Category Archives: Love

Kaia jumps into the water

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On Sunday and Monday, Kaia had swim lessons on back-to-back days since we had to schedule a makeup class from last month. I took her to class on Sunday while Chris had a dentist appointment, and Chris took her to the makeup class on Monday. In the last month, she recently graduated from level 2 swim to level 3 swim, which some people remark and (half) joke that it could be considered more of a “graduation” for parents than the kids: once level 3 starts at British Swim School, the caretaker/parent no longer needs to be in the water with the child. The child has to clear several requirements, though, including being able to float on their back unassisted (the instructor keeps their hand under their back just in case) and being able to not cry/be content without the caretaker/parent in the water. 

Chris got a really good video of Kaia jumping into the water on Monday. The instructor asked her to jump in, and seconds later, without even a hint of fear on her face, she simply jumped in, then rotated onto her back on command from the teacher. Her usual teacher was doing admin work that day at that pool, but he’s in the background of the video watching. When she eagerly jumps in, his whole face breaks out into a huge grin. Clearly, Chris and I are not the only ones proud of Kaia Pookie! 

I played the video several times and marveled over her bravery and eagerness in the water, and she’s not even three years old yet. I feel so happy and proud that she’s done so well with swim lessons so far and that she’s quite fearless overall. I was never as lucky as she was when I was her age to have swim lessons this young. I didn’t even learn to swim until I was 15, and to this day, I’m still terrified of open and/or deep water. In my summer swim classes I took after sophomore year, I never graduated from free-style swim strokes to diving. So I’ve never properly learned to dive either. Even though I didn’t have those things, I’m so happy to give Kaia the opportunity to have what I didn’t have. I can live vicariously through my baby. And I’m also grateful she has teachers who are clearly passionate about her achieving swimming mastery. 

Matrescence: On Pregnancy, Childbirth, and Motherhood

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I recently started reading a book called Matrescence: On Pregnancy, Childbirth, and Motherhood, written by Lucy Jones. The term “matrescence” still doesn’t seem to be recognized by the dictionary in the year 2024, which is quite sad and pathetic considering time has evolved. Matrescence refers to the state of a person becoming a mother and all that this transition entails. I first heard of the term in a news article my friend linked to me, which I think was in NPR, about matrescence and how it doesn’t get nearly as much research, news coverage, or talk as it should. My friend sent this to me as she was sharing with me how much her body and her mind had changed after giving birth. She said it was hard to describe, but the way she thought about things and saw the world was completely different. She expected it to be different after becoming a mother, but she wasn’t prepared for exactly how different her perspective would be in her postpartum state.

A lot happens to a person when they become a mother, both mentally and physically, yet somehow, we’re all expected to just “bounce back” in every sense of the word after giving birth. Children do not give birth to themselves; mothers give birth to them, and that’s a very wild and intense ride, and for some women, can even be traumatic. To this day, the 25 hours I spent in labor from beginning to end was the most intense 25 hours of my entire freaking life; I doubt anything will ever top that – physically, mentally, emotionally. IT WAS BEYOND INTENSE. It is said that it takes somewhere between two to four years for a woman to feel like “herself” again after giving birth. Unfortunately, in the U.S., you’re meant to go back to work the next week, in six weeks, and if you’re “lucky” like me, in the next 16-20 weeks. So who cares if you are “yourself” again!

A lot has resonated with me as I am going through this book, but what I wasn’t expecting was this excerpt near the beginning:

“During pregnancy, cells are exchanged between the mother and fetus in the placenta. When the baby is born, some of those cells remain intact in the mother’s body. For decades. Perhaps forever. The phenomenon is called microchimerism. The exchange creates what the leading geneticist Dr. Diana Bianchi calls “a permanent connection which contributes to the survival of both individuals.

“Cells have been found in subsequent siblings, too. If you have a younger brother or sister, they may have your cells.”

I figured that something would likely be left behind from my baby after giving birth, especially given the role the placenta plays and how that also needs to be birthed out of you, but I didn’t realize that my baby’s cells could stay in me potentially forever. Nor did I ever think that any subsequent siblings would have their older siblings’ cells in them. But that then made me stop and think: Wow. That means that I physically have some of Ed’s cells in me. He actually is a part of me, and in more ways than I had previously thought or known. I always knew that a part of Kaia would be in me, and I’d obviously be in her, but Ed’s in me? But it gave me this sense of joy and warmth, as strange as it sounds. He may no longer be living, but he physically is still living on in me, through cells that I got from him through our mother.

