Second Child Syndrome

   One of my huge challenges as a mom continues to be that ever-elusive ideal of being "fair" - or at least being perceived to be fair - in how I treat, discipline, and raise my kids.  I know there are tons of books out there on child-rearing based on each child's "place" in line.  I've read and heard all too much about the pressures of the first-born, the middle-child identity problem, and the baby of the family always getting baby-ed.  I've researched (and by research, I mean read other people's blogs) about raising girls, what it's like to be a sister, and ask nearly every adult female I know who has a good relationship with her sister if their mother played a major role in that good fortune.
   I've lived my own version of "2nd child syndrome" - and by my own definition, that simply means: getting shafted.  My earliest memories of this is when I was 3: my parents had promised me a birthday party for my 4th birthday, specifically at Chucky Cheese.  My brother, Tim, had his birthday at Chucky Cheese so of course that's just what I wanted too.  Well my birthday rolled around and guess what?  No Chucky Cheese.  My grandmother had gotten hit by a car (right in front of my eyes), broke her leg and was in a full-legged cast.  The fact that I can remember that day 27 years ago leads me to believe I was traumatized by that incident.  I remember telling the police "No" when they asked if I spoke English and then rattling off my parent's phone numbers perfectly when they asked me if I knew it.  I remember my grandfather's worried face, my grandmother telling me it wasn't my fault (but it was - I dropped a toy in the street and went back to get it), and I remember the automatic doors at the hospital and wondering how they knew to open to let me in.
   The thing I don't remember is how I felt about it.  I remember being scared for a little bit when it happened but my grandma was so hardcore that she didn't even seem like she was in pain, so I stopped feeling scared.  I don't remember feeling bad, really, even though it was a pretty big event in the life of a preschooler.  What I do remember though, clear as yesterday, is how I felt when my parents told me that Chucky Cheese wasn't happening.  I remember where I was sitting and I distinctly remember feeling sad about it.  They promised I'd get the party the following year (which I never did get)....and it really took a good 10 years before I decided to drop it and move onto the fact that my brother always got ice cream cakes at the store for his birthday while I got homemade box cake for mine.
   Did it scar me for life?  No, not really.  Did I always feel like 2nd best after that and start noticing other ways I was getting shafted?  Yeah, for sure.  And that is my fear with my Megan - not because I worry she'll feel like she's behind her sister, but because I didn't try harder to prevent her from feeling that way if she ever does.  Obviously I realize some things just are the way they are - she obviously couldn't do soccer and dance when she was younger and had to watch her sister, while Kaylee never had an older sibling to look up to so she never knew what she was missing.  I know she'll watch Kaylee go through the "firsts" of many milestones before she does as I did with my brother, and I know she's going to need her parents to validate that her milestones and achievements are just as great in her life.
   Which is why I literally flipped out on my poor husband on the Saturday night before the Sunday "party" we were going to have for Megan.  Because our family was in town and her actual birthday was on a Tuesday, we chose Sunday as her celebration day.  I had planned a nice cake for her, some gifts, and just a day of making her feel special.  However, Saturday came and we spent the day at the park followed by 2 hours of trying to find a place to eat without reservations, and when I mentioned getting gifts for her after dinner at home, he responded with "Oh I figured we can go take her somewhere to pick something out."
   I should say, in Andy's defense, that he always, ALWAYS means well.  He never means to flick that switch in me from "sane" to "crazy".  But at that moment, I admittedly freaked out.  I was already mad at myself for not planning ahead and getting her a gift prior to that weekend when I had all summer to do so, not to mention I hadn't even started on her cake yet.  I imagined my daughter having nothing to open on her birthday, and thinking that somewhere in her little mind, she would remember her sister's birthday and how many gifts she got to open just 2 months ago. Memories of Chucky Cheese swept into my mind, my heart felt so heavy I could pick it up off the floor.
   No.  Megan is NOT going to have a Chucky Cheese moment.  Not now.  Not ever if I could help it.
   So I stormed out, went to Toys R' Us, Safeway, and Walmart.  I picked up a few odds and ends, and finally made my way back home 2.5 hours later.  I started the cake at 10pm, and it was completed by 4:30am.  When the sun came up, I drank some coffee and we started the day.

   Megan's celebration was indeed, a good celebration.  We started off by taking her to the mall where she got to pick out a Build-a-Bear as a gift from Andy's folks.  We had to remind Kaylee several times to not influence Meg's selection of what bear she wanted.  Apparently Megan was not used to this freedom because she spent 80% of our visit trying to pick out a bear on her own!

Megan's forced smile outside the factory

Lookin for a bear shell....

The most indecisive bear-picker I've ever seen.  

10 min later - we got a winner!

Meg steps on the pedal to stuff her bear...

....picks out a heart....

....warms it up...

...and stuffs it in.

Kaylee helps her give the bear a bath.

Registers the bear as "Fluffy Chung"

Waits patiently for Grandpa and Grandma to pay... 

...and gives them a big thank-you hug!

....and off we go!

   The party didn't end there!  We came home and I had the rare opportunity to nap with Megan on my bed, which I haven't done since she was a very young 2 year old.  It was especially nice because a) I felt so bittersweet cuddling up with my little girl who was, in my mind, a baby for so long...and b) I was so freaking tired.  Double win!
   On the way back we had stopped by a seafood market and got some crabs and mussels which we fixed up for an awesome dinner.

Megan imitating a crab

Ready to dig in!

Megan loved the cake!

   After dinner we presented the doll house my mom had brought for her and Kaylee, but at the time it wasn't set up yet so I don't think it registered with her just how great a gift that was.  Then she opened up another gift (Crocodile Dentist), and I sat there watching her face, wondering what she was feeling.

 

Look at that face!

   I saw the light in her eyes when she ripped the present open and held up the giant box.  Even earlier in the day when she opened her other 2 presents, she seemed happy but not really understanding of why she was getting any presents in the first place.  But I felt like - and it may be my imagination - that as the day went on and we did more and more things for her, she began to realize something like, "Hey, today is something special for me!"  

