Hello, Blog.

What happened?

It's Friday  Saturday MONDAY already!? Seems like I just posted my last Friday Five a few hours ago. But alas, here I am rambling away, losing time, and trying to reel in where the rest of my week went.

Let's see. There was a beach trip. A donut the size of Mandarin's head. A laid back holiday at home. A very important interview I attended where I discovered I had a jovial Minnie Mouse sticker stuck on my shoe ( which of course I discovered post-interview), and a bad case of something I caught in the air that gave me a hacking cough and made me lose my voice. I think I sound like Rachel Ray, except not as perky.

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Meantime, Mandarin's vocabulary has increased at exponential speed. There are simple words she says that  make me ask her what it is again and again just to hear her say it; like bath. She says baaf which I find too cute for words. Or when we say surprise I syllabicate it for her and she says it with precise detail and yet when I ask her to say the entire word, her eyes light up and with full breath force she utters, Priiice!

This morning we sat on top of the stairs before heading down for breakfast and exchanged I love you's like we do each day, except this time she looked me in the eye and said,  I've you mama (that's I Love You in Mandarin speak). Suddenly everything difficult about being a parent so far, the patience you invest, all the worry you spend, and the effort and hope that you cast out like a net with eager anticipation of what returns, diffuses in to the lightness of feathers taking flight from the ground.  

She may not know it yet, the power of words. But as a mother, I do. ♥

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The Hard Truth

This was the thought that arrived on a cloudy Saturday morning while my family and I were still huddled in bed. This is the hard truth of motherhood - motherhood in migration.

I was of course being reflective of the events of the precious evening when Mandarin blatantly reminded me of my place

1. What was I even thinking bringing a toddler to a restaurant catering all-you-can-drink sake bombs to twenty-somethings who barely understand the meaning of pacing your drinks. This was irresponsible on my end; hunger, the lure of Japanese Shabu-Shabu, and admittedly just to be out with  (pretty much) everyone got the best of me. Had I known it was as bad as it was going to be, I wouldn't have even considered taking her there.

2. When going to the said place, given a very late reservation of 9:00pm means you will be seated at 9:45 and start eating a little past 10:00.

3. Toddler bedtime + short afternoon nap + belligerent and drunken crowd noise = mommy and me meltdown. The best thing to do was to leave, mid-meal before the next round of paper thin slices of beef even had the chance to cook because my instinctive solution was to remove her from that environment.

While I can easily say that all mothers out there completely understand this scenario, the hard truth that immediately commanded my attention was that - while all possible mothers there had someone to leave their children with, I on the other hand, did not.

I've heard several opinions about this and it's easy for someone who has a parent or grandparent or a sibling to leave their child with at a wink's notice to say that they should learn how to cope with their environment. Knowing what I know about my child; that she is very much opinionated, knows what she wants and is capable of traumatizing an adult in the manner in which she cries, that she can set off mass chaos with the voracity of her howling protest- how can I possibly leave her with anyone and not feel any sense of guilt? Guilty for the person watching her, that is. It is debilitating to say the least. Embarrassing (at times) even. Because I have no more excuses. Whether she's tired, hungry, sleepy or groggy - the reason she cries the way she does is because I am her only sense of comfort and security. This of course is expected, being a stay at home mom. 

And if it were a process, it will be a long and treacherous one. 

This was something I didn't foresee when we moved here. Getting lost. The sense of emotional space I would have to deal with as a mother, without close proximity to the people I would otherwise - ask for help. 

*  *  *

I wrote that draft a few weeks ago, with every intention of finishing it but hit a dead end when I fell short of  finding transcendence in my struggles. Because there always is; says the adult in my head. I could've just deleted the draft and moved onto other things, but felt that that particular evening was definitive of how I've now decided to alter my perception of  how things are versus how I think they ought to be. 

So this weekend I tried to find my bearings by taking Mandarin to a park to simply let her be. The girl loves to run and explore. Allowing her to play and discover to her hearts content was liberating, the fresh albeit cold air, cathartic. It is simple days like this with my family that I like to pitch in my anchor and steady my sails for the bliss and battles to come.

Happy Baby  =  Happy Mommy  =  Happy Family.

The internet (surprise!) harbors an alarming hoard of inspired words to live by. One in particular that I came across with:

"Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass...it's about learning to dance in the rain."

