A Watershed Moment

Yesterday, inspired by my mother having recently purchased a new car booster seat for Honeybee (replacing the one the child had outgrown), I decided to sell several baby items on Craig's List: two car seats, an infant carrier, a stroller, and a small red tricycle. This may sound like a mundane thing for a parent to do, but for me it was a watershed decision.

When Honeybee was about eighteen months old, Papa Dog and I tried quite aggressively -- using invasive fertility procedures -- to produce a sibling for our daughter. (If you have followed my blog for a long time, you may recall that this business was going on from 2006 through 2007.) To make a long story short, we did not succeed in our endeavor. After three pregnancies -- including one with twins -- no "babies" made it past the eleventh week. I had three miscarriages, boom boom boom, all within the space of less than a couple of years. It was a dark time.

But hey, as a giddily optimistic person, I have continued to believe that I can get pregnant again -- that it isjust a matter of time. With that in mind, I had no intention of selling any of Honeybee's baby things, as I might need them again! I have held onto just about everything, except for a few items of clothing which I was able to trade for larger sizes.

Meanwhile, baby things have been piling up in the basement: a dismantled crib; a Graco Pack-N-Play; the co-sleeper; the Exer-Saucer; the Fisher-Price infant swing; the vibrating bouncy chair; infant books and toys up the wazoo; swaddling blankets; infant clothes; and my Boppy. We have mounds of baby stuff, all of which Honeybee has long outgrown. But on to it I have hung. Just in case...

As the mother of a kindergartner, and being forty-something, I *think* I am ready to hang up my wishful fertility shoes and get on with my life; however, the whole concept of "getting rid" of baby stuff is highly emotional for me. It's not just because such an action would slam the door on my unfulfilled dream of being the mother of two or more children; it's also because I am a sentimental old broad who tends to hang onto old things, anyway. The fact that it's my baby's stuff makes the task of selling her first belongings all the more difficult.

Perhaps I should view selling Honeybee's baby stuff on Craig's List as an exercise in personal growth, a letting go of physical and emotional baggage that has weighed heavily upon me for years. Perhaps with all of the stuff gone, I will experience a spiritual renaissance, a freeing up, a load-lightening, a rebirth! And our basement will be more spacious, enabling us to use the space more efficiently.

But how honest am I being with myself, really? Not entirely. I mean, I want to move on, and I intend to move on; but, a change of heart won't happen instantaneously as I accept a C-note from a young mother buying my old infant seat. Change is a long and arduous process.

I am reminded of two women in the Bible, Elizabeth and Sarah, who bear their children at extraordinarily advanced ages. When Sarah finds that she is pregnant by Abraham, she finds it so hilarious that she names her child Isaac, which means "laughter" in Hebrew. Hey, it could happen to me. I will never give up hope until my ovaries dry up like yesterday's raisins. You never know. And I can always buy a new Peg Pérego infant carrier should I ever be so lucky.

Six Feet Under

Papa Dog and I have been enjoying the first season of the HBO series, Six Feet Under. Although I am thoroughly hooked on the show, I can't shake my loathing for the character Brenda Chenoweth, Nate's reluctant girlfriend. Brenda is smug, self-centered, and rude; but her most unappealing quality is her emotional cruelty to Nate, who's a genuinely good-natured fellow. Nate has been trying all season to get close to Brenda, to increase their emotional intimacy. Rather than responding positively to Nate's advances toward a deeper commitment, Brenda finds every excuse to push him away: she acts bitchy and moody; she harbors strange, naked men in her apartment and blames Nate for being too up-tight to deal with them; she clings stubbornly to her mentally-deranged brother, who is clearly dead-set on sabotaging any relationship Brenda develops with another man. She is just BAD NEWS all around. Damaged goods. Fucked up. She is me.

To clarify, perhaps Brenda was me when I was younger. Still, I can relate to this character and I don't like what I see. Watching Brenda is like seeing a video-tape of myself, causing me to hide my face in my hands and yell at the screen "Make it stop!" Because I can't stand how my voice sounds, how fat I look, and how unflattering the lighting is.

Most of the characters on Six Feet Under are pretty messed up, which is why I love the show. Members of the Fisher family do the wrong thing; they make bad choices; they are haunted by their dead father. They are all a fucking mess! Yet, each character moves toward redemption in some way. Each person takes small steps toward being a more honest person.

The message I am getting from Six Feet Under is this: No matter how fucked up things are, how irreparably damaged you may be, there is hope. Never give up.

Sermon over.

P.S. Please do not reveal any plot points from Season Two or thereafter. I have not yet watched it.

Selling the Dream: Me!

I did something rather unexpected today: I sent an email to a career counselor, inquiring about a workshop to improve my interviewing skills.

