Halloween Costumes

I knew it would happen. I knew eventually I would have to let the kids choose their own Halloween costumes. I was hoping I could get away with one more year of parental control. Alas, I had to give it up once they noticed me shopping online without them. (Damn, my window-hiding mouse finger just isn’t as quick as it used to be when I was working in an office!)

Click here to read one of our costume-choosing conversations. I say ONE because… well… it’s never that simple.

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P.S. I really am going to post more soon. Hopefully once Halloween is over and once some other (paying) projects are complete. There are some questions to answer! (Jenn, I will answer, I swear!)

Twins. People. Stupid.

Over at Parenting today: Twins Make People Stupid. (I know… clever title.)

This is moi sharing with vous some of the funny (okay, stupid) things people have said to us… Like asking if our boy/girl twins are identical. If you don’t know why that is funny (or stupid), you might want to go over and read. (I’m not sure why I’m mixing French in there, except that I don’t necessarily exclude myself from this stupidity so maybe I’m trying to sound smart.)

Click here to read. Stupid is as stupid does.

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Scene From A Car Ride

As the kids climb into the car after school today, Buddy spots a toy (courtesy of a Happy Meal, thank you very much) that he left in his carseat this morning.

Buddy: Hey look, there’s my toy!

Me: Okay, you can play with it for a little while, and then you have to share it with Bean.

Buddy: Um… Actually. I don’t think I can. I think actually I have to share it tomorrow.

Me: Actually, I think you can share it today. Play with it for a few minutes and then share it with Bean please.

Buddy: Okay.

After a few minutes, he hands it to Bean. Another minute passes, and a tidal wave of every compelling argument he has up his sleeve begins.

Buddy: Bean, you have to share.
…Bean, sharing is caring!
…Bean, see my hand? [extends his arm towards her] That means I’m waiting!
…Bean, just one more minute, okay? One more minute and then it’s my turn.

Bean: Um… I think ten minutes.

Buddy: No, just one minute, Bean.

Bean: Oh. Okay.

Finally, she reaches to hand it to him. I hear a piece of it fall in the box that sits between them. (Technically, it’s a diaper box — because *ahem* we are nothing but class, baby — that keeps books and toys handy.)

Buddy and Bean: Oh no!

Buddy: Where is it? [Searches all around him. Apparently inanimate objects can fly over his head and land on his other side.]

Bean: I don’t know. Where’dit go?

Buddy: There it is, Bean! [looks in the box] There it is!

Bean: Oh!

Buddy [huffing]: I. Can’t. Reach. It. Ugh… Help me, Bean! Can you help me please?

Bean: Okay. [huffing also] Buddy! Get out of the way, okay?

A few quiet seconds pass. Suddenly I hear objects crashing down. I peer in the mirror and see that Bean has lifted the box and spilled the contents all over herself and the car floor. She manages to find the missing piece amongst the rubble. Then holds it in the air.

Bean: Ta da!

Buddy starts giggling. Then laughing. Then guffawing. Big. Belly. Laughs. Which makes me laugh.

Bean [realizing Buddy is punchy, and not one to miss an opportunity with an attentive audience]: TA DA!

Buddy laughs even harder. Which makes me laugh harder.

Bean: Is that funny, guys? Guys, is that funny? …Ta da! TA DAAAA!

Being a parent to twins is so worth it when we get to eavesdrop on their conversations. I think about those months when I sat silently by myself, with no one to talk to while I changed, nursed, burped, pumped, repeat. They were all worth it. Just so I can sit silently now and listen to them carry on their own conversation. Really, there’s not a lot funnier than listening to your kids negotiate with one another.

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By the way, thanks to all you Mofos for delurking. And… um, hellooooo…

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Gratuitous Pics

Some pictures of the twins since moving here (mostly contributed by Awesome SIL. I’m surrounded by great SILs, I know):

*edited to remove most pictures to fend off creepiness

At Dad’s office:

When Bean first started talking, she would say, “I wub” instead of “I love.”

Bean & Buddy: I wub.

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Speaking of SILs, FingKASIL’s birthday was yesterday. Happy Birthday FingKASIL! The Caboose’s birthday was two days ago. Happy Birthday Caboose! We miss you guys. And we wub.

Fat-Bottomed Kids

Today’s post topic at Parenting: my heavier-than-normal kids. Yes folks, according to the pediatrician, the twins are officially not skinny.

Silly? Yeah, I think so. I mean, we’re not entering them in any boxing matches. Nor are they in training to be the next Kobayashi (next year Kobayashi, next year!). But at three-years-old, I guess their BMI is of some importance. For some reason. Not understood by me. Since I think they look normal. But what do I know?

I’m over here. Come on over!

Views

Over here today. To supplement my Dear AC post (obviously still on my mind) I wrote about the differences in all of us and, more importantly (to me anyway) how this subject pertains to our twins. I know… I don’t tend to let go of things easily. I’m a begrudging, petty kind of person, I admit it.

I know the ACs of this world will always have something to say because, as Dave said, they have time to kill, but I will continue doing my small part holding their foreheads while they try and swat swat swat me with their short, funny little arms. (My brother taught me that one. And he was right—when you’re on the other side, it’s kind of a lot of fun. See? That’s me. Being petty. Hi!)