I think it goes without saying that I am definitely enjoying this book.

Happy 45th birthday, dear Ed

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Dear Ed,

Happy 45th birthday. I wonder what you are doing to celebrate… another year not around the sun?

Guess what? I managed to survive the trip to San Francisco this year, and it was actually quite enjoyable, more so than the last one two years ago! It’s likely because I had very small windows to have one-on-one time with our mother, who would likely use the time to complain about our dad or me. But all in all, it went better than I expected. Our dad actually had small spurts of a minute here and there interacting with Kaia directly, after our mom would hiss at him to get off his phone (which he had, up to his face, almost every time Kaia was around), play with, and talk to her! Was it pathetic? Of course, but it was still more than I expected. Our mom took my words to heart when I told her that she barely spent any time with Kaia when we came two years ago and instead, always made excuses to go clean or walk somewhere. So this time, she actually did make an effort to play with and talk to her.

I took a photo of our parents’ yard. It looks just as awful, if not worse, than two years ago: completely overgrown, weeds galore, and turned over buckets and flower pots everywhere. At least Kaia enjoyed rummaging through it and searching for big sticks. The one tiny thing that my dad did to improve the room going into the yard was that he actually put in mini blinds (ugh) instead of those ugly black tarps used in cheap housing. At our family dinner the first night, our uncle was showing the family his flourishing orchids (you know, the ones our dad got me one birthday that he failed to take care of, so our uncle took them off his hands… and then now, so much time has passed that now, he thinks they were his all along. He denied that they were actually mine…!), and our mom makes these ridiculous remarks about how — of course he’s able to grow things in Pacifica because the weather is better there. The weather in Pacifica, as we all know, is the same or worse as in San Francisco. How about we just say what this is really about: one of them was able to put the time and effort into the flowers blooming, while the others didn’t and so that’s why they have the yard of shame? I didn’t bother taking photos of the inside of the house. I think the outside yard says everything about what inside looks like. It’s the house where nothing thrives or grows, just as that dream I had in my senior year of high school so clearly illustrated.

Our mom whined to me and said that she spent so much time cleaning the house before we arrived. I don’t doubt she did. I know she probably spent a lot of time taking care of all the bedding and cleaning the bathrooms. But honestly, with everything else, you could have fooled me. There was not an uncluttered area to walk in a straight line through, not even from the living room to the damn dining room. All table surfaces in every single room were completely covered. The few surfaces of my book shelf in the bedroom I could see were covered with at least a half-inch of dust, which I actually cleaned off (but they’ll never notice). She said our dad is filthy and never cleans anything. How did he get like this? He was once a minimalist and always throwing things away. And now, he hoards like the world is ending. Is this what old age has done to him?

Chris, Kaia, and I went to visit you at the Columbarium on Saturday. When we arrived, Kaia had to go to the bathroom, so Chris went to take her (with her little potty seat). And in those moments alone with you, just staring at your urn in your niche, I started sobbing. I felt so terrible looking down at you, knowing you weren’t here to see and hold and play with Kaia. You’ll never be able to see her, and she’ll never be able to see you. I felt like she and I had been robbed. It didn’t seem fair to me at all. You should be able to meet your niece and enjoy her company. Kaia should be able to enjoy time with her jiu jiu; that was the way life was supposed to be for us. And it isn’t. I also felt guilt I hadn’t come back to see you last year, but I honestly just could not stomach it as I told you. But it felt like in not coming, I was also abandoning you. And that made me think about all the guilt I felt about leaving home, and leaving you to rot there under the constant bullying and criticism of our parents. I’m sorry I was never enough for you. I’m sorry I could not save you.

I told Kaia it was your birthday today, and she said, “Happy birthday, Jiu Jiu.” She has seen lots of pictures of you. She even recognizes your face when I show her photos of you. I thought about going to the Golden Gate Bridge to see the suicide barrier this trip, but a big part of me didn’t feel I was ready to see it myself. A former colleague had messaged me about it late last year when the construction had completed. It made me happy to hear it had completed, but I also just felt sad thinking about you. Maybe I’ll go see it next year. At least that barrier will hopefully save other lives.

