FB: IRL

A couple weeks ago I made a pilgrimage of sorts.

I went to visit my longtime friend (favorite ex-college roommate) at her workplace - Facebook Headquarters, Menlo Park, the most expensive real estate perhaps in the entire nation.

I primarily went to reconnect with my friend, but part of me was also curious about the world I left behind when I decided to be a stay-at-home mom for the last four years. I always worked in SF, so a foray down to the tech capital would be novel, I thought.

What greeted me was a mishmash of elite college vibes, a lot of money, and a modern art museum.

Across their giant campus were many parking lots (filled to the gills with Maseratis, noticed the mom driving a Hyundai with a GIANT bird dropping on it, ugh) with valet parking and a premiere shuttle service linking each one. On top of each building was a rooftop garden perfectly landscaped to make you feel like you're walking through an Architectural Digest magazine spread, with an outdoor bistro on each, of course.

And parked in front of each building was my favorite feature, a set of shiny, light blue beach cruisers that employees used to bike to and fro on campus.

Inside each building was a giant open office plan and floor-to-ceiling glass walled conference rooms. There would be no jerking off in this place, you could be sure. I commented to my friend how, as a non-assertive introvert, this would be my workplace version of hell.

And hoodies. Lots of hipster hoodies with the white zipper flocking that you could buy for $19.99 at H&M.

My friend took me to eat at their gourmet cafeteria and bid me adieu at the end with snacks from their "snack room" chock full of organic, gluten-free goodness and drinks of every possible variety (it was seriously insane, think 7-11 for millionaires).

All this.

All this for what?

To prop up a social media empire.

But what is at the heart of this industry? What product is it selling? What service is it providing?

Connection. Connection? With "friends"?

And yet I couldn't help thinking of the article I read just a few days prior to my visit - about the link between social media use and depression. Not surprisingly, the longer a person is on social media, the more depressed that person gets. And it's CAUSATIVE, not correlative.

And we all know it to be true. Because lies.

Lies of omission.

A million status updates about baby births.
Only a handful about miscarriages.

A million status updates about weddings.
Only one that I've ever seen announcing a divorce.

A million pictures/videos of smiling kids.
None of a MULTI-HOUR meltdown.

A million beautiful vacation shots.
None of mundane office life or shopping at Walmart in elastic gray sweatpants with glasses and greasy hair (shut up, don't judge).

I could go on, but there's no need.

If you're marketing a substance that causes users to get sick, the FDA would pull you off the shelf. Is mental illness not as legitimate as physical harm?

At the very least, FB should come with a warning label: Being on this site for more than 10 minutes a day has been shown to cause mild to severe depression. Use responsibly.

Either way, being on the real FB campus was like being in an uneasy paradise. Like when a movie shows a happy scene with discordant strings in the background (think: Jaws). Something's off...but the grilled portobello mushroom steaks with balsamic dressing is amazing!

And in the end, the scene that stays with me is the wall of Latino and Black laborers in the dish-washing room being handed trays of dirty plates by White and Asian employees. A literal stainless steel half-wall dividing the races clear down the middle.

Now that's keepin' it real.

Surprised by Joy

Well, that most heralded of holidays has come and gone.

By Dec. 3rd, the kids had already littered the tree with their homemade presents.

There is so much anticipation and lead-up and preparation for Christmas Day it almost feels like you've lost a loved one the day it's over. Actually, you probably have since many loved ones travel to be together for that one time of year.

So lucky to have these wonderful aunties and uncles (and little cousin) in our lives!

My entire life history of Christmas has been more humbug than falalala, with massive feelings of let down every year on that long awaited day, particularly after the gifts have been opened. I'm not sure why. Was I subconsciously hoping to unwrap something marvelous...far more marvelous than a reasonable amount of money could buy...?

Judah was extraordinarily proud of his first "gingerbread house"

But seriously, you can literally go through my back log of Christmas post-mortem posts and witness the gloom analysis each year, without fail.

Until now, that is.

For some strange reason, that inevitable mild depression never materialized this year. Christmas was finally...not a disappointment!