Please join me over there if you care to. Thanks!

My Twinfamy Harlot

It’s Thursday, which means it’s almost the end of the week, which also means I’m over at The Parenting Post today.

In honor of Father’s Day, I wrote a little something for and about G and his desperate desire for twin-attention. Yes, folks—he’s an attention whore. So this week baby, it’s all about you. You turn into a pumpkin on Sunday at midnight.

Come join me over there. Thanks!

Wax On Wax Dull

My latest favorite line from The 40-Year-Old Virgin (because yes, I’ve watched it that many times—you gotta problem with that?):

“I like your sweater. Does that come in a v-neck?”

(My previous favorite line was: “You look like a man o’ lantern.”)

Here’s the scene, but if you don’t like immature and stupid humor with a large dose of cursing—which apparently, I do—I highly recommend you avoid clicking on this.

Paul Rudd. That guy is sofaking funny. (They all are, actually.) This has nothing to do with anything but every time I think of that line, I laugh. And today has been a freakin’ pisser of a day so I could surely use a laugh.

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Something else to force a smile—here is the current exhibit in our gallery, courtesy of Twin A and Twin B:

Happy Twins
Bean


Not-So-Happy Twins
Buddy
(If I read into this, I would say it’s Buddy conveying his need for space.)


“That’s my girl, Sabrina.”
Bean
(Aunt/uncle/cousin’s cat… and apparently, Bean’s ‘girl’.)

Self-Portrait
Buddy


Bean
Bean

Too cool to watch the beginnings of penmanship.

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That’s all I got today.
Excuse me now. It’s Happy Hour.

I’ve Been Watching Too Much Law & Order

Speaking of phobias, I have a very unhealthy phobia of kidnappers and ped*philes as I’m sure, everyone does. This phobia affects me to the point where I can’t sleep at night. And according to Oprah and The Secret, I am only going to draw these criminals right to us which makes me even more paranoid. So I try very hard not to think about it. But in turn just think about it more. You understand the cycle.

A few weeks ago, we went to a playground. The playground is sandwiched between two walkups, so the back of the playground (where the swings are) abuts the alley behind the buildings. When the twins first got on the swings, I noticed a guy with a bucket and mop standing under a deck next door to us. He was pretending to work (no idea what the hell the bucket and mop was for). A few minutes later, I looked over and he had moved directly to the opposite side of the fence, was leaning against the mop, and staring at my kids in a dream-like state. WTF? I looked at him, trying to catch his eye to say, “Dude, I see you.” He caught my eye for a second, and kept staring, i.e. he completely ignored me. Which made him even creepier. He stared the whole time we were on the swings. I couldn’t take it anymore and finally got the kids off. As we walked away to the other side of the playground, I noticed an older guy approach slacker-creepy-guy and reprimand him for standing around and doing shit (besides leer at little kids).

I panicked for a moment and asked myself, “What the hell were we thinking, moving our kids into a city?” Because according to Family Watchdog, there is an offender approximately every two houses around our neighborhood. (Warning: after staring at that website for an hour, looking at disgusting face after disgusting face, I didn’t sleep well for several nights.) Then I had to relax myself because I love this city. I love our neighborhood. I love it here already. And remembered a story my friend told me once about growing up in a suburb and how a man in a car approached her and her two sisters while they were playing in their front yard and tried to get them in his car (he was, thankfully, unsuccessful). I know, unfortunately, this shit happens everywhere. And I know a lot of people who grew up in cities who are fine.

I have my eye on my kids at all times when we’re in public. If I lose sight of them for a second, I FREAK. OUT. Because they are on the other side of the playground behind that stupid slide that’s blocking my vision. And twins, upon entering a playground, tend to run in opposite directions. So I avoid large playgrounds. Large playgrounds give me an ulcer and someday I will have a stroke and have those damn large playgrounds to blame.

We haven’t yet started talking to the kids about strangers. I’m not quite sure where to start. Bean waves to every single person on the street: “Hi boy!” “Hi girls!” “Hi dog!” We need to reign the girl in. My parents fed me story after story growing up, not so much about “stranger danger” but just about not trusting anyone in general. (It’s the Korean paranoia rearing its ugly head.) I want to try and avoid that. But at what age do you start telling your kids about the ugliness in the world? And how do you do it effectively? Every time I read about a news station putting a fake kidnapper in front of kids (all kids who have been taught thoroughly about strangers) to try and lure them away, the kids fall for whatever line the kidnapper gives them. So why are they not learning what their parents/schools are trying to teach them and how do I make sure my kids listen to and hear me?

And… should I have said something to Creepy Guy in Playground?

Kickass

Now that we’re (sort of) settling in, I am dedicating myself to getting my shit together and using my brain on things other than boxes and rearranging furniture and getting through to do lists. To start: this is a delayed response to everyone who has been commenting—thank you! I love seeing old and new commenters (who doesn’t?) and reading what you have to say; I especially loved reading what everyone wrote about their kids looking Asian vs. White (seriously—we need to start a colony). Love the group of online friends here I’ve never met! You guys kick ass.

So this is what’s on my mind lately: phobias. I’ve written before about my fear of birds, for which I have Alfred Hitchcock to thank. I know someone who has a fear of bicyclists—I believe because she was almost run over by one. G is freaked out by goats—because of a shower curtain he had growing up.