I’m getting older every day and aging without you, Ed. We were supposed to age and get old together. You’re eternally 33, and I’m 38 going on 39 soon. I’m not sure how this happened or why. Kaia will get older every day and not know what it’s like to know you, and that will always be something I’ll be sad about. Though I will do my best to have her know you as much as possible. We won’t ever forget you or pretend your life did not matter. You will always, always matter to us and live on through us. I love you so much and hope you are feeling peace.

Love,

Your little sister, Yvonne

Pandora’s box gets opened: the endless piles of letters from my middle and high school years

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A few months ago, one of my close friends from middle/high school said her mom was cleaning out her garage, and she noticed that there were two boxes with my name on it. My friend retrieved the boxes, messaged me, and asked if I could take them back the next time I was in town. I remember asking my friend to store these for me back in high school: it happened after a very painful and excruciating episode of my mom going through all my belongings (even my electronic files on my computer) and reading things that people had written me, as well as things I had written. My mom even went so far as to call one of my friends and ask what she meant when she wrote, “I don’t know how you deal with your parents.” My mom never wanted to have conversations with me about life or how I felt; instead, she always went through my things and claimed that she had a right to given that she birthed me, raised me, and put a roof over my head. We screamed and yelled. I even considered suicide for about a minute. I felt trapped in that prison of a house. I felt angry and violated, and I wanted to remove anything that could be spied upon or read far away from my parents’ house and in a place where they would be safe.

Fast forward 23+ years later, most of these letters and their contents are completely meaningless to me. Though there are a handful of funny and sentimental gems, nothing here could possibly be “used against me” today. Though I will say: I am truly amazed at the sheer volume and quantity of letters and cards from a number of friends who still remain and are close to me today. After spending a lot of time reading and sorting through old cards and letters this week from middle and high school friends, I realize that I’m really lucky to still have a handful of those friends still in my life in a meaningful way. As life goes on and people mature, have different experiences and priorities, move away and come back (sometimes), have intense jobs and have children, people evolve and grow apart. Yet, we’ve managed to stay friends and make the effort to keep in touch. Not everyone is as lucky as me in this regard. I went through the piles and piles of letters, each organized by the letter writer, and I could not count with all my fingers and toes how many letters (and even more pages) were all handwritten just for my reading pleasure. I admired the cute stationery (ranging from Tare Panda to Hello Kitty to various other Japanese characters I no longer know the names of) and the still-in-tact writing done by endless glittery and sparkly Sakura Gelly Roll pens (one of our teen obsessions!). Some letters were painfully emo. Others were more on the mundane side obsessing over SATs and grades. A handful were so heavy with then-current slang and Asian ghetto expressions that I could barely understand what the point of the correspondence was.

Of course, I couldn’t go through everything; to save time and effort, I immediately discarded all piles from former boyfriends, guys who were interested in me, and friends/acquaintances I no longer keep in touch with. Some of the letters were absolutely atrocious to read (oh, the teenage angst I had managed to block out of my memory all these years!), but some of them were truly endearing and laugh-out-loud hilarious. In one letter, my friend wrote: “You are like my mommy, always scolding me and making sure I stay in line.” I laughed to myself reading that.

I also had some cards from people I had completely forgotten about: a good friend of my mom named April, who she knew from work, would regularly send me very fancy (for me back then, anyway) birthday gifts every year along with a card. She gave me beautifully wrapped and packaged gifts, things like wallets and watches, in brands I never thought I’d ever own. In one card, she wrote, “I’m so sorry that I am late, but happy belated birthday!” I laughed, thinking, why are you even apologizing? You don’t need to send me anything or acknowledge my birthday at all! Then, there were a few birthday cards (which likely came with accompanying gifts) from my mom’s former boss Chris(tine), who she got along with very well. And lastly, some of my most treasured (and all beautifully handwritten) letters came from my sixth grade English teacher, Mary Rudden, who I still think of today as one of my all-time favorite teachers in the world. She was the one who made me feel like I had a voice, a real talent in writing and expression, and as though I actually mattered as a kid. I look back at my childhood, and I truly credit her plus two other teachers for my general confidence and self esteem. Adults who speak to young children like their voice and opinions matter can truly help children grow into good, self-confident, well-meaning adults who contribute to society. These are letters that I am definitely not tossing into the recycling bin.