   It was only for a flash of a moment, but I definitely saw it.  Her face lit up staring at the box, and then she looked up at us and shouted, "Happy Birthday, Megan!!!"  At that moment my heart melted as I knew that I - that WE, her loving family and grandparents - had done it.  We had made her feel like a special girl, and while she may not have gotten it earlier that morning, I knew she would go to bed feeling like she was on top of a mountain. 
   That feeling literally only lasted for 30 seconds because as soon as we opened the box and saw the crocodile, she panicked and never touched it....and then I was hating myself again for picking the wrong present.  But, while it lingered for a moment, I loved every second of seeing that face of hers.
   I know that there is no way around getting past the challenges of making each of your kids feel like everything is fair.  I most certainly know it's an impossible task for parents to achieve and that the existence of a family hierarchy is very important in how kids develop as mature adults.  I know there will be times that Megan thinks her sister gets everything first and when Kaylee thinks Megan has life way too easy.  I hate that the rivalry will exist and that I may not recognize how or when to step in. 
   But I also am aware of this - Megan is so very loved by everyone who meets her.  She is adored by her grandparents and her sister can't live without her.  When she was born, she made our family complete.  She never complains about not getting something and is always so gracious by sharing what she has with her sister.  Megan has a heart of gold and a spirit so pure that makes me so sensitive to her feelings because I just know she will give more than she will take in her grown life.  She is a tough nugget on the outside but tender and delicate on the inside, and I have made it my duty to ensure nothing harmful can enter to harden that heart.
   As she starts preschool this fall, it is inevitable she will begin feeling those emotions that develop in the early life of a child that unfortunately, no one can stop.  I've seen it happening in Kaylee as she experiences new feelings like shame, resentment, anxiety, jealousy - all the negative things that kids will ultimately learn to understand as they spend more time with their little social circle of peers.  I am sad for Megan because I know in just a few short months she will start growing up and feeling those things too, just like I did when I was her age, and I know I can't stop her from growing up.  I just have to accept it.
   But at least, just for this birthday - I know I did my best and can be happy with that.  She's only going to turn 3 once, and for her birthday I just wanted to do something special before she loses more of her innocence.  I may not have given her the best gifts...but by the look of her face and her smile as I kissed her goodnight, I know I succeeded in giving her my Chucky Cheese.

Incognito Mosquito

   Poor Megan.  That's what we always say when we see her get bit by a mosquito.  Poor Megan.  Poor her.  Take what the average person experiences with a simple bite - a little redness, some itchiness, probably annoyance - and multiply that reaction by 5,000 and you've got yourself a Megan-reaction: a few hours of redness, then swelling, then more swelling, then some crusting over, then swelling in areas of your body that were no where near the original bite, then, even more swelling.  Not to mention the itchiness and general discomfort that comes along with losing function of a limb, some digits, or maybe even an eye.
   Yes, poor Megan.  Since she was just about a year old, my sweet little girl has been plagued with an unknown immunodeficiency that we just can't put a finger on.  It started as some strange outbreaks of hives on random parts of her body, and then it would slowly spread - and each time this would happen, I would take her in to the doctor's office.  She endured many visits to the clinic, many many throat swabs, and countless rounds of antibiotics.  The first time they told us she had Strep, so they prescribed amoxicillin and her symptoms vanished.  But sure enough, the hives would start again....either on her arm, forehead, or her body, and each time, the treatment was antibiotics.

   Then one day, she exploded into the worst anaphylactic reaction I'd ever seen - my little girl was unrecognizable as her whole body filled like a giant puff ball, both eyes swollen shut and her limbs barely fitting in her clothes.  I prayed and prayed as she wheezed the whole way to the ER and Andy even rushed home from Syracuse that evening to care for her the next day.  We were told by one physician that they suspected Kawasaki disease, a rare auto-immune disorder more common in Asian children, but the ER doctor apparently ruled that out and told us she had a penicillin allergy and treated her with steroids and Clindamycin.  
   It never got that bad again, but Megan made routine emergency trips to the clinic at least once a month after that incident.  At one point the doctor told me she had MRSA (methicillin-resistant Staph aureus), at another, mastocytosis (mast cell dysfunction).  At Walter Reed her case became the excitement of the infectious disease and allergy clinics, where doctors studied her like a monkey with 6 arms, referring back to their books and bringing in new people to consult with.  Last June, she had some weird lesions in her mouth that prevented her from drinking or eating anything for 2.5 days...not quite sure if it was Hand-Foot-Mouth disease or if the hives just invaded her oral cavity, but I just never could quite figure all this out.  She had me - and all the docs - stumped.  Nothing could be confirmed, and thus began my long and frustrating journey to discovering what it was exactly that was harming my child.

Just hours before her full-body swelling reaction

1 day post-steroids to reduce the inflammation

   We made several visits to Walter Reed, and the allergist there was skeptical about testing a child so young.  He nodded like he really cared and listened to us, and even gave long, drawn-out explanations for things I felt were irrelevant to why we were there in the first place.  He told us to take a log of what foods she was eating, but I knew in my heart that this was not the problem because I'd been doing that for months by then and no common triggers could be found.
   It became a regular thing for Megan to develop some weird rash at school, and her teacher would often text me pictures of it before I would text back, "Yes, please, 2.5ml of Benedryl, thank you."  I just hated having to medicate the kid like that.  But bless her school teachers for understanding that she wasn't infectious towards other kids....otherwise Megan would be well on her way to earning herself a DDS for how many times she would have had to accompany me to class.

Random hives at school

More random hives at school

   This year we discovered that Megan has some serious bad reactions to bug bites - mosquitos namely.  Just recently she got bit near her eyebrow, and her entire left face swelled to where she could not even open her eye any longer.  Andy nicknamed her QuasiMegan.