Noah was extraordinarily proud of his lipstick red Rudolph nose

I guess it takes until you're in your late thirties to finally, finally, FINALLY get a good grip on reality. And to accept it...and even muster up gratitude.

The gingerbread cookie tradition continues...note to self - must ban sprinkles for next year.

Maybe being a mom for six years has finally helped me lower my expectations enough such that any day in which I'm not driven mad by 6+ hours of nonconsecutive crying and demanding that my tired bones hold a 25+ pound clinging toddler is considered a gosh darn day.

So even though we were all sick and didn't eat any fabulous feasts or engage in any particularly festive activities, it was enough. It was more than enough.

The Christmas Day hike tradition also continues, thank you sunny California!

We were together and we love one another.

The gifts each kid chose for the other - spot on!

And a baby was born to make healing flow far as the curse is found.

And perhaps most salient, no one needs to nap, nurse, or wear diapers any more.

Life just doesn't get any better than that.

So I broke my first bone...

This may just be the most idiotic picture I've ever taken.

Here I am in crazy pain from fracturing my right elbow joint, waiting in the ER all day, and smiling?!?! Seriously?! Just a few minutes ago I was crying actual tears and my face looked grimmer than the reaper's as I contemplated the impossibility of cooking, cleaning, driving, or doing childcare with only one arm for weeks? months?

What about all my home-improvement projects? In particular, I was so excited to start tearing out some gnarly plants to clear some gardening space now that the soil was all prepped from a recent record rainfall. But there would be no wielding my giant shovel now. Sigh, maybe next year.

Soon, after I got home, I realized even perforating toilet paper was an impossible struggle for my ultra-pain-sensitive arm. I finally gave up and used a combo of my left arm and teeth. Oy. You know you are truly f*cked when TP is too much for you to handle.

But it wasn't just the loss of my dominant arm that bothered me - it was the pain. The raging, flaming, burning, never ceasing, I can't find any position that doesn't hurt, pain.

Pain that hounds you like a shadow to the point where nothing could distract you from it. Pain that feels like a crucible in which your actual identity starts to warp. Pain that becomes an ocean's roar and a hot glare shining right into your eyes. Pain that turned me inward and away.

The 3 year old's depiction of mommy with a broken arm - looks like a creature from hell - very accurate.

For two days I felt unceasing pain that wavered between a 7 and 9. I started to completely understand how chronic pain sufferers would commit suicide. Actually I started wondering why more chronic pain sufferers DIDN'T commit suicide. And I cursed the medical policies that made my docs advise me to only manage my pain with tylenol and motrin. Seriously? What do you have to do to get some Vicodin around here? Break a bone?!

And then on the third day I woke up to the sound of silence. My arm had finally stopped screaming at me. Oh it still hurt to be sure, but at least now I didn't feel compelled to swallow a raft of OTC drugs that had started to give me major stomach pains - the lesser of two evils.

But I still despaired. I don't want to go in for a numbing shot so the bone doc can check my range of motion. I don't want to get surgery if the range is impeded. Having needles and instruments stuck in me just makes me viscerally recoil...and kinda totally scream on the inside in panic.

And of course my mind revisits over and over again the moment things took a sharp dive for the worse. One second I'm fine. The next second I'm royally screwed.

One second I'm running down my driveway about to get something from my parked car, excited to take a nice stroll through the sunny neighborhood after 5 straight days of rain. And the next second I had slipped on a pile of still-wet leaves while rounding a corner.

Half a second. Flat.

The rest of that day was spent in urgent care. The rest of the next day was spent at the orthopedics. And a good chunk of the next day was spent getting a CT scan. Today is the only day I will not have some major medical appointment. But tomorrow will be judgment day - the day my bone doc looks at my CT scan, injects a giant numbing needle into my elbow, and determines if I need surgery. The moment I've been dreading.

Through all the endless waiting in waiting rooms, I (luckily?) had an e-book on my phone that I'd been very excited to read - When Breath Becomes Air - a memoir about a 36 year old neurosurgery resident who discovers that he has late-stage lung cancer. While I was totally entertained and absorbed by his fantastic writing and intriguing insights, I wonder if that was probably not a good reading choice - maybe I should've opted for something lighter and funnier - like by the SNL ladies.