The rest got ripped up and tossed into the recycling bin. I re-read them, wished them well and thanked them for their place once in my life, and bid them adieu. I don’t want to hold onto the past… well, maybe just a handful of them.

Potty training progress, Day 3

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Today is Kaia’s third and final day stuck at home, naked, before going back to school tomorrow, when we’ll send her with clothes on (obviously), “commando” with no underwear, no diaper… and lots of extra sets of clothes in the event of an accident. This is what Day 3 looked like:

Day 3: 8/5:

Pee:

Potty: 10 (5 consecutively right before bed…. Chris said she was “playing” me to delay bedtime as long as possible)

Floor: 0

Poop:

Potty: 1

Floor: 3 (2 small, one big)

She’d been holding her poop in since Saturday. On Saturday, when she was sitting on the potty for a while, and we had assumed she was trying to pee, she actually let out a tiny poop. We found it, but she clearly had more to let go but was scared. It’s clear based on our progress while naked that she is happy to self initiate pees and loves peeing in the potty, but she is terrified of pooping in the potty. She let out two little poops on the floor throughout the first half of the morning. When she couldn’t hold it any longer, she let out a massive (ADULT SIZED) poop right on our floor by the dining table. It happened so fast right behind me that I literally was facing one way, turned for about five seconds, then turned back, and PLOP! There it was: the long-awaited, held-in-for-days, big, stinky long poop right behind me. And there was Kaia…. grossed out by her own poop, who had accidentally already STEPPED in the big poop and tracked it all over our floor and up her back. She kept moaning after she pooped it out: “Ewww! Poop! Poop! Yucky! Don’t touch! IT IS GREEN!” (It was mostly brown, but yes… it did have a tint of green, likely from all the gai lan and yu choy she’s been eating). I immediately grabbed her, put her in the bathtub for a half shower, chest down. I proceeded to pick up the poop with tissue (it was so big that it required TWO pickups!!), dump it in the toilet, and then flush. And finally, I sprayed almost half the dining/lounge area floor with my sanitizing spray and scrubbed it like there was no tomorrow. Kaia watched the entire process, fully fascinated. And we kept repeating over and over, “Poop goes in the potty. Poop goes only in the potty. Poop does NOT go on the floor/steps/mummy/daddy/etc.”

So now the next question is: how do I get my sweet Pookster to NOT be afraid of pooping in the potty?

Giving away breast pumps and supplies – the end of a (motherhood) era

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This week, I took a look at my closets and decided that now was the time to finally give away my two breast pumps, their associated supplies, and my maternity clothes that don’t fit right now that I’m no longer pregnant. It was a weird feeling. At first, it felt uncomfortable, but when I packed them up and brought them downstairs to our security desk to facilitate pickup from eager members of our local Buy-Nothing group, I got over it. I always hoped to have another child, but I’ve come to terms with the fact that Chris won’t budge on his ridiculous “one-child policy,” and that unless I divorce him and miraculously meet someone else suitable ASAP, I’m probably not having another kid. So there’s no reason to keep extra stuff in our space for something that is a highly unlikely future.

It’s like a semi-official closed door to that stage of my life: recovering from child birth, breast feeding and pumping, and all the anger, frustration, tears, and hope that came with it. It’s a little funny to think about exactly how much time and energy I devoted to breastfeeding: the 1,430 hours over 14 months that I recorded having my nipples connected to a breast pump doesn’t even capture all the time that I spent researching, reading, testing, discussing, measuring, storing, and cleaning all my supplies. And THAT does not even include all the head space time I spent actually thinking and obsessing over it all. While there was a lot of pain and frustration during this phase, I also had a lot of highs and times when I’d stare into the fridge and be amazed at all the full breast milk bottles lined up. I remember the nanny phrasing my milk production and all the effort obsessively extended into feeding my baby. And for a few moments, I’d just look at all the bottles and smile, proud that my body was finally capable of producing so much milk… more milk than I thought I’d produce when that idiot lactation consultant at the pediatrician’s office insisted (with no evidence) that I had low milk supply. I’d daydream about potentially freezing the milk and using it for things like diaper rash or even in Kaia’s solid foods, like oatmeal or smoothies. It seems very far away now even though it was just over a year and a half ago when I weaned. That’s what motherhood is, though: lots of highs and lows that are quickly forgotten once you move into the next stage of your child’s development.