Lately Buddy has been scared of my hair dryer. Granted, it’s a powerful and noisy little sucker, but his reaction to it borders on ‘impending issue.’ The other day I was drying my hair in the bathroom and saw something out of the corner of my eye. Buddy was peering around the door. In a flash he scooted across the doorway and walked briskly down the hall. (No running!) Later, I had the dryer off for a moment and was just about to turn it back on when he walked cautiously into the bathroom and said, “Mommy, please don’t turn that—.” My finger, already at the ready, pushed the button on and he was out of there like he was being chased by wild hyenas.

(Shit, next time I need some peace and quiet I just need to hole myself up in a room with my hair dryer on and a stack of magazines! Who knew?)

Anyone else have any interesting/crazy/funny phobias? The most fascinating part to me is learning the root of them. My fear of birds is pretty nutty, I admit. Because besides picturing birds picking at my head, I also picture Fabio on the roller coaster. I remember when that was on the news, I turned to G and said, “SEE?” To which, I’m quite certain, he rolled his eyes. I mean, it’s Fabio, I know. But at least I’m not scared of goats.


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Here is where I share a few select recent interactions with the kids, because they are freaking funny. I know, this is SO mommy blog but I don’t care. I’m committed to my sappiness almost as much as I am to my cynicism. And I know I love reading about all your kids on your blogs and seeing their adorable pics. So here you go:

Bean, pointing to Buddy at the playground, says, “That’s my best friend, [Buddy].”

On a separate occasion: Bean, pointing to me, tells G, “That’s my best friend, Mom.”

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A few days ago I tell Buddy that he and Bean need to work out their argument over who-knows-what themselves. He leaves the kitchen, comes back a moment later and says, “Mom, I don’t want to work it out myselves.”

::
When G comes home from work, I am more-or-less ‘off-duty.’ We eat dinner, and almost every night at the end of the meal, Bean turns to me and says, “Mom, I’m all done.” And every night, I make a gesture towards G and tell her, “Talk to the Big Man.” Whereupon she turns to G and says, “Big Man, I’m all done.”

::
We are officially in the ‘why’ phase with Buddy. The only way to deflect the constant barrage of whys (per my very intelligent and f’ing kickass sister-in-law) is to offer an argument that makes no logical sense in his world. Then it’s like getting rid of hiccups; you wait for awhile in quiet anticipation, hoping it won’t start up again:

“Mommy, please I want to try that?” Points to my wine.
“No Buddy, I’m sorry, this is for me.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s my drink and you have your own drink.”
“Mommy, why?”
“Because you have your drink and I have my drink and Daddy has his and [Bean] has hers and we all have our own drinks.”
“Why?”
*sigh*
“Because if I let you drink it you will get drunk and pass out and then hug the toilet while you puke and you’ll probably get alcohol poisoning and later develop some toilet-related infection and then Child Social Services will come and ask me all kinds of questions and then the police will arrest me and I don’t want to go to jail for giving you some of my drink.”

[… pause… pensive contemplation… pause… then defeated acceptance…]

And we’re clear! (For a few minutes anyway.) Phew.


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Finally, on a more personal and cryptic note, this is for my other very intelligent and f’ing kickass sister- and brother-in-laws: good luck to you guys! We love you and we’re keeping our fingers crossed for you. We’re so glad to be here with you guys. (Now I feel like I’m signing your yearbook. So BFF and KIT and go kick some ass.)

Sofaking Blog

In an effort to clean up my language and get back into the good graces of the DDR Police, I’m going to try really really hard to be 2-legit-2-quit over here. (Or at least curse in code.)

My last post was over a month ago but I feel like I’ve been gone for twelve years. I followed the VT shootings on TV while I packed box after box, anxious to get back to everyone’s blogs, mourn for these victims, commiserate with fellow Koreans/Asians about the shooter’s background. I can’t even comment on that right now because it’s an entire blog in and of itself, plus I’m late on the news and won’t have much to add that hasn’t already been said anyway. But, I still have to add my condolences to all of those who lost loved ones and to the rest of us who didn’t, but mourn with you. I am deeply saddened for what those victims had to go through, what VT has gone through, and for all the families and friends involved. Truly, the courage and unity shown in the aftermath was inspirational.

Now in the worst and most awkward segue, I’ll move on to much lighter, much less-important crap about what we’ve been up to on my blog hiatus. I apologize for not making a smoother transition:

Sofaking Confused
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Before we moved, we took the kids and spent a night in Boston. First we took the kids to the MFA, where they recognized Degas paintings and a huge portrait of George Washington. A woman turned, surprised, to look at Buddy after he said, “Look Dad, it’s John Adams! Hey, where’s Thomas Jefferson?” (This is the kind of trivial crap we teach our kids strictly to entertain ourselves because they are, in fact, put on this earth solely to entertain us, you know.) While we walked down Comm Ave, Buddy kept telling us he wanted to go to Boston.

“[Buddy], we’re in Boston.”
“No, I want to go to Boston!”

We had no idea what he was talking about so after a minute of debating, we gave up. Later, his eyes lit up as he noticed some larger buildings in the distance.

“Wow! Look at all the Bostons!”
Oh shit. We’ve been living in the suburbs too long. He thought city buildings were called Bostons. Get this kid to a city, STAT.