Contemplating living while dying a horrible death in the midst of my own personal fear and pain is just not the kinda thing that lifts one's spirits, you know?

But you know what does lift one's spirits? All the acts of kindness and well-wishes from friends. Thank you friends! Those are sweet sweet balms indeed.

Which leads me to that ridiculous picture of me smiling. The spouse, who could've been understandably annoyed at losing his one day-off to a long hospital visit, and at the looming loss of all his free-time and then some to more housework and way more child-care, and a lot more driving duties for an indefinite period, was astonishingly smiling at me behind the lense.

Kindness.
Patience.
Graciousness.
And love.

It's impossible not to smile at that.

F*ck Hearts

It was bound to happen.

Yesterday Judah said "F*ck you" and showed me the middle-finger.

He learned it from his friend at school and didn't know what it meant.

I proffered a kinda lame explanation but it was the best I could do. I just said it means I really really really really hate you.

And Judah responded, well, then, can I say F*ck you Satan?

Uh...no.

Why?

Uh...your dad can explain it to you.

Later on that day Judah found his old notebook from preschool. He loved his preschool with all his heart and flipped through the pages fondly. But then he started picking off all the hearts he had pasted on the cover as decoration.

When we asked why, he explained that he was drawing a picture in class today and drew lots of hearts on it. A classmate came over and laughed at it and told him hearts are stupid.

Typical Judah drawing - abounding in hearts.

As the mom of a son who has drawn "hearts for love" as soon as he could hold a crayon, I died a little inside.

Thank you kindergarten.

The Four Stages of Good Grief: Gingerbread Edition

Before this holiday season I had never baked cookies before, ever. Not once. It's not that I have anything against baking cookies, it just never rose to the level of something I wanted to do enough to actually do it.

But kids are magical like that.

Both Judah and Noah heard a lot about the gingerbread man at their respective schools and kept asking if we could make some. So we did.

And I found out there are 4 stages of gingerbread cookie making.

Stage 1: Rolling out the dough and cutting the cookies. It's just like play-doh!

Stage 2: Decorating the cookies. Ridiculously messy. And sprinkles are from hell.

Stage 3: Eating the cookies. Mmmm high-fructose corn syrup and hydrogenated oils. Cancer tastes delicious.

Stage 4: Recreating the experience with play-doh! Noah actually ripped up pieces of paper-gingerbread men to put on his play-doh. Adorable example of art imitating life. Except they were Judah's paper-gingerbread men. Cue wailing and gnashing of teeth.

And there you have it! A tradition is born.

Why yes Oxford, you may include these words in your dictionary

This week I made up two words.

Words that I think should easily slip into our vernacular with nary a thought.

Once I reveal these words to you, dear reader, I'm confident you will feel the same way.

You'll say to yourself - Of course! Those words exactly capture the essence of the things to which they refer! And now we have a name for them!

And then these words will enter into popular usage and no one will remember who coined them first. Do we know who first coined the term "selfie"? or "hangry"? or "mic drop"? or "awesomesauce"? or most important to everyone's life "beer o'clock"?

But maybe, just maybe, some young millennial researcher will do some googling and realize, the origins of these words came from here. This humble little blog from a humble little suburb and cement my everlasting legacy thenceforth.

So without further ado, my contributions to the American language are:

(1) Pre-partum depression. Sure everyone's heard of postpartum depression, but what about the depression that you get BEFORE the baby comes out? The news of pregnancy is often greeted with excitement and joy, but not always.

For example, I knew a family that had a pair of twins. They were EXHAUSTED running after them and when the twins were toddlers, the family found out they were (accidentally) pregnant again. The ultrasound showed they were having twins yet again! The news was greeted by them and by their friends and family with great somberness. They described the reaction as "funeral-like". And then, though they didn't say this because the word had not yet been invented, I'm pretty sure PRE-PARTUM depression set in.

If I had found out I was pregnant when this pic was taken, I would DEFINITELY have had pre-partum depression.