Since I have been out of work, I have been invited to interview for at least half a dozen jobs, all of which I was highly qualified for. When one is called in for an interview, s/he has already been vetted on paper: it's only a matter of convincing the employer, in person, that you are the right person for the job. There is no reason for me not have been offered every job I interviewed for. The problem must be that I do not present myself as well as I am able.

Perhaps there is something wrong with my approach to the Job Interview, which I need to be aware of and fix. Perhaps I am too friendly and informal in an interview setting. When I enter a room and first meet my interviewer, I tend to be pretty relaxed. If I like the person, I will let down my guard and "be myself." According to most social situations, this would be a plus; however, a job interview is not a typical social situation: it is a high-pressure situation in which the person in power scrutinizes the supplicant, looking for flaws, chinks, and gaps in the job-seeker's experience. The interviewer is hopeful that I will be the right candidate, but is prepared to be faced with an incompetent moron who will completely blow all of their responses.

I have become better at interviewing since my early appointments last winter. I found myself to be pretty rusty back then, as I had not had to interview for a job since 2007. Lately, I have honed my skills, practiced reciting my success stories, and have prepared answers for some of the most difficult questions.

Still, I have not received a job offer.

Part of my problem is that it's hard for me to feign enthusiasm for a job that I don't really want. After all, a job interview is also an opportunity for me to determine whether or not I would want to work for this outfit, these people. When I have negative feelings about the employer, job, department, or people, it is difficult for me to communicate, "Yes! I love this position, it is perfect for me, and I will love reporting to you!" Perhaps I need to work on being more dishonest.

No, lying is not the secret to landing a job. Even though the economy sucks right now, I cannot settle for a job that I would hate, or that pays too little. I would be miserable and would start looking for something else in a few months. I know how soul-killing a thankless job can be. Never again!

So, maybe I'll go to this job interview skills workshop and see what I can learn. It involves video-tape, which scares me a bit, but I think it's necessary to see oneself objectively. (Because I sure don't!)

In summary, I know how excellent an employee I can be, and how skilled and experienced I am in my chosen field. I know how good my people skills are. I can handle anything, if given a chance. I just need to convince someone who doesn't know me from Eve that I am good. It's that simple. It's that hard. Wish me luck!

Another Life

In another life, I would have two children, a boy and a girl, aged 9 and 7. They would go to our neighborhood Oakland public school, because that's all we would be able to afford. I would be a full-time working mom, perhaps managing a group of people in a marketing department, or being involved in major gifts fund-raising for a notable Bay Area nonprofit.

Because our children would attend the local elementary school, I'd be friends with most of our neighbors with similarly-aged school children. Everyone in our neighborhood has two kids, and we'd be just like them.

We might live in a bigger house than we do now, but not far from where we live today. We might live in a house with a dining room, in which I would frequently throw dinner parties -- both intimate and wild -- and our home would be a highly desirable destination for our many beloved friends from all walks of life.

We might have moved to Nashville or Memphis, or Lexington, KY. I remember being fed up with how little one could afford around here, even with good salaries. About five years ago, I fantasized about packing up and moving to the South, perhaps buying a dilapidated old Southern mansion, with columns and everything, and fixing it up.

I might have been a Buddhist. Ideas of religion and spirituality had been percolating in my brain for many years before I found the Episcopal church in which I am currently a member. Yes, I might have gravitated toward an Eastern religion, only to become jaded with it after a couple of years, perhaps resorting back to agnosticism.

Underlying many of these other imagined scenarios is infertility. Papa Dog and I were married in 1999 and wanted to have a child right away. If all had gone as planned, we'd have had our first in 2000, then probably a second child two years later. Who knows, we'd maybe have a third by now. This would have been my choice and preference, but things did not work out that way. When you're infertile, you do not have a choice. You can't just up and get pregnant whenever you feel like it. Instead, you undergo all sorts of tests and high-tech methods to become pregnant, and most of them fail. You spend many years in this wanting-to-be-a-parent limbo and all you know are failure, disappointment and crushing sadness. Meanwhile, your friends are popping out offspring like jackrabbits, celebrating birthdays and new siblings, while you continue to jab yourself in the stomach with heparin twice a day, hoping that this time the IVF will fucking work.

And what a surprise, it finally did work, after four and a half years of wanting, crying, and trying. I got pregnant in September 2003, shortly before my 39th birthday. Nine-and-a-half months later, Honeybee was born.

Our current reality is this: We have one beautiful and brilliant daughter! She attends a private school nearby... because she is smart and we feel that she needs to be academically challenged. And we can afford it. We live in a cute little house in Oakland, which we bought in 2001, and its value has more than doubled since we have lived here. We have no plans on selling or moving.