Sofaking Tired
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Luckily, we did just that. After packing for two weeks straight (I don’t exaggerate when I say we packed morning to night while making our raggedy kids entertain themselves with empty boxes) and shutting ourselves off from the world, the movers came, picked up our stuff, and we headed west. Well, first we headed south to NY to visit my family. Then we headed north to upstate NY (or what we southern NYers refer to as Canada) to visit G’s family. Then we drove to Ohio to stay with friends of family. And finally, we made it here.

Sofaking Anti-Racist
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First order of business: get these kids into school for the fall. We are way too late getting our kids into a pre-K program in most schools. However, there’s an excellent program near our house, and I’ve been trying like mad to get the kids into it for September. The most fascinating and mind-boggling thing to me in this experience has been the little bit of extra attention I’ve/we’ve received due to our race. Shocking. I’ve never experienced anything like it. I knew some schools were looking for diversity, but because I’ve only really experienced the opposite (subtle but less attention due to my race), it’s a little bit shocking. Who knew that just showing my face would be such a positive thing? Seriously. Not used to it. Not sure what to do with it.

Sofaking Gentile (or Koreantile?)
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Second order of business: get these kids into camp. Mama needs a break. We enrolled them in the JCC Summer Camp program. Awesome. If you haven’t read about the theories of Jewish-Korean linkage, do so here.

Sofaking Not Ready for That Talk
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Our new place has been a chaotic mess. At one point, I had some pantiliners lying who-the-hell-knows where. G told me that Bean came up to him one day, holding one.

“Daddy, what’s this?”
“Ummm... that’s Mommy’s. Can you put it back please?”
“Daddy, is it for cleaning? Like this? I clean like this?” And she pretended to wipe something down with it.
“Uh... sure [Bean]. Can you put it back now please?”

Sofaking Embarrassing
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Until we get our bearings here, we’ve decided to rent for now (plus we still have a mortgage to pay until we sell our house). We have a lovely apartment near the lake. We also live on the floor above our very nice landlords, who are sensitive to noise and who warned us (indirectly through their broker) that they didn’t want noisy people living above them. They were somehow all right with us living here, kids and all, and after looking at some very disgusting fraternity-level apartments around the city, we jumped at this place.

The apartment has a very long hallway that just begs to be sprinted down, and it’s an effort in restraint with two three-year-olds. To assuage their temptation, we tell them that our landlords are sleeping downstairs. And that’s all they do. All day. Constantly. Sleep. Nap. Then sleep some more. They are very, very tired people. One day, G took the kids out for a walk. On the way out, they saw our landlord. Buddy, surprised upon seeing him, pointed and excitedly said, “Look! [M]’s awake!!”

Sofaking Restrained...
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Along the same lines, shortly after we first moved in, Buddy walked down the hall slowly with his hands in his pockets talking to himself: “No running. No jumping. No hopping. No stomping...” These poor kids.

... But Not
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However, we are within two blocks of two playgrounds, a library, too many restaurants, too many drugstores, many modes of transportation, and the lake. So we have a lot of running around to do outside. And we are loving every minute of it. The twins constantly tell us that they “love our new house.” Joy. Success. Relief.

Sofaking Experiment-Gone-Bad
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In Boston, they had their own rooms. That’s because at four months old, they were constantly waking each other up while I was constantly ripping my hair out (although it didn’t need much help at that time—did anyone else have chunks of hair falling out? Another thing other moms don’t share with you *grumble grumble*). So once we got here, we decided to let them share a room. Bad idea. We’ve since learned that Bean will do anything to try and get Buddy to laugh. ...Or cry. Whichever mood they’re in. And she will do it Lionel Richie style: All Night Long.

Sofaking Nice
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Midwesterners are some of the friendliest people I’ve ever met. Period.

Sofaking Pissed
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I’m still navigating the policies and politics of playground etiquette. I’m not sure if it’s because the twins are older and running with a different crowd/age group now but at times, I’m at a loss. At what point do you step in if the parent/caretaker is not paying attention to their child and try and assist-parent in the least obtrusive way possible? I don’t helicopter my kids; God knows with two, I can’t anyway. But if I see one of them not waiting their turn or potentially about to run over a smaller kid, I’ll go over and tell them they need to wait, or be considerate of the other kids around them. They’re kids of course, but they have to learn somehow, right?

Last week, a little girl had bubbles at the playground that she was blowing in Bean and Buddy’s faces. The twins happily started chasing the bubbles and popping them, at which point, the little girl yelled at them to STOP! They were HER bubbles! I looked at her caretaker (grandmother? nanny? I’m not sure) only five feet away, who was busy looking in a bag. So I asked the little girl if she wouldn’t mind sharing her bubbles, after all, she was blowing them RIGHT IN THEIR FACES. (Okay, I didn’t say that last part.) To which she adamantly answered, NO. They were HER bubbles.

The twins were frozen, uncertain how to proceed. So, I gently guided them to the other side of the playground and explained to them that the bubbles were the girl’s, and she didn’t want to share them right now. They hesitated for a second, then accepted it and slowly walked away. Then I suggested to the girl, as nicely as I could muster, that perhaps if she wanted to play with her bubbles and didn’t want anyone to pop them, that she could blow them elsewhere.