Or, a more common example. A couple is already overwhelmed with their two kids all under the age of 3 and then finds out they got "accidentally" pregnant with a third. The couple shares the news of the impending birth in drooping tones of defeat and dread. They definitely have pre-partum depression.

(2) Fakebook. Yes, everyone is on Facebook (even you really hipster people who like to pretend you're not because Facebook is OVER), but it should more properly be called Fakebook.

When I took journalism class in 7th grade, my teacher taught us that overemphasizing a small aspect of an event was called bad journalism, aka, lying. Also, omitting the majority of true things in a report is also called lying.

I can think of nowhere that "lying" is more rampant than on FAKEBOOK.

If your entire week has been horrible and you felt like absolute poop and wore sweatpants every day, BUT, you had one morning in which the light hit you just right and you felt like smiling sweetly, that's the picture you post on Fakebook with the caption - Life. Love. Sunshine. Lollipops.

If your toddler has been a holy hell the entire week, re-decorating your walls with crayon scribbles and leaving little turd droppings everywhere while having screaming tantrums every 13 minutes, BUT you had one half-second when he smiled sweetly with you after you bribed him with gummy bears, that's the picture you post on Fakebook with the caption - Kids. Love. Sunshine. Lollipops.

Kids. Love. Life. Sunshine. Lollipops. ALWAYS. *wink wink*

It may seem humorous, but I do think the Surgeon General (of mental health - well, first we should appoint one) should slap a warning label on Facebook (after making it change its name to Fakebook):

Prolonged usage of this medium will result in depression by comparison, delusion, and strong beliefs in the lie that everyone else's life is much much MUCH better than YOURS. No one's life is just "life, love, sunshine, and lollipops" and even the tamer captions do not come close to capturing the reality of despair, emptiness, and just total messed up crap that is the human condition. If you must be on Fakebook for more than 5 minutes a day, make sure you purge those delusions with a commensurate amount of time reading a Russian novel.

Reverse Weaning, if there even is such a thing

I'm a little embarrassed to admit this, but hey, if it helps another mom out there, all the better.

I'm not sure, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn that I am the only mom in the history of motherhood to have this "situation" happen.

About 3 months ago Noah stopped nursing after he got terrible sores all over his mouth. It was sudden and abrupt, but I was fine with it seeing as how he was already 21 months anyway. And because I love and miss wearing high-neck clothing.

But about 3 weeks ago, he started asking for "boo-boo" again. At first I thought it was just a joke and played along with it, lifting my shirt up. But his funny 5 minute joke turned into 15 minutes and then 30 minutes. And before I knew it, he was asking for it multiple times a day - especially when he needed some extra comfort - before and after waking up, when he had major meltdowns, etc.

And now we are back to square one. It's as if he never weaned in the first place!

Funny enough, Noah looked up at me once and said "There's no milk mommy." Yep, that's right son. I explained that "All mommy's milk is gone! All gone!"

And then he chuckled and kept right on nursing.

And then asked for "regular milk" from the fridge.

Obviously I feel conflicted about this. Happy to provide an easy form of comfort to Noah (it's a thousand times easier to soothe him with the boob than holding a 30 pound kid and walking him around for 30 min). Unhappy to go through the inconvenience of "nursing again". Happy to keep "bonding" with my kid. Unhappy to lose some bodily independence.

And then there's the fact that he's my last baby.

But then there's the fact that he's not really a baby anymore.

But most non-modern cultures don't wean until age 3 or 4.

But it just feels weird/wrong to be going backwards.

Ugh.

In which I explain all day to my kids that Mommy is sad because her Grandpa died

Celebrating his 90th in great health

Today I attended my first family funeral - my maternal grandfather passed away at age 94 (or is it 95? I could never figure out the lunar calendar).

I heard he was gravely ill the day we left for Ohio and I was hoping to see him one more time upon my return to California, but I was too late.

I am, as you could guess from my first sentence, a newbie at death.

But now I know. I am now part of that horrible club - Those Who Have Lost a Loved One.

Those who wish they had spent more time with the loved one before his death.

Those who Regret.

Those who wondered why they didn't and couldn't realize how much they would miss the loved one until his death.