 
   Supposedly it's called "Skeeter Syndrome" - bad allergy to mosquito bites - and although I don't believe that was the original cause for all those outbreaks in her past, I definitely agree that she exhibits signs and symptoms of having this disease.  As if we needed confirmation, just two days ago she was bit again by a mosquito (yes, we definitely covered her in mosquito repellent and it still happened) - in exactly the same location, and sure enough her face began swelling with no signs it was going to go down on its own.  So we headed to the urgent care clinic yesterday and got her treated with a steroid shot - again - and today, she is doing much better.

Megan checking out her pulse ox

   Sometimes I feel like I'm peddling backwards trying to figure things out - I have researched hours and hours on the internet, in my textbooks, in my classroom lectures - and it's nearly impossible to piece everything together.  I even reviewed the inflammatory cascade pathways of all the mediators and factors that play a role in bringing about the reactions, as if that would magically bring a diagnosis into my mind.  I'm not sure if it's one specific disorder, or if it's multiple things acting together to make it present the way it does, or if this is the type of inflammation that studies have shown previews before signs of autism.  I'm not sure how serious her immune system is failing her, or if she just has super-freakishly hyperactive mast cells that she'll one day outgrow.
  BUT - and this is a big "but" - I do know one thing.  And that is - hands down, my Megan is one brave little champ.  She has endured so many needle sticks, pokes, prods - and has reacted well to various problems ranging the entire spectrum of the "happy / sad face" pain chart.  Just yesterday when she received her shot, we were told by nurse Lauren that Megan was her "best patient ever. Seriously." Meg just sat there, took her shot, barely glancing down at her leg where the injection was - then sat up and happily accepted her popsicle reward.  Lauren was super impressed, as was I.  Despite her random flare-ups - and some are really, REALLY bad - Megan has been surprisingly herself most of the time.
   Cheerful, carefree, and totally untroubled by these slight nuisances that have disturbed her early life.

QuasiMegan enjoying a bike ride

Enjoying her Pedia-sure popsicle

   Hopefully one day we'll get down to the bottom of this - it may be a while, but in the meantime, may we just say how very proud we are of our sweet little Meggie!  Hang tough, Champ!

Fitting In.

   On Wednesday night, I packed up all my triathlon gear, bike, and camping stuff and loaded it into the back of Andy's car and took off for the 2 day drive up to Burlington, VT (overnight stop @ Mom's).  I had made a last minute decision to sign up for the USA Triathlon National Championships after realizing that this may be my only chance (who knows if I'll ever qualify again?), so with the hubby's unfailing support to take a little "me" time, I paid the $150 registration fee in early June and officially made it my "A" race for the season.
   The trip up was fairly uneventful and I made it up to the quaint little town by 1pm on Thursday.  Earlier that day when I rolled up at my first rest stop in VT, I could feel all eyes on me as I pulled up Andy's shiny BMW in between two tractors parked in the service area.  I knew I (being Asian) and the car (being non-tractor) looked a bit out of place and I initially shrugged it off despite my general distaste of feeling like the oddball in any setting.  I had made reservations at the North Beach Campground (for $26/night to avoid the ridiculous $300 per night stay at the host hotel Sheraton), but when I arrived there to set up my tent, I got the same feeling that I was just going to have to endure a bit more glares from the RV dwellers and other campers nearby.  As I pitched my tent (perfectly, by the way) I whistled to Kelly Clarkson's "Stronger" while pretending I wasn't paying any attention to my neighbor who apparently was struggling with his tent as he flipped it upside down, inside out, and finally got another dude to help him out.  I could feel the eyes on my back as I unpacked my gear - I could only assume they were wondering what business an Asian gal had driving a Beemer to come rough it out in the woods.

It doesn't look that out of place, does it?

   I should have realized then that this was just the start to a big testing session of my willpower to control the manifestations of my minor social anxiety problem.  There, I said it.  Yeah, I have a bit of a problem when it comes to social (or in this case, non-social) settings where I feel like balling into a corner of the room (or forest) and recoil from all human kind when I feel the slightest bit discomfort and suddenly feel like I don't belong.  Sound a little dramatic?  Probably a little exaggerated, but still, I've always been like that and over the years I've learned how to fake the funk and just go with it. 

  As soon as I walked into the race expo at the Sheraton, I realized I made a major triathlete faux pas when I looked down and saw I was still wearing what I traveled in (yellow T-shirt, cargo shorts, and flip flops).  My hand instinctively reached for my head where, to my disappointment, I found my Old Navy sunglasses perched up on top instead of my racing glasses that would have at least slightly legitimized my attendance.  Yes, as I glanced around, the familiar scene set in to mind of all the other major expo's I'd attended - left and right, athletes whizzed by me, making it very clear that they were athletes and not just regular hotel meeting attendees, or tourists, or staff.  As if the gorgeous interior design of the Sheraton wasn't intimidating enough, the entrance to the expo ballroom was lined with tables of freshly squeezed lemonade drinks and a buffet of finger foods.  Of course I helped myself to some, but not before doing a quick 360 to make sure no one was watching.  Which later, I told myself was a ridiculous paranoia on my part.  What were they going to say? Hey, YOU! Snacks ONLY for people who spent $300 to stay here tonight. You dirty camper find your food elsewhere!"

Rooms at the Sheraton overlooking the indoor pool/spa.

This is where MY party's at. 

   So anyway, needless to say my stay was very short - I checked out my number, picked up my race packet and shirt, did one walk around the vendors, and shot out of the hotel (of course after helping myself to seconds).  I wanted to stay and utilize their free wi-fi and plug-in my phone to charge it up, but I decided I'd save that for the next day.

   After driving the bike course and admiring the mansions in Southeast Burlington, I settled in for run and admired the scenery.  This place was absolutely stunning.  I had started running around 7:15pm, and by then the sun was starting to go down.  I stopped by the transition area by the waterfront and was in awe.  New England was truly a beautiful place, I got caught up just sitting there watching the sun go down.  I felt completely at peace and forgot about how awkward I had been feeling before, that is, until a little kid passed me with his Grandma and asked her, "Hey look, Grandma! I saw a Chinese person!"

View of transition area from the top of the hill (that we have to run up!)