Honestly, I wasn’t upset with her—I realize she’s just a little girl—but I was sofaking pissed with her caretaker. Are you f’ing kidding me? You’re going to bring bubbles to the playground and expect other kids NOT to run after them and try and pop them?

Snickollet asked others what they thought about kids sharing... I understand under certain circumstances, it’s difficult for some kids to share. But if that’s the case, it’s perfectly acceptable to explain the situation. If the reason is solely that your child doesn’t like to share—I’m sorry, but what kid does? Shit, I don’t like to share sometimes!

In any case, this girl was perfectly pleasant up until she brought out the bubbles so I don’t think she had any problems with other kids or people. We were talking to her and having a normal conversation. And—go figure—we saw her again a few days later, and the twins played with her the entire time we were there. She and Bean bonded over their identical Dora sunglasses. And she was very sweet the second time around. But woman-who-was-with-that-little-girl: Listen up! Kids don’t learn to share unless they are taught. So please, get your act together. Or, don’t bring the damn bubbles to the playground.

(Sidenote: How am I doing with the cursing? Nah... I didn’t think I’d get far either.)

Sofaking Proud (and Sofaking Scared too)
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While I’ve been blog-MIA, the twins had a birthday. A very lame birthday by some standards, but figuring this is probably the last year we can get away with lame birthdays, we took advantage. And, they were perfectly content just going out to dinner and having some chocolate cake that got them so wired I felt like I had just provided drugs to my kids. They were in a different state of mind, I tell you.

All in all it’s been a good year for us. I’m so proud of our kids. They are well-behaved, well-mannered, sweet and empathetic, considerate and funny, reasonable and (in my obviously biased opinion) smart kids—all at the ripe age of three. Buddy’s laugh is contagious. Bean’s energy is exhilarating. I love these kids and sometimes I can’t believe they are my kids. A few days ago, I caught them hugging and saying to each other, “Oh I love you SO MUCH!”

Then again, a few days later I caught them—I suppose—wrestling and laughing, but in fact it looked like Buddy was humping Bean. Therapy, I tell you. Therapy for all of us. I just don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for this parenting gig. Dude. It was messed up. For reals.

And... back to Sofaking Confused
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The other day, Buddy looked out the window on a foggy day, frowned and said, “I don’t see any Bostons in Chicago, Mommy. Oh no! Where did the Bostons go?”


Sofaking Back
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Psyched to be here in Chicago, and psyched to be back to the land of blogging. Hope you all have been fantastic.

See you around the water cooler.

(Here are some pictures that the kids took with their sweet new cameras they got from Uncle A and Aunt B for their birthday. The first day they got them, Bean slid into the room on one knee, click-click-clicked, then got up and ran out. Paparazzi-in-training. You’ll see that feet and socks are a mild obsession around here, as are commercialized toys.)

Hapa Chameleon

Ever since the twins were born, G and I have had an ongoing debate; he has always thought that they look pretty white while I’ve been of the opinion that they look distinctly Asian. For almost three years we have debated this issue and each time it comes up, we are both incredulous at the other’s opinion.

About a month ago, I came across an article about half-Korean, half-British actor Daniel Henney. Being a natural hapa-phile (and kind of curious about Korean pop culture too), I followed a few links to read about him. On one forum, I found people who debated the same issue: “He looks Asian!” “He looks white!” Finally someone pointed out that he looks Asian when he stands next to Caucasians, and white when he stands next to Asians.

Ah-ha! It all made sense. I usually only see the twins next to G. He usually only sees them next to me. (And as narcissistic as I may be, we don’t live with mirrors lining our walls.)

Maybe this is obvious to other hapas… is it? Is this one of those things that hapas and their families already know? (And yes, I know, as a non-Hawaiian Asian that the term hapa should be off-limits… blah blah blah. Yes, we’ve hijacked it. Get over it. Please.)

Since I know a few other Asians with hapa kids (my brother, cousin, Cluttered Mom) I like to joke that we can start our own nation. Our kids all look different in the same way. I love it. So whether my kids look white or Asian obviously doesn’t matter. But when I read this about Daniel Henney, it made me feel like I got my first peek into the hapa world.

(I know technically a chameleon would look more like its surroundings, but I couldn’t think of a more fitting name.)

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On a sort-of-related note, last fall the twins and I were pulling into a playground parking lot. After I got Buddy out of the car and we were walking around to the other side to get Bean, I noticed a (white) mother waiting for her son at the playground gate. Her son was walking by our car slowly. He (clearly Asian and adopted) could not stop staring at Buddy; Buddy, who has quite a staring problem himself, was giving it good right back. I got Bean out of the car and the three of us followed the mom and her son into the playground.

Later, the mom and I were standing around the climbing structure, watching the little ones jump and creep and climb. She took a few steps towards me, smiled and said, “My son saw your son and said to me, ‘Mom, he looks like me!’” She told me how excited he was and that was the reason for his staring. Oh so sweet. I don’t know why, but it just made me want to cry and take him home with us. His mother seemed like a very warm and caring woman and it had nothing to do with her. I think adoption is a wonderful thing. Still… I remember how hard it was for my parents to relate to my racial identity crisis as I was growing up, and I have no doubt that—as hard as I try—there will be moments in my kids’ lives when I won’t completely understand their crisis since being hapas will bring on different issues that I will not completely relate to… but it must be that much more difficult for an adoptee’s adoptive parents to relate when they are two completely different races. And yes, I commend the adoptive parents for trying, that is for sure. But … so difficult, from all angles.