I have discovered my professional niche and am striving to secure gainful employment. I have developed a solid foundation in non-profit advancement; however, as a result of the economic downturn, I have had less than an easy time finding a job after quitting my last one a year ago. I have some promising prospects and will continue to keep my chin up. While I look for work, I will use my unstructured time wisely: riding my bike, making music, and not spending money.

Life did not turn out as I had expected; it turned out better. And for that, I am grateful. I wouldn't want it any other way.

Korean Enough

I posted this piece on Kimchi Mamas today.

When I first started blogging on Kimchi Mamas, my main interest was learning about ways in which I could instill a sense of Korean-ness (identity, culture, history, connection) in my daughter, who is one-quarter Korean. Being hapa, myself, I wrote frequently and passionately about my own feelings of inadequacy as a "real Korean;" my sense of removal from my mother's culture, and my struggle to be considered "Korean" by "full-Koreans."

My strong desire to "identify Korean" had never been supported by my full Korean mother, who used to tell me that I didn't "look Oriental" at all, with my double eyelids and medium-tall frame. She would often recall the time the two of us traveled to Korea, long ago, where I "stuck out like a sore thumb" amongst her family. She remembered everybody staring at me because I was so American-looking, so tall. Her intention was never to shame or criticize me; I think she was actually rather envious of my height and "exotic good looks."


Things are different now. For one, I spend very little time dwelling on how I can be "more Korean." In fact, the whole notion of forcing a cultural identity on myself seems almost ludicrous. I have a few Korean friends, I eat Korean food, I have ingrained in me certain qualities that I consider Korean (fierce familial loyalty, stubbornness, vengefulness, and pride); but, I know that these qualities are not exclusively Korean. I am as Korean as I want to be, and nobody can take that away from me.

Since all of that earlier worrying about my daughter finding her connection to the "old country," something wonderful has happened: my daughter has developed a very close connection with her Korean halmoni. She is learning Korean words, games, cultural traditions, and can even sing Arirang with a perfect accent! It has occurred to me that my daughter's connection to Korea, through my mother, is more profound than mine ever was. How can this be?


Maybe it's because Halmoni has mellowed out over the years. When I was born, my mom (who married my dad, an American) wanted nothing to do with Korea. She had left the country as a young girl -- not as a refugée, but as a foreign exchange student -- and never wanted to go back. Her early experiences in Korea were filled with nothing but awfulness: a harsh Japanese occupation, two wars, food scarcity, abuse, and fear. She wanted to erase her memories and immerse herself into Western culture, to start anew. Any of my attempts to learn about my mom's past, with a few exceptions, were shot down with, "Oh, I don't want to talk about that!" As a result, I grew up quite ignorant about Korea and my family's history.

Now, enough time has passed for my mom's childhood memories to have softened -- and she now enjoys telling my daughter about Korea. This is how my daughter is building a connection to her roots, my original goal. I didn't engineer this process in any way -- it happened gradually and organically -- and I could not be more pleased! Now, if only I could get the child to eat kimchi...

Shards

Last night at around 7 pm I could hear violent yelling through the double-paned windows of my house - which is unusual because those suckers are pretty damned near sound-proof. I thought the ruckus was coming from our next door neighbors' house, but upon further investigation, it appeared to originate from around the corner. A man and a woman were yelling profanities at each other and the situation seemed to be escalating. I thought I heard other voices join in, only amplifying the sense of danger and dread I felt.

Whenever such an incident happens in my neighborhood (which is about twice a year), I think of calling the police. But, from past experience, whenever I have called the non-911 Oakland Police Department, I have never gotten an answer. Plus, I figure that by the time I reach the cops, and if they do finally arrive, the melée will already be over. And so it was, within about ten minutes.

Domestic or street violence that happens in my neighborhood scares me - especially when it's right next door or in front of my house. The yelling can be so loud and the words so angry that the discharging of firearms would not seem an illogical next step. And how many times have I read in the SF Chronicle about innocent people getting shot while in their homes, by a stray bullet? In an attempt to feel safe, I try to keep my child away from the living room windows when I hear such fighting. You never know.

****

The child won't eat her god-damned leafy green vegetables. Every night, I prepare some sort of leafy green vegetable with dinner because 1) I like to eat them and 2) they are healthy, fibrous, and are necessary for a balanced diet. Every night, Papa Dog and I go through the same struggle with Honeybee wherein she refuses to eat her broccoli, Brussels sprouts, snow peas, or lettuce. We have tried withholding dessert if said vegetables are not eaten, yet the child remains firm in her resolve not to eat the greens. She chooses to go without dessert. She bargains, negotiates, and cries. It is an ugly scene, and one that lessens severely the enjoyment of my delicious, home-cooked meals.