Start point for the swim 

Lake Champlain in all its beauty

   I met two guys that were camping next to me that evening - Paul and Josh.  We had some friendly chit-chat over the race, and since they both had competed the year before, I had a lot to ask about the course.  They had some good advice to give me, and I really appreciated it, and they even offered to join me for a bike ride the next day when I told them I was thinking about riding parts of it to get familiar with it.  Then the conversation went something like this:

   Josh: "Hey, so if you want some company, let us know, we know the route."
   Me: "Yeah sure.  So you guys fast?  What are your goals for this race anyway?"
   Paul: "Oh, well, I'd like to break 2 hours. I came in 3rd last year so maybe I'll win this year."
   Josh: "I just came back from that week long cruise so really, as long as I qualify again for Worlds this time, I'll be happy.  What about you?"
   Me:  Gulp.  "Oh, wow...WOW...alright.  Yeah, wahoo! Goals.  Awesome thing....awesome.  Yeah um.  Dang you know what?  I'm really tired so I'm gonna hit the hay...and I may be really tired tomorrow so that ride might not happen....ya' know....cuz I'm gonna kill it on race day...gotta save up...for...that...." Exit to Site #128 and zipper myself away.

   The next day, Friday, I set out with an early morning drive (in a vehicle) of the bike course while listening to my book-on-tape and munching on my Dunkin Donuts Meal #6 (Veggie flatbread).  Then I headed back to the campsite where coincidentally, they were holding the practice swim at North Beach.  It was supposed to start at 11, but by the time I got there at 11:05, parking was already quite limited and there were already 100+ people there suited up and in the water.  Once again, as I grabbed my stuff and started towards the beach, I suddenly felt the butterflies in my stomach again.  Now that everyone was in their bathing suits, I started feeling the self-consciousness set in as I looked around to see all the women with their rock solid bodies in 2-piece work out bathing suits, sporting their "TEAM USA" bottoms obviously to show the rest of the world that they were better than its other substandard inhabitants (and they were, so that's cool).  Others wore swim caps from their most prized triathlon experience....I saw a bunch of "IRONMAN", "Escape from Alcatraz", and other big name race swim caps, so of course I searched my bag and found my "Iron Girl" cap.  No one has to know it's actually a sprint...

Practice Swim

   As I showered after my short swim, I decided to head back to the expo because I really didn't get to see some of the things I wanted to see.  And this time, I was going to face my fear head on and spend as much time as I wanted there, dangit.  So I pulled my hair in a tight pony, found myself one of my old tri shirts (Philly at that...I cursed myself for leaving my 70.3 at home), donned my bike shorts (even though I was not biking), put on some sneakers and headed back to the expo.  And just in case there was still a question about it, I brought my race goody bag I'd received the day prior to sling around my shoulder.
   After walking around the expo and realizing I didn't have the money to buy a new bike or sign up for Ironman Miami, I decided to charge my phone and sit there, and do what I truly enjoy doing: people-watching.  And it was there that I realized that this feeling that I had harvested inside - of feeling completely insecure - was absolutely, 100%, down-right hilarious.  I watched as I saw a team of old 70+ year old ladies wheel their $4000 TT bikes in through the doors....the disc wheels rhythmically clicking, alternating with the tap-taps of their cleats bearing feet that were dressed in neon compression socks.  Each had on those ridiculous megaman helmets with the face shield attached to it, reminding me of the traditional Army pilot helmets and making me wonder if wearing them made them feel like they were so badass that they didn't realize they were 70.  I saw a couple come through the automatic doors with duffle bags and giant bike cases, of course covered with stickers "26.2", "13.1", "70.3", "140.6", "I TRI", "Swim, Bike Run."  They clearly came straight from the airport yet they were both wearing cooling arm sleeves, tri visors and spandex shorts.  I wanted to tell them they were "TRI-ing" too hard to let people know they were here for a race, and maybe they should put a sticker with their names on those cases because surely "Threesome?", while funny, would not give me a clue as to who to contact if I found this case on the side of the road.  I listened to small sideline conversations about the challenging bike ride at the Lake Placid Ironman, and other random people jumping in with "Oh the course was much tougher when I did it 4 years ago...."and I desperately wanted to interrupt with "Hey did you guys go bobsledding?  I missed it when I went because it closes at 6."  I saw proud parents, grandparents, and probably some second-cousins with custom T-shirts with "GO JOHN GO! SWIM, BIKE, RUN!! WE LOVE YOU!!"  And it made me wonder how much they saved if they bought wholesale instead of just individual shirts, and if it was one size fits all.  I noticed the older guys liked to wear sleeveless shirts to show off their Ironman logo tattoos, while the ladies often selected old race shirts from many, many years ago (my guess to show how long they've been in the sport).  I saw Garmin watches on wrists, people chompin' on GU Energy tablets, numerous jerseys with emblems indicating sponsorships, compression socks, fancy transition bags with buttons, stickers, and hanging stick figures swimming, biking, and running.  The list went on and on and on, and at the end of it all, I just sat there and laughed to myself.
   Why I had felt like such an idiot before was just beyond me.  Was I jealous?  Maybe.  I wish I could eat Hammer Gel for lunch and be satisfied with that.  I wish I was built like an Olympian and yes, I wish I could wear butt-padded spandex shorts to the grocery store and not feel the slightest bit self-aware of it.  Yeah, I could use another pair of compression socks and maybe I'll go with green this time, and I could use another battery in my dying Garmin.  But really, as I racked my bike later that day, and just looked at it staring right back at me, I realized something kind of funny.