It was several months ago when we met that little boy, and I still think of him. He seemed so attuned to his race—our race—and he was only four. I often wonder what challenges he will face. And I wish I could know more about him and what his future holds for him.

Desperately Seeking Attention and Ass Wiping Advice

How often do you tell your kid(s) that they’ve done a great job, or are ‘special?’ According to this article, ‘College Students Think They’re So Special,’ we are raising kids who are narcissistic and becoming part of ‘Generation Me.’ I found one quote particularly interesting: “Current technology fuels the increase in narcissism,” … “By its very name, MySpace encourages attention-seeking, as does YouTube.”

At first, I agreed with this. But then… here I am. Writing in my self-indulgent blog. About me. About my family. About my completely unrenowned thoughts.

Like anything else though, I believe in balance. I’ll teach my kids the values by which I live (link to more eloquent post about this by Honglien) while also setting limits. The obstacle I worry about is their peers. Who are all these kids on MySpace who collect strangers as friends? I find it so bizarre. And because I find it so bizarre, I feel like I’m completely losing touch with reality. I don’t understand it. I don’t like it. I don’t want my kids believing it or doing it. …Shit. I’m becoming my parents.

I worry about the fact that I can’t relate. And I picture my kids rolling their eyes when I tell them my walk-ten-miles-to-school stories: “When I was your age, I made my friends in school! In person! You don’t know these people! I don’t understand why you want to talk to them.”

But then… here I am again. With all of you and this great community of strangers I have found online.

Oh.

OOOOOOH. Okay. Got it.

Being a parent is scary. Because I have to admit things to myself and to other people. I have to make sure I’m not being a hypocrite. I have to make sure they make smart choices and think of others, and that they are not narcissistic. Basically, it’s scary because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing and someday soon, my kids are going to realize that and then they’re going to show me who’s boss.

However, my belief is that telling your child he/she is special, or letting them have a virtual social life won’t make them narcissistic. What will contribute to narcissism is letting your kids get away with anything, giving them whatever they want, not setting any limits. Are there that many parents out there who do this that their kids need to have an article written about them?

Anyway. Is this narcissistic? Yesterday I turned on my webcam to iron my hair. That is, I USED MY COMPUTER AS A MIRROR. Okay, maybe not narcissistic, but I did feel like Narcissus. I also felt like a fucking genius, until I realized that… no, actually I’m just fucking pathetic. Because I wanted to be close to my IM and my email and my loverly concubine and my TiVo (close to my desk and currently in the running for Third Spouse). And if I don’t move soon my skin is going to graft onto this chair and then you’ll all be sorry when you are hit with more of my verbal diarrhea.

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Speaking of excrement… here’s an update on potty-training: we’re doing okay, actually. We’ve had very few accidents (I’m sure I’m cursing myself here). BUT. I could use a lesson in wiping asses effectively. Wiping asses must be on that list of things that other moms don’t talk about, like how breastfeeding can be extremely difficult and how fucking tired you will be for months after birth and I don’t care how much you love your baby(ies)—you are going to be ass-kicked tired and you will be Bill Murray in Groundhog Day living that unspoken reality over and over and over again.

Why doesn’t anyone talk about wiping asses? I got a good tip (I say good but we’re working on relatives here; we are talking about ass-wiping after all): have them bend over and touch their toes. The visual alone is seriously enough to go back to diapers. Plus my kids have beer guts and like to try and swing on my arm while I hold them over and my forearm starts to lose circulation and all the while they are asking, “See it? See my poop?” while trying to hang and swing and swerve and kick and twist around so they can examine their handiwork. Sometimes I give up and bring them back to the changing table so I can finish the job. Seriously. This is easier than diapers?

And what is with the poop fascination? Buddy took a dump last week and afterwards, both kids peered into the potty to examine his latest masterpiece.
Buddy: Look at my poop!
The Bean: Wow… That’s a big banana poop!
(Yes. It’s quite jaw-dropping that something like that could even come out of his body. I think it was taller than him and ready to play in the NBA.)

The other day, Buddy pooped again. Bean stepped up to the toilet, looked in and said, “Oooooooooh… That’s a-maaaaaaz-ing,” and then, “Good job Buddy!”

I liken this to one of those things I really don’t understand but have to accept. Like why all men blow their nose and then find the need to open the tissue and look at their snot. Like why all men, when sitting, find it necessary to lift a leg to fart. Like why all men burp and then like to blow it out of the sides of their mouths, usually in someone’s direction—which, I believe, defeats the whole purpose of this trick but they are so used to doing it that they don’t even know why the hell they do it in the first place.

Like I said. Just another one of those things I don’t understand.

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I’ll close this post on a much sweeter note, or rather, a less foul note. I just heard this exchange from downstairs:
Buddy: I’m tired. My tummy hurts.
Bean (runs up to him with sympathy): Do you need a hug?
*hug*
Buddy: Thank you, [Bean]. Thank you.