****

Yesterday on Facebook someone from my elementary school had posted a scanned picture of my sixth grade class. I remembered most of the kids and got a good laugh out of their 1970s hairdos and attire. But the funniest thing was seeing a picture of my school principal, whom I used to think was chronologically advanced. Turns out he was probably in his early forties when the photo was taken. He was kind of a puffy, red-faced, slightly overweight, Alec Baldwin type. Then it occurred to me: one's early forties clearly were considered middle-aged back then. That's what a forty-something-year-old man looked like! No soul patches, messy bed hair, or flannel shirts as we see on dudes of this vintage today.

****

I am in need of a dog. Really. I have been talking about getting another dog since Doggy Dog died last May; but now it feels imperative. I have been perusing Akita rescue sites quite obsessively, and have even gone to meet a couple of candidates. I have yet to find a good fit. I am even considering loosening my requirements.

****

I have come to loathe Evite. While it's a useful tool for organizing parties and events, the damned application never fails to hurt my feelings. Some people look at an invitation and never respond. Others write unsavory and insulting RSVP messages for all to see. Still others reply "no" without even saying "thank you."

I'm also disgruntled with the sorry state of hosting and attending parties in general. Why is it necessary for someone who is invited to a party to know who else has been invited, or plans to attend? This information should not have any bearing on whether one RSVPs or not, the exception being an intimate dinner party for six people. What happened to the element of delight and surprise one felt upon finding friends at a party whom one didn't expect to see?

When I'm on the receiving end of an invitation, if I don't wish to attend an event, I simply say that I have other plans. Why must one feel compelled to write a James-Clavell-length tome about how they'd love to attend my soirée, but can't because they had promised Aunt Maisie they'd pick her up from the San Jose airport that night? Too much information! Why can't people just be succinct, polite, and prompt? And whatever happened to inviting people using the phone?

****

Unemployment, Moby, and Church

Last weekend I reached my one-year anniversary of unemployment, if I don't count the four-month temporary position I held from August to mid-December. One whole fucking year. In a way, the process of losing my job and reaching the point where I am now has been, what I imagine to be, something akin to grieving the loss of a loved one. Then again, when someone you love dies, the first thing you don't do is jump around shouting, "Yay, I am finally free!!!" Bad analogy.

So, here I am at the beginning of 2010 and I still don't have a job. I have a couple of prospects, but nothing to get excited about...yet. I won't keep you posted because I don't like blogging about my employment status, or even talking about it with my closest friends. So, consider this my annual kvetch about things job-related and I will move on.

I am listening to Moby, whose music I discovered recently because his song, Run On, was featured on a mix-tape made by a friend. I quite enjoy his oeuvre! Only problem is he's so prolific, I have a hard time knowing how to start listening to him. I have access to all of his albums and have been skipping around, from mid-1990s stuff to his latest albums. The music ranges from pleasant ambient to gay-rave to quasi-hip-hop/gospel. Sometimes he sounds like Hunky-Dory era David Bowie or Brian Eno. A talented musician, he is.

Honeybee and I missed church last Sunday for the first time in, like, a year. We had a late night on Saturday and Honeybee had expressed that she did not want to go to church the next morning. I wasn't clear on why, exactly, but thought she might as well miss it and sleep in. I was planning to go alone, but woke up feeling ill. I was just utterly exhausted from not having gotten enough sleep all week. We ended up having a pleasant day, but all throughout it, I felt as though something was missing. Sunday morning church -- with its accompanying worship, music, friends, and community -- has become a weekly ritual for Honeybee and me. It is a strong source of spiritual nourishment for me and helps me stay focused on the positive all week long. We will go to church next Sunday.

Honeybee, being the whip-smart five-year-old she is, is starting to ponder metaphysical questions. For instance, when I asked her if she believed in God, she replied, "No, because I can't see him." Which led to a conversation in which I cited examples of things that one can't see, but do exist, like electricity, wireless connections floating through the air, warmth, pain, and love. Not sure if she understood, but soon after, she said, "Okay, I do believe in God." Quite frankly, I don't think the child understands the concept of God, and I struggle to come up with a simple definition. (I am still trying to figure it out, myself.) I believe that if Honeybee continues attending Sunday School and sitting through our liberal-mainline-Protestant church services every week, she will absorb some of the broader implications, eventually. This is my ardent hope. My intention in taking the child to church is to expose her regularly to a caring community that puts into practice charity, good will, acceptance, forgiveness, kindness, and many other virtues. I also want her to learn Bible stories (both OT and NT), as they play an important role in one's understanding of Western culture and civilization.

I will not force God on Honeybee, nor will I drag her to church if she does not want to go. I would love it if her enthusiasm for church continued for years to come; but, I have made a deal with Papa Dog that, if the child resists religion in any way, she does not have to go to church. It's sort of like Don't Ask, Don't Tell around here.