Those who are grateful for distracting kids and general busyness.

Those who grieve.

Those who took for granted.

Those who return to the well of profound sadness in search of solace.

Those who realize that death is still horrible, even in very old age.

It didn't sink in for me until I saw him lying there in his coffin, looking slightly off-color but well enough that I could imagine he was merely taking a nap, as he often did when I visited. He wore all his usual clothes - his one and only worn suit and second-hand sueded vest with shearling trim. And later, Judah reminded me that he also wore his glasses.

Relationships are often complicated - filled with undercurrents of hurt and resentment, disappointment and abuse. But when I consider my grandfather, I feel nothing but the holy grail of unconditional love and acceptance.

Now that I'm a parent, I realize that that is the gift of loving grandparents. A parent and child are too close - too intermingled in their egos and motivations. It is too hard to parse out what is love and what is self-preservation.

But a grandparent is distant enough to be unequivocal.

Others will likely see only the inevitable passing of a very old man, but my goodness how great the hole left in the wake of such love.

Thank You Parents of FB

FB might be the most annoying place on earth, but the young parents on FB are freaking awesome.

I posted a plea for survival tips for a 6 hour plane trip with a 2yo and 4yo and got lots of great advice within just a few hours, including a link to my friend Leslie's awesome travel tips blog: http://tripswithtykes.com/

Her blog is destined to be a young parent's classic reference - chock full of amazing, useful, indispensable info from changing nasty diapers at 30k feet in the air to resort and hotel reviews. So proud of her!

90 minutes into our flight and Noah is delighted to find that beverage service includes milk!

Anyway, I'm happy to report our flight went well! All 4 of us sat in our own row (Noah on my lap) and Judah and Noah were happily entertained by the new toys and snacks I continually whipped out - a Leapster game console for Judah, peek-a-boo books and magnetic puzzles for Noah, and many many many bags of pretzels and goldfish.

Michael and I even got to watch a movie on our own for an hour or so. Unfortunately the movie was This is The End with James Franco, Seth Rogan, and Jonah Hill, amongst other adorable degenerates. (Why? Long story, but in a nutshell, for sermon research for the Spouse). But whatever.

We arrived at the Spouse's mom's house to the smell of amazing Korean food and feasted like kings. Seriously I don't think I've eaten so well since...ever!

And then I took a steaming hot shower and changed into fresh non-airplane clothes.

It's so great here, I might just tell everyone I visited an exclusive Korean family resort tucked away in the suburbs of Ohio this Christmas. And I may never return!

Poisoned

This week and weekend has been pretty rough.

Judah's been dealing with a horrific all-body rash that has turned his face into a cross between a puffer-fish and Quasimodo.

Kinda looks like a pro-activ "before" pic from hell.

Oh my poor, deformed, rashy son.

It started around Tuesday and I finally took him to the doc on Friday. The doc wasn't that impressed (probably since it didn't look that bad yet) and told us it wasn't contagious. Well, that's a relief.

The prevailing theory is poison oak (or ivy or sumac), but to be honest, we have no idea when or how Judah came in contact with the offending plant. He is forever trampling through shrubbery and hiding in it so he can gleefully watch us hunt for him, so it was probably inevitable that he would get this sooner or later.

Either way, I realized I do not handle watching my child suffer very well. I went through wild swings of imagination - what if it's strep? what if it infects his blood and organs? what if he goes into shock from the allergic reaction? what if the rash leaves horrific scars for life? what if he stops breathing? Pure. Torture.

But Judah has handled it all with surprising grace and equanimity of spirit. At his most uncomfortable stage one night I was patting him with cold water compresses, and he sighed in relief each time the cool cloth was draped over his burning skin. "I have the best mommy in the world," he cooed.

He is so much like me - blessing physical discomfort if it brings emotional consolation.

Up to No Good

I went to upload some pics from the ol' point and shoot and discovered some blurry random shots of our house.

Was a little puzzled until I came to this shot:

So Judah has figured out how to use the camera. And how to not tell his parents that he did something of which they probably wouldn't approve. 