  There was my bike, all by itself on a rack that would, in just minutes, be filled with thousands more surrounding it.  It is, at the bare bones, the basic model with no fancy upgrades or components, carried by the stock manufactured wheels.  As I looked back at this picture, it made me laugh because I knew I would come back the next day and struggle to find it amongst the sea of other fantastic bikes.  As a matter of fact, there are ton of the same bikes out there, just with different components and more expensive accessories.  But it doesn't take away the fact that this is still a bike - MY bike - one that I love just the way it is with nothing else added to it, one that supposedly my husband thought I earned when he bought it for me to replace my Trek roadbike.  I could care less what kind of wheels are on it, or what pedals are on there.  Even with my Trek, knowing that it was simpler than the others around it, I always knew that it is my hard work and effort that went into making it go faster, and I took pride in that whenever I passed anyone on a tri bike.
   I know it sounds cheesy, but before I left it there for the night, I patted it on its aerobar head and told it to not worry.  It may be alone for a little while, but not to get lonely.  Because when all the other bikes show up and it feels maybe not good enough just because it doesn't have fancy wheels, it's perfect enough for me.  And as I walked away and snapped this picture, I realized that I don't have to have anything fancy either...and as long as I do my part to do my very best, I'm perfect enough for me too.

A Good Memory in the Making

   When it comes to child-rearing, I'm afraid that the Chung clan has recently experienced a string of misfortunate events that has led to numerous scoldings, time-outs, and the much-dreaded 벌 ("buhl" - i.e. "arms up for an indefinite period of time.")  Of course, this is not something new as it tends to come and go in phases, but as the girls have gotten older and much smarter, the challenges upon the parents has also become significantly (and exponentially) more difficult as well.
   It started with the generic "not listening" phase, which includes not responding to their names, not answering when asked a question, and most irritating, not doing what they've been asked to do.  Then it expanded to "not listening to things they've known not to do", such as coloring on the walls, coloring on the couches, and taking sheets and sheets of stickers and placing them all over the house.  The final straw came one morning when I woke up (albeit, slept in) to hear my usually calm husband scream, "OH MY GOD!! KAYLEE CHUNG!!  People go to SCHOOL to learn how to cut hair!!! Did YOU got to SCHOOL to learn that?!? I don't THINK so!!"  Yes, my children had just gotten their pretty hair cuts the day before at the salon (costing me $30), only for them to become inspired to play Barber on each other the very next morning.
   That was a rough day for us - all of us.  The girls spent most of the afternoon staring at each other in their time out chairs with their arms over their heads, tear-streaked faces with one of them half-covered with her latest new short bangs.  As I sat there and reflected, feeling completely betrayed by my oldest daughter who 'knows better' and filled with anxiety with the thought that my youngest may actually be totally brainless (letting her sister have scissors that close to her head) - I realized deep down, it must be me.  After all, I've been saying "no this, no that, not today, don't do that...." All these NO's surely must be a factor of my laziness to reward good behavior, and so I decided I needed to revamp my system.  I put my Family CEO hat on and started to brainstorm ways to incentivize my children to behave, and moreso, to respect their boss's requests.  Ultimately, I don't want my kids to have any bad memories of their childhood when it comes to the fierceness of their punishments.
   We set some goals - I spent 6 hours making a new reward chart for their music lessons and planned practicing sessions, signed them up for a kids fun race, brainstormed some more "grand prizes" for their Behavior Board, bought new packs of "First Time Obedience Mints", and then sat down to talk to them about some of the things they have to look forward to with these new goals.
  
   Just this past weekend, I think I hit the jackpot.  Or, should I say, Kaylee hit the jackpot.  We have been trying to get her to swim across a 25m pool for some time now in order for her to be eligible to try out for the swim team.  I told her that I'd take her to a Build-A-Bear Workshop if she did the swim, and two days later she swam across a 20-yard pool at her swim lesson.  I told her she was getting close, and that we could go to FT Meade, where her swim team try-outs would be next month, and give it a shot.
   I wasn't really too hopeful that she'd do it - I didn't want to push her because I know she has some fear of the deep end, and the pool at FT Meade is actually really deep.  As much as I want her to be on the swim team for financial reasons (swim lessons are SO expensive!), I really had no intention of forcing the swim upon her.  If she wanted to try, then cool.  If not, she'd do it when she was ready.  She tried swimming from the deep end a few times and would stop and get flustered right at the halfway mark, so I turned it into a swim lesson and we tried different strokes and had some fun with it.  Finally after about an hour, Andy got us a lane to ourselves and he said something to her like "OK now you're going to swim from the deep end to here" - and she refused at first - and then he said something about the Build-A-Bear and she immediately got out of the pool ran around it to the deep end, and met me there as I told her I would be in the water right in front and facing her if she needed me. 
   The next 45 seconds (or was it a minute or two?) were pretty amazing.  I treaded water facing my daughter, who dove into the deep end and began her freestyle stroke towards me. I inched farther and farther back as she came towards me, and with each passing meter I would think, "She's got this!"  I was so surprised when we passed the half way mark, and then when I got to the shallow end where I could stand, I knew she was going to do it.  It's one of those "magical" moments that I feel so blessed to have been witness to in my daughter's life.  She grabbed the wall on the shallow end and came up with all-smiles, her little eyes beaming through her foggy goggles.  

   So that afternoon, Kaylee and I had a special date to the Build-A-Bear workshop in Columbia.  She picked out the most colorful bear against all my efforts to divert her to a more normal looking creature, and enjoyed every minute of this experience.

Kaylee picks out her bear.

Holding it while waiting in line to get it stuffed.

Kaylee steps on the pedal to start the stuffing machine.

Fascinated that her bear is getting filled.

Warming up the little red heart with her hands and later gives it a kiss. 

Puts the heart inside the bear before tying it up.

Bathtime for the bear!

Scrub a dub dub.

Picked out an outfit for her bear and heads to computer station to "register" the bear and obtain her "birth certificate".

Bear is in her home and Kaylee carries her out of the mall.

Outside, we dress the bear in her bathing suit and sandals.

Welcome to the family, Katie Bear Chung.