A few minutes later, Bean tries to come upstairs to retrieve something, but G calls her back down. She pouts on the stairs for a moment. I hear Buddy run by. She starts to head back down.
Bean: I need a hug. [Buddy], I need a hug.
He stops, returns, and happily obliges.

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At least they’re supportive of one another. For hugs or poops—they’re in it together.

Potty Training (Part Deuce)

G worked from home on Friday and has tomorrow off for the holiday, so we decided to take advantage of these extra two days and share this very enjoyable parental task: potty training.

Sweet Jesus, I’m exhausted. As I’ve indicated before, we hadn’t really gotten into this process quite yet. And there’s a good reason why this is so.

We are on Day Three and I think we’re regressing. That is, by end-of-day tomorrow, G and I will be hiding in the closet with wet pants, clutching each other and begging for our mommies. If I have to hear myself ask if anyone needs to go pee one more time, I may hurl myself down the stairs. Hell, I might even shave my head and get myself checked into a nice rehab facility.

I know... I’m all mama drama. What the hell is my problem? Parents have done this before. For centuries even. But I am weak and a crybaby. These kids are almost three years old. We think they are ready, but today Buddy seemed to resist more than he did the first day. We had more accidents today then we did the first day. Is that a sign to back off? Do we stop now and try again in a few weeks? Or is this normal? Anyone? Advice?

I think the novelty of Nemo underwear and stickers has worn off. Bribes of ice cream apparently have no meaning these days. More tv time? Late curfews? Cars when they are 16? We are met with an inch more resistence with each suggestion. They sense our desperation, which just makes us more desperate. We even promise not to judge their (totally lame) boy/girlfriends in the future (at least not in front of them). And then offer more (empty) promises that this will be the first and last time we nag them. IN THE NAME OF ANNA NICOLE, WHERE DOES IT END?

I am scared for Tuesday, when G goes back to work (lucky S.O.B… that’s right G, did you hear me grumbling and muttering so passively-aggressively under my breath today?). If you guys don’t hear from me again, call 911. Chances are I am on the bathroom floor, my hands knotted tightly behind my back with a McGyver’d rope (braided with Lightning McQueen and Dora underwear, no doubt), a Buzz Lightyear brief wadded in my mouth, lying in my own pool of urine while my kids raid the kitchen and program the TiVo, all with diapers wrapped perfectly around their rebellious little bodies.

Agent Pear

My kids love them some Asian pears. At their tol (the traditional Korean first birthday party), Buddy locked in on those pears as soon as they were placed on the table. The party hadn’t started yet so my uncle tried multiple times to keep the pears away from him, to no avail. Buddy would just give up one pear and calmy reach for the next one in the bowl. Later, The Bean had a beautiful bowl of gnawed pears from which to choose.

Yesterday, I spotted Asian pears at our grocery store and bought a couple because, you know, we live in the ’burbs and it’s not often I see the word Asian anywhere — I practically pee in my pants and have to buy whatever it is that advertises the word Asian. (Thank God there are no Asian hookers advertising in the ’burbs or I’d be in trouble.) They’re never as good, juicy or sweet as the ones my dad brings in crates straight from Frushing, but suburban beggars can’t be choosers (I’m talking about the pears, not the hookers, but damn — you can use either subject in that sentence and disturbingly, it would make sense).

This morning:
Bean can’t stop eyeing the pears and, after eating just half of her oatmeal, shoves her bowl away and asks, “Agent pear? Agent pear?” Buddy immediately drops his waffle and joins in: “Agent pear, Mom!”

So I slice off some sides and hand them over. The Bean turns the slice over on her plate — flat side down — cups her hand over it, and claims, “Look Mom, a compooter!” as I continue to cut.

Computer? Huh? [Nearly slice finger off watching her, trying to decipher toddler-coded language and how the hell pear relates to computer.]

And then: “Look Mom, I push on it too!” [Digs little index finger into it.]

Oooh — a mouse! ‘Genius!’ I think. ‘Resourceful! Imaginative!’ And then… guilt. She’s falling into my addicted footsteps already. These kids must think the mouse is an appendage of my hand.

But, for now, she happily alternates between dragging and clicking the ‘computer’ around her plate as she surfs the beanernet, then gnawing on it as juice and saliva drip down her chin.

Night-Night

Every night, the kids give this picture a kiss and say, “Night-night, Halmoni.” It’s one of my favorite photos of my parents. It is one of the few pictures I have of them when they were younger, just starting their lives together. I love that blond girl in the picture with them, although I have no idea who she is. I love that, despite the fact that the twins never really met her (except when they were only a few months old), they know what Halmoni looks like (okay, she’s much younger in this photo but she held on to her youthful appearance as much as the next Asian lady). I love that they talk to her almost every night, just to say good night. I love that they know how to say Halmoni.

Most of all, I love that as they grow up, they will have a picture of her in their heads: smiling and beautiful, with Harahbogee and some random blond girl crouching next to her.

Save the Smell, Save the World.

I have a crazy sick sense of smell. G tells me I am a bloodhound. Other than using it to sniff out delicious foods from a distance, this abnormality is a pain in the ass. Yes, the aromas are nice; unfortunately, I mostly smell odors. Wretched, foul odors that make me gag. I can smell things several minutes before anyone else can, and sometimes I swear I can make out faint notes of a particular odor, but that has yet to be proven unless I meet another freak of (olfactory) nature.