It’s okay, though. Although I do miss a lot of those moments in Kaia’s development and my own motherhood journey, I love her stage right now. I love that we can communicate in two languages, that she can surprise me with new things she can do and say every single day. I love how affectionate she is. I hope she is always this affectionate. I hope she always knows how much I love her.

After bedtime stories each night, I always say the exact same lines to her: “You are the best thing that has ever happened to… mummy. Mama loves Kaia more than… anything. Mama is grateful for Kaia… every day.” I also tell her in Chinese that I will always love her, no matter what. In the last two weeks, when I have said this to her before bed, she finishes my sentences with the last word. And it warms my heart. The very first time this happened, I teared up and just squeezed her and laughed, which elicited big smiles and giggles from her. I always said it her entire life, but I wasn’t sure if it was registering with her or if she understood me. But this just made my day the first time she did it. I just love my baby so much and am so grateful I have her.

Shared stories on the playground: when your child helps with another child’s daycare transition

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A few weekends ago, Chris’s parents and I were at the nearby playground while Kaia was playing. One of Kaia’s old classmates, who was doing temporary backup care a few days a week in her class, showed up with her mom, who I used to have some small talk with during pickups. Her daughter ended up going to another full-time daycare a few blocks away, so we hadn’t seen them since late last year. We chatted while our kids were getting reacquainted with each other and she shared a story that I had no idea about.

Her daughter was transitioning from being at home full-time with their nanny into being at daycare full-time, so her parents wanted to ease her into daycare at three days a week. Her adjustment was really rough: she said that for the first several months, drop-off was constantly torturous, and she and her husband seriously reconsidered whether daycare was a fit for their daughter at this stage in her development. But she did notice that when she’d pick her up and take her home, her daughter kept mentioning Kaia’s name, always while happy and smiling. She didn’t know who Kaia was, but she figured from the live video footage that Kaia must be the classmate that her daughter was always playing with. She shared that Kaia was always leading the way for her daughter, helping and guiding her, and she was the biggest reason that her daughter would be willing to go to school every morning. Every time she’d say Kaia’s name, her daughter’s face would light up and she’d get excited. She’d coax her with, “Remember? Kaia will be at school with you. If you don’t go to school, then you won’t see Kaia.” And this would motivate her to stop crying, get ready, and willingly go out the door each morning to school.

I was so happy to run into them and hear this story. If we hadn’t bumped into each other in the playground, I would never have known this to be true. But it warmed my heart to know that my own sweet baby was making life easier for others to adjust to new environments. I hope my child can be a little leader, one who sets good examples… and hopefully is not the bully.

In-laws and their quirks: on steaming vs. ironing clothes

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Every time Chris’s parents come visit, I can inevitably expect the same usual exchanges and things to happen: Chris’s dad will do a full recount of their entire journey to get to us, including details about the lounges (and alcohol) they enjoyed, the food in flight and overall inflight service, movies he had watched, and how comfortable his seat/bed were. He will talk about the ride to our apartment from the airport and whether he had any chit chat with the Uber or taxi driver.

Chris’s mom will marvel over any food I had prepared for them and eagerly ask if she can help with the food or cleanup. She will then try her best to wash and clean up as many things as possible. And eventually, she will ask me if I have an iron… to which my answer is always… “No, but we have a steamer!”

Then, she will say her usual comments about how a steamer is okay, but it’s not enough. While a steamer is able to get out wrinkles, it isn’t able to iron on those nice lines/pleats that she likes on her pants (to which my Gen Y brain would immediately think, “Who cares or even sees your dumb lines on your pants? DO YOU EVEN SEE THEM WHEN YOU WALK?”

When we moved into this building, somehow, I could not locate where my iron went. So I discovered the magic of a small travel-sized steamer and have never gone back. It is quick to heat up, it de-wrinkles in seconds, and it’s light and easy to clean up and put away. I realized that none of my clothes ever required an iron or any “lines,” and all my summer clothes that required heat would be cured by a steamer. So I’m fully in Camp Steamer over Camp Iron.