I believe there are 'honest' people and not so honest people. The former are compelled to say the truth at all times, even if it's against their interest. They just can't help it. They are constitutionally incapable of not being truthful, however inconvenient. My spouse is one such person.

But I don't think Judah's one of those people. Which totally serves me right. I was the most dishonest sneaky kid in the history of kid-dom. It was just so much easier to do what I wanted and then lie about it, than to be honest and face the consequences. Rational, right?

In other news, the first monkey selfies have surfaced this week and it bears a remarkable resemblance to my human monkey's selfie, no?

Proof that preschoolers and primates are not that different I suppose.

That Asian Soccer Mom

This month Judah started his first sport: soccer.

Little known facts: Captain America plays soccer and my preschooler has chiseled abs.

I signed him up for soccer because (1) it meets conveniently 5 minutes away from my house and (2) I'm hoping all the running around will make him melt like a pat of butter into his pillow at bedtime.

And now I'm embarrassed to admit I've become that mom. That soccer mom, to be exact. I can't help it. Whenever I see Judah dribbling on the field I just have to shout encouragements at him--Good job! Don't use your hands! Wrong goal! Go the other way!

Okay, so they're mostly instructions and not so much praises. So I guess I'm that Asian soccer mom.

Those over-sized jerseys just melt my heart.

But seriously, there is so much joy in watching your kid run around and learn new skills. And there's nothing like that look of pride in your kid's eyes when he knows he's accomplished something--even something as small as kicking the ball in between his partner's spread-eagle legs.

Me and Noah taking a break from our cheer-leading duties.

I can't imagine how thrilling it would be to see Judah score a goal one day (in the right goal, that is). Judah is the opposite of athletic so I'm pretty sure that will never happen. But either way, I'll probably be on the sidelines shouting myself hoarse.

The suburbs aren't all that safe...

If you were to drive by my house last week on a random Thursday at precisely 7:26 pm, you would have seen my naked preschooler urinating on my driveway.

We had just gotten back from a walk in the neighborhood and Judah announced I HAVE TO PEE! Before I knew what was happening he had already taken off his pants and undies and just, well, peed. I have no idea why his t-shirt was off though. Hmmmmm.

I have no deep or witty insights into this episode. But it definitely made my day. Or rather it definitely made my day...more interesting. Life with a 3 year old--a gift that never stops giving.

It Was the Best of Times, It Was the Worst of Times

Last Saturday the day started off pretty well. I took the kids to an Easter Egg Hunt sponsored by a huge local park and it was everything you could ask for in a kiddie event.

The Spouse wasn't able to come but thank goodness a dear friend came along so I didn't have to schlep everything by myself and try to run after 2 kids at once going in the opposite direction--and bonus, she took some great pics for us!

I was more excited than the kids, this being MY first egg hunt too.

There were booths full of free swag, including law enforcement booths. Judah has been obsessed with policemen since age 1.5 but when he met actual officers he hid behind my back. Pity.

Brave enough to stand next to the car, but too shy to stand next to actual officers.

There was a free bounce house and face/hand painting. Judah was very insistent that glitter be applied to his artwork.

Judah proudly shows off his abiding love of law enforcement.

There was some creepy mute giant bunny, which Noah wisely wanted to get the hell away from.

Noah says "That's okay Mom, I'll just stand over here."

Noah would not have it. Not even for a second.

There was some arts and crafts and sidewalk chalk.

Pastel graffiti--lovely little signs of joy.

And of course, the piece de resistance, an egg hunt by age cohort. Noah got to go first in the 0-2 category which included adult accompaniment. I thought it would be cool to let Noah mosey around, leisurely picking up eggs, but I couldn't have been more wrong.

Noah, on the now empty field. Egg hunt fail.

 All the parents steam-rolled through the lawn like locusts in a wheat field and cleaned that puppy out in 20 seconds flat! One parent had pity on Noah's empty basket and dropped him a couple so he wouldn't end up empty-handed.

Look mom! One pity egg!

Judah got to go next in the 3-5 age group and managed to grab 3 eggs before they were all gone. Not a huge loot, but all the better since they were filled with candy.

Of course my kid is the one who doesn't know how to use a basket.