   Since Katie Bear has come home, she has played a very special role in Kaylee's life.  It probably won't last long, but she has joined us for every meal, been present for all our car rides, and spent each night in Kaylee's bed.  
   I asked Kaylee what made her keep going in the pool that last time instead of stopping, and she told me: "Well, I wanted to stop but when I looked up and saw the end, I knew I could do it. And if I stopped, then I wouldn't get my bear."  If my shoulder didn't hurt so much (injury), I would have patted myself on the back for thinking of such a great incentive.  I know this isn't about me, but I can't help but be happy with myself for thinking of something POSITIVE that actually worked in getting my kid to do something great.  Now, for the next prize - I told her that if she actually makes the swim team, then we'd go back to the Workshop and buy Katie Bear a new outfit.  As for Megan, she'll get a bear when she does her swim lesson and sits still the whole half hour.  That may be a while.
   
   The next time Kaylee does that swim for the try-outs, I know I won't be in there with her.  I don't know if me being there helped at all, but I'm sure at some degree it was comforting for her to know that she had a safety net.  For a moment while I was in the water with Kaylee, I was brought back to my own childhood when I was about 4 or so - and there is a distinct memory I have of my first time swimming to the shallow end from the deep end.  I was on the diving board and my father was facing me, and he told me to jump in and claimed that he would catch me.  Instead, he inched farther and farther back as soon as I jumped in, making me swim towards him, until I reached the other side and grabbed the wall.  I remember feeling panicked when I realized he wasn't going to catch me, and I still recall that fear turning to courage when I also realized my dad would not let me drown.  I remember seeing the little light under water, and thinking to myself "Just keep swimming and then I can stand."  When I think of that moment, I admit I get a little teary-eyed because I remember that day so well in my early life - it's one of the best memories I have of my dad.  The difference between now and then is that my dad tricked me into swimming, and Kaylee actually has an identifiable stroke.  But nevertheless, I'm thinking she's old enough to remember this for the rest of her life - and maybe, I'm hoping - I'll be a big part of that happy memory.

We Are Our Mother's Daughters

Mother's Day 2012

   For about a year now, Mother's Day has become my new favorite holiday to celebrate.  The first time I got to celebrate it in 2007 was kind of neat, but strange.  I had only been a mom for about 10 months and it was kind of silly to think that I was old enough to even get a Mother's Day card.  Then the years went on, and faithfully each May, I was showered with emails to wish me a happy day from friends and one year I even received a pretzel necklace from my husband who rushed out to get it for me that same morning.  (He has since improved his game).  I dutifully called my Mom and Mother-in-Law each year, sent the obligatory card, and followed up with my brother to make sure that at least one of us got it covered.  I never expected much on that day, but with each year that passed, Mother's Day began to take on a new meaning...and finally in 2011, I started to get it.
   That was the year that everything changed.  By that time, I had spent over a year by myself with the girls in a new house in a new town, creating a home after moving from our previous residence of 5 years. The girls had adjusted well to life with just Mom around, while Daddy appeared for a few days every other week.  They had challenged me more than I'd ever been before - and I'm not talking logistically (10+ hour solo plane flight with a 2 year old and a 7 month old), physically (carrying loads of groceries into the house....and 2 sleeping kids), or mentally (trying to figure out how I would best arrange my schedule to find time to study while they were sleeping or not paying attention).  Being alone with these girls had brought the absolute worst in me - I'd lost my patience way more and more frequently than I ever thought I would, I'd said things I promised I'd never say, and I'd behave more like a child than they were themselves.  I'd broken all the rules that I'd made up the day that I brought Kaylee home from the hospital: I'd never let my kids see me cry, I'd never fight with their Dad in their presence, I'd never ignore them when they really needed me.  I also never kept the promises I'd made when I moved with them: I'd feed them home-cooked meals whenever I could, I'd read them bedtime stories each night, I'd take the blame for anything that ever went wrong.
   What I realized - very quickly, by the way - was that I was far from perfect when it came to Mommyhood.  I alternated Chick-fil-a and McDonald's on a very regular basis, I put them in front of the TV every day as soon as we got home, and I most definitely shed a tear each and every time I would find myself doing an "Andy job" - be it fixing something or cleaning up cat throw-up.  I learned that I was irrational when stressed and that I had very little control of my behavior when I became overwhelmed.  I learned that I was driven by a false set of expectations that I had put on myself and realized as soon as I started placing the blame on my kids or husband that I was very wrong and that I needed to take a step back.  I had a lot to learn.
   During my time raising these two girls that year, I also can say the best probably came out of me as well.  Over the course of 18 months or so, I learned a new side of me that never existed.  I learned how to recognize my triggers, how to control my emotions, and what reasonable things to expect from myself and from my children.  I learned how to ask for help and how to build relationships with those who would continue to be there for me in my journey with motherhood.  I learned how to put my phone and computer away and instead spend quality time at the park with my children, and how much those 15 minutes would pay off in their attitude and temperament for the rest of the evening.  I learned all the lyrics to nursery rhyme songs and memorized the words to their favorite books so I could flip the pages without blocking their view.  I learned how to react to their emotional signals of tiredness or hunger instead of relying on my watch.  I learned how to read their need of a hug or a kiss when they were missing their Dad and were starting to act out in aggressive ways.  I learned that there is a difference in being a mother, and knowing how to be a mother.  And thus, the work began.
   Last year I realized that Mother's Day is the only day that I can celebrate because I damn well earned it. I DID something to deserve this day, unlike birthdays or Christmas when I just get presents by just being alive another year and being Christian.  I realized being a Mom means that your kid reaps all the benefits of your good hard work, while you get blamed for all your kids' poor choices....for the rest of their lives.  So if for one day a year you get to celebrate a big "Thank You" - then I'll take it.
   So this brings me to why I'm writing this long-winded post - to celebrate someone in my life who I never really properly thanked: my own Mother.  Like me, my mom was far from perfect.  I'm sure she also had similar goals as I did, and she broke a lot of them, too.  We had screaming matches with each other, she said some things I'm sure she didn't mean, and she certainly cried in front of me, too.  The funny thing is, while I was growing up, I stayed angry with her for those things.  I didn't excuse her, and I didn't find it acceptable that she was behaving younger than I was.  I didn't understand why it was so hard for her to say sorry, or why she would be angry for something that I did that really wasn't a big deal.  I would get annoyed at her for blaming me for her lack of sleep when she chose to stay up all night waiting for me to come home after a party, and I became more and more irritated at her irrational fears and found it insulting that she wouldn't trust me to choose my own friends.
   And here I am, 30 years into this life of mine, and each time I make a mistake I beg my children to forgive me for yelling, ignoring, or being mean to them because "Mommy's tired", or "Mommy's busy" or "Mommy's doing 'grown-up' work".  And I convince myself that they get it, and that they understand everything I'm going through and will excuse my poor choice of behavior, and that it won't affect them in a few years.  Slowly, gradually....I start to see it, the similarities that strike between me and my own mother, and I begin to see her differently - honestly, for the first time ever - as the Mother and person she really is.
   My Mom made the move from Korea to the States when she was (I think) 26.  I moved from Germany to the States when I was 28.  The difference is that I was coming back to where I was from, spoke the language, and I did it with more than $2000 in my pocket.  Before kids, my Mom earned a living by being a waitress while my Dad flipped burgers and they lived together in a trailer.  Before kids, I earned a living being paid to go to school while my kids' Dad did the same and we lived together as home owners of a cute little garden home at 23.  My Mom worked multiple jobs to fund my desires to continue on with gymnastics when I started competing.  I don't have an income and use my husband's to sign my kids up for gymnastics, dance, swimming, and soccer.  My Mom would take me to McDonald's on the way to the hospital to visit my Dad and not eat because she said she already ate at work.  I take my kids to McDonald's when I'm lazy and don't feel like cooking, and I eat a meal myself and sometimes with dessert.  My Mom would stay up all night before Halloween to sew my brother's and my costumes together, and do the same over Christmas to bake cookies for our teachers.  I would stay up all night finishing my favorite show because my kids' costumes were coming from eBay and their teachers got cookies from Safeway.  I cried when the toilet flush broke and Andy wasn't coming home for another 2 weeks.  My Mom cried because there was a flood in our basement and my Dad was never coming home.  I suffered from saying good-bye to my husband (who still visited) for the time he was away at grad school.  My Mom suffered from saying good-bye to her husband as she was burying him.  I was a single Mom for 18 months with 2 kids that weren't even school-aged.  My Mom has been a single Mom technically for 17 years with 2 teenagers (but 33 years theoretically since my brother was born).  I get my feelings hurt when my daughter tells me that she doesn't want to be my friend anymore.  I'm sure my mom got her feelings hurt when I blamed her for all the things that went wrong in my life.  There's just no comparison.