So, every year, I chuckle to myself whenever Chris’s mom asks me about an iron. Because I always know the face she will make when I offer my steamer…

Mother’s Day flowers in a dusted off butterfly vase

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Since today was Thursday, Chris did his usual Whole Foods grocery run after dropping off Pookster at school. He came back with groceries and bouquet of 16 red-orange roses for me and his mum, who will be back along with his dad this Saturday evening from a side U.S. trip to San Antonio, Texas. The flowers are in honor of Mother’s Day, which is coming up this Sunday. It will be the first and only Mother’s Day we’ve celebrated with his parents since Pookster has been around.

I unwrapped the flowers, trimmed them, removed excess leaves, and added them to a round vase. They dropped to one side clumsily, so I wrapped them with a rubber band so that they’d all stay together. Because the flowers do not “fill” the vase, they still all stayed on one side and looked a little depressed. So I went back to my closet and unearthed a slim rectangular butterfly vase that my friend had gotten me over 12 years ago when I was still living in Elmhurst, Queens. She said she was at a gift shop at a science museum back home, and when she saw this vase, she immediately thought of me and bought it. I realize that I hadn’t used this vase since I lived in Queens, so I decided to try these flowers out in the butterfly vase. And it was a perfect fit: the flowers fully filled the vase and all stood beautifully upright. You could enjoy both the flowers as well as the beautiful butterfly prints on the clear glass vase altogether. I added some ice cubes into the vase to keep the flowers fresh for longer.

I thought about all the shopping mailing lists I’m on for one of my email accounts and how this year, there seems to be more awareness about how triggering of a holiday Mother’s Day can be for some people. I’ve gotten at least four different emails asking if I’d like to opt out of Mother’s Day related emails and promotions; I don’t recall ever getting these before this year. Whether it’s because people have lost their mothers, have a difficult relationship with their mothers, or are actively trying to become a mother but have not yet succeeded, there’s a lot of reasons that Mother’s Day and the period around it can be a painful time. I’m fully aware of that since I was once in the shoes of someone who wanted to be a mom but hadn’t yet gotten there. And for my whole life, I’ve had a difficult relationship with my own mother… and still do. I see those who are struggling and their pain, even if they choose not to be open about it. I can fully relate.

“Ooh, this is good!”

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Kaia’s toddler selectivity continues. Some days, she will accept new food as though it’s the most delicious thing she’s ever seen or touched. Other days, she will simply turn her face away and say “no!” and refuse to give a new food a second look. Yesterday, we picked up some donuts and danish from a new spot we checked out in Morningside Heights. One of the items was a very well made, flaky cheese danish. We rarely give Kaia sweets, but we do give her the occasional bite or two of a croissant or pastry when we’re out. So we decided to let her try this danish.

She was wandering around the apartment and I asked her if she wanted some pastry. Her face perked up, and she followed me into the kitchen so that she could take a look. When I presented the plate to her, she took one look, then gave it some side-eye, and said, “no!” and walked away. Yet as she walked away, I made exaggerated motions and took a big bite, making “mmmmm” and “yummy” sounds. She stopped walking away, then inched closer to me, and finally she took off a pea sized piece of the danish and gingerly put it in her mouth.

“Ooooh, this is good!” she exclaimed, with a huge grin creeping over her face. “Tasty!” She then proceeded to rip off big hunks of the danish until she’d had about 80 percent of the entire damn pastry. I barely got three bites in and had to save two bites for myself at the end, insisting “Kaia ate it all” and there was “no more! all done!” And since I insisted she sit down on the kitchen floor and eat it, when she got up to leave and I wiped her face and hands clean, there was a humongous pile of flaky danish crumbs all over where she sat. Yep – that’s my life now – constantly cleaning, dust-busting, and wiping up after my toddler.

My love has not subsided around watching her try and eat new things. Whether it was when she was a wee baby at six months old just starting solids for the first time, until now, when she’s probably had at least 500+ types of food to date, I still love watching her facial expressions and hearing her verbal assessments, whether it’s through her “mmmms” or her “this is yummy!’ statements. She doesn’t always like everything, but when she does, it’s really priceless. Sometimes, I wish I could just bottle up each of her new food experiences and stick them on the wall to revisit and watch… over and over again.