand-daughter-in-law cleaning for her grandson. As Chris said when Nana was not nearby, “Wow, it’s like we’re in the 1950s again.”

To be fair, it was sweet of her to think of me. I just wish it wasn’t with such stereotypical gender roles.

Nana actually picked one out in different colors for all of her granddaughters, plus her three grand-daughter-in-laws. My female cousins-in-law were not enthused as we picked out our little “surprise” gifts out of Nana’s secret bag this evening. We all feigned our excitement over this domestic gift and then went to the next room to laugh about it altogether.

“I told Andy, ‘Look at what Nana got us to clean our house together,’” one of them said to us. “I emphasized that it was a gift for both of us, not just for me.”

“Oh yeah,” the second one said. “Because all I do other than raise her three great-grandchildren is clean Rob’s house all day.”

For the first couple of years, I didn’t always see the very opinionated sides of Chris’s family, but it’s refreshing and a complete relief to know that not everyone is happy with everything.

The great thing here is that Chris’s Nana got to live to see her first three grandsons get married so far, even if she wasn’t able to make it all the way to our California wedding. The not so great thing here is that her mindset is still stuck in a time when wives were really just there to cook, clean, and care for the home and kids. Well, I guess in her case, she didn’t do much cooking or cleaning because she had hired help, but she certainly expects her granddaughters and grand-daughter-in-laws to be doing that for her grandsons.

Today, I spent a long time holding Chris’s cousin’s newborn son, who is just five weeks old. He spends the majority of his time sleeping, a good chunk of time feeding from his mother’s breast, and a small amount of time crying and pooping. What a life. I kept inhaling him and that incredibly fresh, powdery baby smell. Now, if only parenting could be that simple – just inhaling and enjoying the moment.

As I held this little baby in my lap, Chris’s mother remarked to Chris’s dad that it looks like I’d quickly adapt to being a mum, and I already looked like I was such a natural. Chris’s dad later pulled me aside to let me know. “As you can tell, Mum is trying to send a message,” he said with a little chuckle.

It’s easy to look like a natural when all you are doing is holding a baby when he is soundly sleeping. It’s all the crying and the poop and the sicknesses and the fussiness that terrify me right now.

This afternoon was Chris’s cousin’s engagement party. What was surprising was that her mother actually made one of the fanciest homemade cakes I’d ever seen. It was this incredibly tall, marshmallow-frosted white cake with intricate beading and lining, handmade red and white sugar flowers, and a chocolate fudge filling. The cake itself was moist throughout; I was completely blown away.

I asked Chris’s cousin’s mother how, when, and where she learned to do this type of cake making; I had no idea she had this talent. She said she hadn’t done cakes like this since all three of her daughters were young. Since she quit her job temporarily until the girls were around 5, she said she had a lot of free time after they’d go to sleep, and she got bored and missed adult conversation and interaction, so she decided to take up a hobby at the local community center, which offered cake baking and decorating classes. She became obsessed with it and started doing it all the time, and it got to a point where friends, church members, and friends of friends were asking her to make cakes for their birthdays, graduations, and even weddings, and paying her for her services.

Two things surprised me in this conversation: one, that she literally had this talent and hadn’t made a cake of this scale since the girls were that young (that’s 20+ years ago!), yet this cake still turned out immaculate and delicious; and two, that in retrospect, as a young mother she actually admitted to having a “lot” of free time, even with three children. Most parents of today think they don’t have enough time to do everything with just one child, yet Chris’s aunt thought she had too much free time and needed to consume herself with a new (and quite laborious and intensive) hobby with three freaking children and zero hired help. She said she enjoyed it, as it gave her another purpose and something else to focus on other than being a temporary stay-at-home mother, which oftentimes drove her crazy (as it probably would anyone).

That’s the thing about Chris’s family. Although they are certainly not without their own little dysfunctional bits, as every family is dysfunctional to some degree, somehow, what unites every individual in his family in my head is that every single one of them is so positive, always looking to new opportunities and ways to see the glass half full and not half empty. I’ll never stop being astounded by this.