Megan's first birthday, 2010

My first birthday, 1983

   I always knew I wanted to be a mother one day - but I always thought I would raise boys.  It never crossed my mind that it would even be possible to have a girl.  As for having two of them?  I didn't think God would be so cruel.  My mother and I had this relationship that I thought automatically would send a message to the angels above who would immediately alert the Guy that it just wouldn't be a good idea.  But that's just how funny life can be.  I don't know if I would be the Mother I am and hope to be if I didn't have my girls.  If I'd had boys, I'd probably still blame my Mom because my situation would be "different."
   But looking at the facts - while things are vastly different (easier in my favor), they are very much the same.  Having and raising my daughters has forced me to really evaluate my own relationship with my mom.  As if having one wasn't enough, I'm given two opportunities to look at my choices when I am given a challenge and I realize that my mother would have done the same thing.  I realize my Mom wasn't late picking me up from dance because she was ignoring me - she was running errands or getting last-minute things done at work.  I realize my Mom wasn't purposefully missing my games or track meets - she had meetings to tend to and a job to do.  I realize my Mom wasn't unaware of my unhappiness - she was trying her best to let me fill in the voids with my own choices by giving me my space.
   In the end, we ladies are all our mother's daughters.  And my daughters are their mother's daughters. That's just the way it is.  At first I thought I was being punished for being a bad daughter by having a girl myself - twice.  But as time goes on, I realize all this is truly just a simple blessing.  There is nothing more a Mother wants than to see her children grow up happy and healthy.  And I think most Moms will agree that they don't expect their kids to "get" the sacrifices made to bring that happiness, but we can all hope that one day, they will.
   I won't be holding my breath anytime soon for my own children, but I can certainly say that I have a lot to be thankful for towards my Mom.  I get it, and I'm sorry it took so long, but I get it now.  But that doesn't free her from her Mom-duties.  I'm gonna need a lot of help in about 10 years when I've got 2 teenagers to deal with.

Misjudged

   Feeling like you’re being judged is about one of the worst in the world, and it’s one heck of a demon I’ve fought my entire life.  If I have any monsters in my closet, it’s that I have a fear of being judged – both for the bad and good.  I don’t care for people making assumptions on why I may be wrong or scrutinizing the ways on how I actually may have succeeded….it would be nice of the world to just appreciate people based on their effort and good intentions.

   However, we all know that’s not how it works and passing judgment and falling victim to it is included in our walks of life as interactive, social beings.  I got my first dose of it as young as I could remember – I was one of two Asian kids in my elementary school and from my very first day, that other boy and I were immediately “sittin’ in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”   Since then, and beyond the cruelness of young kids just poking fun just to feel better of themselves, I took the old cliché statement to heart: Don’t worry about what other people say, just worry about you.

   That might have helped me as a kid wearing sweatpants until junior high, it got me through some nasty comments about never wearing a dress to church as a pastor’s kid, and it sometimes still helps when I think I’m being judged for being the old lady of my class of all 20-somethings who has never gone out drinking to celebrate the end of a big exam.  But where it really stopped in its effectiveness is when I became a Mom. 

   Being Mom-judged can be healthy, but it can also hurt and when given at the wrong times, can pretty much knock you down to your knees.  It can make you feel proud when someone praises you for a job well done, but it can bring you to tears when you are criticized in a passive-aggressive way and can really make you question your abilities to parent.  See, the problem with being judged as a Mom is that as soon as you become one, everyone – including yourself – begins to pass judgment. 