                                                                            Source: sodahead.com via SevenHurricane on Pinterest

Of course, it's got me thinking: Migration is a bitch. There is it is. The simple truth. The hard truth. There are blessings of possibility and curses of detachment.  It gives you opportunity with a side of isolation and pure moments of bliss with dismal echoes of gray discomfort. It is the constant turning of these binaries that can sometimes make settling into a life difficult. Manageable. But difficult at times.

I moved to a country known for vast spaces, interstate freeways and super sized opportunities and dreams only to find myself living a limited fraction of what I know I am fully capable of - with the biggest responsibility of my life nonetheless - Mandarin and motherhood.  Now that I've finally (and painfully) admitted this to myself, I take it to duty to sift through my cluttered thoughts to find MY voice. To find MY place in the order of things, and ensure myself that I will have the tenacity to never get lost again.

When was the last time you danced in the rain?

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Oh, Hello.

I just packed up Christmas at our house. Say what? Yes. It’s nearly the end of January and today was the only day I found time to box up the tree, the family of snowmen, stockings and ornaments. Back in the box. Back in the garage. It’s not all the product of procrastination either. The variables that factor into this delay include an appendectomy, a stroke, emergency rooms, a mistaken and mindless comment from a a clueless ER doctor stating the presence of metastatic prostate cancer, a pandemic of hypertension among family members, and a daughter who has now entered the Cling-on phase. All she does is cry out for me the second I put her down or leave the room for a nano second; and may I just say that this girl’s crying voice is of the disarming variety.  All these and a tumultuous uproar of emotional (personal) noise. Some issues at hand that make me want to: A. Seek therapy.   B. Meet up with an old flame - the cigarette (which I probably won’t because it’s too much of a hassle to quit - again). C. Be a porker and shove an entire box of chocolate covered macadamia nuts in my mouth.  When the ship you’re sailing is rocked, finding one’s bearings is seemingly dim. Eventually the day breaks and calm waters do ensue but until then or at least for now I’m just coming up for air. 

That’s what I wrote last night. This morning I woke up feeling like myself again and not the the growling monster I went to bed as. It felt peaceful waking up next to Mandarin this morning and seeing her so easeful and calm gave me the serenity to get over the occasional stress of motherhood. My palm still perfectly fits the side of her face just like it does with my hubby’s face and I find it meaningful that the emancipation - the mere act of opening one’s hands begets forgiveness and receives it just the same. All while being open to all the good  that we forget is always there. I want to take this moment of clarity and put it in a locket to take with me anywhere I go as a constant reminder of hope.

January keeps trying to knock me down, but I’m still standing. And all I have to say to that is: Yes. Thank you. More please.  I’ll be ready, February. 

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Motherhood...

Looks like I missed the obligatory Mother’s Day post. No great epiphanies to share from dawn’s breaking to dusk’s closing except that I really do value my mother a hundred fold, now that I’ve become one myself. But then everyday would be THE day to know this. Nonetheless, Mother’s Day merits some form of appreciative gesture; a phone call, a Facebook shout out, cheesy Hallmark card, or an iTunes gift card. It’s during these days that make it difficult to be 7,764 miles away from your mother when all you want to give her - to express your gratitude for giving you life, loving you and raising you - is a hug. It doesn’t help that she’s resistant to the internet either. So much for Skype. Or email.

So. What is it like to be a new mother?

Tiring. Rewarding. Often times I feel like I’m running on instinct and is probably the most that I’ve trusted myself; my body, my mind, and what I am capable of handling. All it takes is a smile (like I always say) but more often than not Mandarin sticks her tongue out on the corner of her mouth and I’m done. My-sappy-heart-is-melting - done. Sooner or later we all discover these soft spots; the twinkle in her eye, that naughty smirk...nothing like a dose of silliness to tug at those heartstrings.

Frustrating: when I feel like I can’t get it right. The laundry’s piled up, dishes unwashed, meals to be cooked, toys on the floor, rooms to clean, vacuum and swiffer through. It can get chaotic, but when all things are lined up and everything is in harmony, well, let’s just say I will dance with the spunk of a flash mob in Grand Central station when I’m happy.

Sentimental and weepy. Everyday.

Gratifying. Truth be told, there is a sense of pride knowing that you’re raising your daughter the best possible way you can. And loving her with as much love as your heart can fill.

The quiet and poignant ripples of inexplicable JOY.

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