Preschoolers, preschoolers everywhere!

"I don't know who ate all of Noah's candy."

Noah, however, does know who ate all his candy.

The kids had fun and zonked out in the car trip home. But apparently one big adventure was not enough for that day.

In the evening Judah was climbing up a tall step stool to wash his hands and stepped where there was no step and crashed his chin down onto our granite counter top. Although there were no sharp edges involved, apparently the impact was so great it split his chin open about an inch and a half.

We took one look at it and instantly agreed that stitches would be needed--Judah's first stitches! At the ER Judah was actually in pretty good spirits as we waited for the doctor. He was a chatty Cathy and enjoyed being read his Justice League comic book.

Thank goodness for comic books.

The doctor came in and told us he'd have to get a numbing shot and get stitched up, which required him to get pappused (too lazy to spell check)--basically a straight jacket for kids--while 2 nurses held him down.

Judah gets pappused!

I will forever feel guilty that I mistakenly informed him about the numbing shot. I thought, and I told him, that they would shoot him near the wound but not actually in the wound and it would just be one quick shot. I could not have been more wrong.

The doctor stuck him right in his wound--SIX TIMES! Wow, that must've hurt! Of course that started Judah on a scream-a-thon that didn't end until he was released from his pappuse 10 long minutes later. Judah was also really offended that a bright light was being shone right in his eyes and a surgical paper was covering his face the whole time. Poor terrified kid.

You are all lucky there is no audio accompaniment for this pic.

The whole time I tried distracting him with made-up stories about Batman, much to the amusement of the medical staff. Alas, Judah was screaming to loudly to hear much of my story.

All stitched up! But still a little traumatized.

Happily Judah bounced back really easily and quickly. He went right to bed and woke up as if nothing ever happened.

I'm dreading when we get his (eight!) stitches out this Friday, but until then, we're doing great, all things considered.

Judah, Singer/Songwriter

Move over Taylor Swift, there's a new singer/songwriter in town.

Yesterday Judah just sang his first original composition.  I've heard him sing songs before, but never heard him make up his own lyrics, so of course I HAVE to note this major milestone.

First, a little background.  Judah loves his G.I. Joe motorcycle toy (which he sometimes mistakenly calls "B.I. Joe").  And we taught him the catchy song that goes with it--G.I. Joe, a real American hero!

Judah's been singing that little jingo all week and suddenly, yesterday added on a few lines of his own.  This is exactly how he sings it:

G.I. Joe, the real American hero,
He 'posed to see the baby
The baby 'posed to see the big boy
The big boy 'posed to see the cow
The cow 'posed to see the garbage man
The garbage man 'posed to see the fireman
The fireman 'posed to see the police

Um, yeah, we're totally ready for that Grammy nomination.

Major Milestones for Everyone

Exciting developments have been happening in the Chung house (unfortunately none of them have to do with better sleep).

First, at just 5 months and 1 week of age, Noah has cut his first tooth!  Yesterday I felt a little sharp ridge when Noah chomped down on my finger.  I shouted "Noah has a tooth!" excitedly and Judah, apparently my herald, carried the news far and wide around the house shouting "Noah got his first tooth!  Noah got a tooth!"  Well that explains all the recent bad sleeping and endless crying--teething pain!

Judah revels in Noah's first tooth--or maybe he's just slipping him another booger.

Second, about 2 months ago, Judah started wearing underwear.  It happened so nonchalantly I hardly noticed it, but in retrospect, I suppose it's quite the big deal.

The kid is potty-trained, but he still doesn't know how to "smile" like a normal person.

One day, I just sensed that Judah was ready.  I know that sounds totally unscientific, but I just got the feeling that he could tell me that he needed to pee before he did it.  After all, the dude has been preemptively telling me he had to poop since he was 18 months old (and basically hasn't pooped in his diaper since then).   So of course he could tell me about the urge to pee.

I had held off on "pee-training" for a while out of sheer convenience and not wanting to use public bathrooms, but I felt like it was finally time.  I guess, to be more accurate about the whole thing, I got the feeling that I was ready to have Judah "pee-trained."