   Four weeks into being new parents, my husband and I were criticized (albeit lightly) by our parents for “playing” too much with our baby girl in response to photos we sent them of her holding an X-box gaming console.  I can’t tell you how many stares I’ve received for nursing under a shawl in public (in Germany, of all places – where people do public naked baths at the community pool!), or how often strangers would ask me from the other side of a bathroom stall “Are you seriously pumping in this nasty bathroom”?  Then when I switched to formula as I began losing my milk supply, it turned into feeling like I was less of a mother because I could not make it a full 12 months on pure breastmilk.  “Ohh, well I breastfed all SIX of my children until they were one and a half.  You know they say breast milk is best for your child.”  I stared that lady down in the pediatrician’s office and wanted to scream at her, “Yeah, you’re right, lady! I want what’s WORSE for my kid.  You’re so much better of a mom than I could ever be because your boobs have far more endurance than mine!!” 

   As time passed on, the hits kept coming, and I got better at dodging them.  It’s easy when you know that you’re trying, and the outcome is just what it is.  Like when I do my girls’ hair all pretty and slick in the morning, only to drop them off at school to see that they pulled one-half of their pigtails out on the way there while rubbing that side of a head with a post-birthday party balloon lazily left in the car by Yours Truly.  I know what it looked like before, and it was a damn good hair-do, so to hell with it if you want to mess it all up and look weird all day at school.

   The times that it hurts is when you were completely unaware of your shortcomings, and when the “judger” truly didn’t mean to judge.  A few years ago when Kaylee was 2, her teacher pulled me to the side one day as I was picking her up and asked me if she was on a special diet.  I said, “No, what are you talking about?” and the teacher replied with, “Well, I am just asking because you pack her so little for lunch everyday.  And it’s the same thing everyday.  She’s always hungry and is always picking at other kids’ food.”

   It was at that time that I drove all the way home sobbing to myself, feeling like the absolute most horrible mother in the world, and worse than just me knowing it, all the teachers at her school thought so too.  Of course they thought that.  All she ever got was some chicken nuggets or a ham sandwich everyday.  All those other moms I later found out were stuffing their kids’ lunch boxes with all kinds of goodies – gummy bears, raisins, fruit cups.  I was damned to hell.

   I eventually got over it, and since 2009, I became slightly obsessive compulsive about how I feed my children.  I ordered a hugely overpriced lunchbox set from Pottery Barn Kids (embroidered with their name), and began menu planning.  In my mind, I had to set things right, and so I went to town planning all three meals and snacks in advance to make sure there were no repeats in an eight-day period.  It was insane, but I felt better.  I felt like I was finally a good Mommy.

   Lately, I got onto this kick of packing my kids some more “fun” lunches, Bento Box style.  I found some cute inspirations online and thought to myself how nice it would be for my girls to open their lunch pails to find an Owl Sandwich or Monkey Pancake awaiting their consumption.  It wasn’t really driven by any comments by any teachers – this time, the judging came from my own kid.  My oldest had confessed to me how much she hated staying at school so long, and asked me why I couldn’t be like the other Mommies who pick their kids up early.  “Why do I have to be there ALL day and go early, and everyone else gets to eat breakfast at home?  Why do I have to stay there and all my friends’ Mommies pick them up early?”

   So, again, I drove all the way to school in tears, filled with 100x more guilt than ever before.  I questioned my choice to go back to school, my decision to move the girls to a new school, and of course, my qualities as a parent.  Of course I knew dropping out of school wasn’t really an option - I’d already paid for two years of dental education which is equal to purchasing a nice house in the state of Texas.  So I set my mind on trying to make my kids’ lives more fun, more enjoyable.  Give them something to look forward to.  The only things I could think of at the time were A) more fun meals, and B) more activities outside of school.

   And so started my obsession with making animals out of lunch meat and punching Hello Kitty’s out of cheese and seaweed.  I began making some really fun meals for them and went to town with my creative side to see what new things I could conjure up.  I also spent countless hours at my county’s website researching sports and arts activities, and enrolled my daughters in dance and soccer.  They were already doing swimming and gymnastics, but in my mind, I could more for them.   I had to do more for them.  What I got back in return from kid-feedback was immensely gratifying.  My girls loved their meals and had so much to look forward to every day at their “boring” school for whatever activity we were going to do that day.

   The funny thing is, the judging doesn’t really stop, even when you think you’re doing A-OK.  Suddenly, I find myself paranoid and wonder if people think I’m being over-ambitious, or that I’m packing way too much in my kids’ days.  I wonder if my kids’ teachers think I’m just way too over-the-top with how many activities I have planned for them and that I’m going to burn them out.  I wonder if my friends think I’m too pushy with my kids because I’m teaching them piano, or if I’m being way too ridiculous with the amount of time I spend preparing their lunches.  I stop and think about how hard I’m trying to make this all work, and wonder how it can be possible that when you do so much just because you love your kids, that you can also be “wrong” for trying so hard? 

   I find myself judging a lot less now than I used to, and maybe that’s a good thing from where I used to be a few years ago when I was childless and utterly selfish.  I don’t hate on Moms who wear their pajamas to the grocery store, and definitely don’t criticize a tired Mom who tells her kid to shut up.  Sure, I can think of better choice words than those, but I understand where that’s coming from.  It’s hard, but I try not to judge a misbehaving kids’ parents for being negligent, or a sloppy kids’ parents for being uncaring.  When I see a Mom who is made-up well and super put together, I stop assuming she has six nannies and a household staff.  For every parent I see with their kid, I see something new these days – something between a mix of love and effort. 

I’m just working on not caring if others around me don’t necessarily see that in me, but I sure know that that’s what I’m made of.  I apologized to my kids the other day for yelling at them, saying that “Sometimes Mommy just….” and Kaylee finished for me: “I know you’re stressed, Momma.  It’s okay to yell, I know you don’t mean to.  Next time just try to talk about your feelings instead of screaming, ok?” 

  And that was that.  As long as my kids know I’m trying, I’ll be alright.