When I was pregnant, my freakish sense of smell made me want to vomit every hour. This was on top of my double-the-hormones ‘morning sickness,’ which (as everyone who has had pregnancy nausea knows) is a fucking farce — morning, my ass. On one particular day, I lay on the couch moaning to myself while G quietly tried to make his breakfast in the kitchen, a good 20 feet away. He was trying to be sensitive and not make anything too pungent (take that Goddamn toast out of here!). And yet, all I could smell was morning breath. I wanted to wrap a pillowcase around his head to stop any more exhales that were coming at me in 50 mph gusts of wind, blowing ass and garbage with it the whole way. I had to do something. So I shouted, very irritated, “Have you brushed your teeth yet?” Without a word, I saw him walk sheepishly into the bathroom and close the door. Sorry G — it's the freak nose. You are such a sport. Look at these beautiful kids we produced!

Lately, Bean has been covering her nose a lot with her hand. At first we thought she was playing. (Playing what? We have no idea.) But after awhile, we noticed that she would do it when there was a strong odor nearby — good or bad. I think her sense of smell is kicking in. Is this normal for all kids? Or has the poor Bean inherited my freak nose? When we walk into a restaurant, she immediately covers her nose with her hand and breathes hard in and out, like she doesn’t know what to do or how to fight off this alien attack on her senses. The other day I had some stinky cheese, and as soon as I opened it, she covered her nose and made a face.

Last week we had a guest at our house. In the morning, he sat at our island eating eggs and toast while the rest of us ate our breakfasts and cleaned up. When we were all done, he stayed in his seat, coloring with Buddy. The Bean went to play at the train table. When she walked past our guest, she took a few staggered steps, looked up, and covered her nose, then walked briskly away from him. After that, whenever she got within five feet of him, she did the same thing. Thankfully, he didn’t notice.

After I finished cleaning up, I walked past him and– Jesus, what the fuck is that?? I circled around a few times, and the odor was clearly coming from him. His feet were bare—could it be his stinky boy feet? Gross.

Finally, he finished and left the island. I quickly walked over to his chair to see if I could smell it, and yes, it was still there. Right there, in front of my face, but hidden by crayons and other crap on the island: fucking tabasco sauce. It did smell kind of vinegar-y and rancid! I just thought it was his feet that smelled vinegar-y and rancid. He still had his plate out where he had splashed some of it on his eggs. I picked it up and walked over to the sink. But then, upon second thought… I called The Bean over, and I held that plate up to my daughter’s almost-three-year-old little face and, as if she was a police dog, asked her if that was the smell she was smelling. She immediately snapped her head back. Like any investigative mother, I shoved it in her face again and she backed away slowly, her hand planted firmly on her nose, her face twisted in disgust. Confirmation: tabasco sauce.

Fuck! Poor girl. She doesn’t know what she’s in for.

I suppose I’ll have to try and put a positive spin on it. Like: maybe we’re on 'the list.' Are you on the list? Would our bloodhound noses qualify us as heroes with hidden powers? …Okay, maybe not, but pretending to be a hero is a hell of a lot better than smelling your stinky feet. And yes, I can smell them, even from way over here.

Elmo DooDooRags

Here is where we stand in our efforts to potty-train:

Welcome to Elmo's House of Style.

I came home yesterday to find the kids running around upstairs, squealing with laughter and sporting Elmo underwear on their heads. Our babysitter was holding them up to the bathroom mirror so they could admire their latest accessories. T (the sitter) explained that the DooDooRags were purely the twins' fashion brainchild.

Oh boy—I think I see trendsetting in their future… Who cares if they are still in diapers? They can set trends in size 16 diapers while they’re at it.



(Anyone else remembering Weird Science?)

Bean's Belly

Last week Bean came up to me and said, “Look Mommy, [Bean's] belly!” In her hands she had two wooden balloons from one of their puzzles. The balloons have little knobs on them, and she was holding them over her chest. Poor child is so confused.

She has become more fascinated with my ‘balloons’ and tries to tickle me there, help me put my bra on, etc. Normal?

Monet & Manet

These pictures were from over a month ago. But I thought I would post the pictures now that I've calmed down a bit about it.

It was my own fault. I was so proud of the kids as I sat in the kitchen, having a snack and reading some self-indulgent celebrity magazine. I listened as they giggled and said, “[Bean] turn, [Bean] turn.” Then after another minute, “[Buddy] turn, [Buddy] turn.” No bickering. No pushing. No refereeing… Bliss.

When I went into the family room to see what they were sharing so well, they turned to face me with blackened faces. They stopped laughing when they saw me, as if they were waiting for me and understood the trouble they would be in, but they still had hopeful smiles on their faces; their glee obviously not able to catch up to thoughts of their demise quickly enough.

&*%#$*!#@& WHAT THE FUCK??? %$!%@*#! pretty much sums up the next several hours.

…A dry cleaning trip, a visit from Sears, some Resolve, globs of toothpaste, a bottle of nail polish remover, and various other stupidass Old Wives’ Remedies (sometimes the internet is a Goddamn waste of my time, I swear), and the ink is still there. Oh, the Resolve worked — on one pillowcase. Fucking awesome.