Anyway, the first day he had 3 accidents and basically no more after that.  I bought a bunch of blue "police" underwear and we haven't looked back since.  Yay Judah!

Thirdly, Noah started solids this week.  Frankly, I'm not sure he was ready, but after him waking up multiple times at night, I was desperate to stuff his gullet with something more filling in hopes that he would sleep longer.  And besides, he's 5 months, it can't hurt.  At first he just kept pushing out the food with his tongue, but slowly I think he's getting the hang of it.

Fourthly, Noah is now locomotive!  Nope, he hasn't learned to crawl.  But he has learned to roll himself around, over and over again, so that he can end up on the opposite side of the room from where I put him down.  Not super impressive, but hey, my first baby didn't move himself until 10 months old (while standing and cruising) so it's impressive for a Chung baby!

Judah and Noah practice a scene from Adele's Chasing Pavements music video.

Noah can't yet roll away fast enough to avoid Judah's kisses.

And lastly, a milestone for mommy.  Recently, something has shifted inside of me from "have to" to "get to."  One day this week I just woke up and instead of feeling my usual dread and unwillingness to face the day, I felt...lucky.  Lucky to spend the day with a hilarious (but still moody and petulant) toddler and a cute, chubby (but still poor-sleeping and way-too-heavy) baby.

I'll probably explore this subtle, but tectonic shift in a later post, but for now, I'll just say this: Life is (still hard, but) surprisingly good.

Yeah, we really need to work on Judah's smile.

When Judah Met Noah

One of the most precious things I own--a 2 minute video of Judah meeting Noah for the very first time in the NICU (Noah had jaundice).  I love the look of worry and distress on Judah's face when he says "He's crying!" at the 57 second mark.
 

Judah meets Noah from El Bebo on Vimeo.

Another one for the virtual scrapbook

Last week I was about to leave your room after putting you to bed when we had this short exchange:

Me:  Okay, good night Judah.  Mommy's leaving now.
Judah: No!  No mommy, don't leave!
Me:  Sorry Judah, Mommy has to go sleep in her own bed.
Judah: Okay, but don't close the door though.

What?!  You know the proper usage of the conjunction 'though'?!

Mommy Has a Sad

Today sucked.

We spent 2 terrifying hours in the ER  to have a doctor check out a major contusion Judah got from a horrible fall.  He basically ran, nose-first, into the sharp edge of a bookcase that the spouse was constructing on the floor.  His entire body weight and all his momentum fell squarely and solely on his poor little nose.

We're going to tell people we enrolled him in the Toddler edition of UFC.  You should see the other 2 year old!

As the blood started pooling and the swelling began, we freaked out and hurriedly rushed to the nearest hospital, cursing every stoplight along the way.  We tried putting ice on it right away but quickly gave up when Judah screamed bloody murder each time.  So much for that.

The entire wait time, the spouse kept saying how Judah's nose was probably broken and there might be some painful 'resetting' needing to be done.  Thanks for scaring the crap out of me honey.  We braced ourselves for the worst.

In the end, the doctor sent us home with some neosporin and an icepack (which remains unused).  Nothing serious, apparently, just a really badly bruised nose.

As the hours ticked by, I kept replaying the event in my head.  Could we have prevented it?  Was there anything we could've done?  And honestly, my quick conclusion was and still is--no.  There's just no way we could've anticipated or prevented this--short of putting him in a strait-jacket and/or human cage.

There's just a hundred and one ways a crazy active toddler can hurt himself and there's just no sane way to really protect him all that much.  But that certainly didn't stop me from being a crazy vigilante after we came home.

Judah acted like nothing happened and even started skipping around the same fatal bookshelf.  How does this guy not have a healthy fear of that evil object now?!  He gallavanted about the house like he was invincible and I hovered around him closely, shouting constantly--don't run!  be careful!  don't touch that!

Sigh.  I know this is all futile.  He's a crazy active boy and one day (maybe more than once) he's going to break some major bone(s).  So what's a mom to do?

I know the right answer is to let go and accept the inevitable.  But seriously, I'm thinking...look into full-body armor for kids?  Padded helmets maybe?