Thursday, April 22, 2010

Lie #6: I am Donna Reed...

There is something about watching old television shows that is truly idiotic, and not in a slap stick Lucy and Ethel get into trouble way. It's those Leave It to Beaver, Donna Reed, Father knows Best shows that need to be taken off the air for good, sorry Nick@Nite Channel... but this is one Mom that can't take it anymore! I'm sick and tired of being reminded everyday that I am NOT Donna Reed, or worse, Mrs. Fuckin' Clever! 


It's hard enough just to get through the day without the rediculous expectation of being super uber Mom who keeps her cool under all conditions and for many tv-oholics like myself, we've been brainwashed to believe that this is even possible in today's society and now must rewire our brains to accept reality as the new acceptable norm.


This morning is a prime example of reality hitting me squarely across the noggin'. 


It's seven thirty in the morning, I have told Minnie and Teeny to get dressed and eat their breakfast. I listen to them run around the house looking for the "right" clothes and clean socks. (For some reason, our socks don't like to walk their way up from the laundry basket in the basement. ) Now it's quarter to eight, "Did you eat your breakfast?" 


"No!"


"You better eat before you don't have time..." I try to remain calm. Now don't misunderstand me and think that I believe sending the girls to school without breakfast is a good idea, I just think that at seven and almost ten, they are able to prioritize what needs to be accomplished in the morning, the same three things that need to be accomplished every morning. Get dressed. Eat Breakfast.  Walk to school. Not rocket science!


In my quest to teach them responsibility and independence, we have worked months of this particular threesome. Some days each of them prides themselves on getting themselves ready for the day. Today is not one of those days.


Eight o'clock. Time to get on coats and shoes and get out the door. Teeny is sitting by the side door wrapped in her fuzzy Valentines fleece blanket. Minnie runs up and down the stairs, looking for Teeny's shoes.


"What are you doing? Where is Teeny?"


"She's sitting by the door."


"Go ahead on to school, I'll deal with her." I instruct my eldest.


Okay, time to step in. I go to the side door and find my youngest daughter. "What are you doing?" I find myself barking, "get your shoes on!" I shove her feet into her shoes, whipping the blanket off of her shoulders. "Where's your coat?"


"I don't know."


"Well, go find it, look up in your room!"


I spend hours a week picking up toys and clothes, cleaning bedrooms, discovering snacks under beds and washing dishes and folding clothes. Is it too much to ask for them to be responsible for  their jackets? If they hung them up on the hook by the door, then they'd have no problem. Is it my problem if they want to drag it all over the house? 


"Hurry up, or you're going to be late!"


Teeny sulks upstairs and returns with her coat and homework bag in her hand. 


I make her walk alone, her sister having left nearly 10 minutes before. It's now 8:18 and the first bell rings at 8:25. It is only two and half blocks to school, but I will not drive her in the car. I am reminded of the time that my own mother made me walk nearly a mile to school one morning when I got up late and I indeed was tardy to school. I am also reminded that it only happened once and I learned my lesson. 


I feel a bit guilty as I watch her walk down the driveway in tears, but I remain strong. I cannot go back on my word. I hate it when I see parents in the store threatening to leave and then amazingly when I am in back of them at the check-out, their children have gum and candy bars in their hands to pacify them. If you threaten, you must follow through. End of Story. Period.  Just last night we got within two feet of the grocery store when I had to send them back to the car; no ice cream for them, no ice cream for Mom. It sucked, but it made a clear point. When I threaten, I will follow through. 


I wait by the phone, anxious to see if I get a call from school that she didn't make it in time to join her line outside by the playground when the bell rang. 8:40, no call. 8:50, no call. She must have made it in time.


Now believe me when I tell you, I am not a hard ass, a tyrant. There are many things that my friends and my children can attest to that occur in my home that you will not find in others. For example, slumber parties in the basement till all hours of the night, no question of what they are doing, how big a mess they are making, why there is half a pizza on the floor and a bag full of powder sugar donuts scattered on the couch. This is not a battle I fight, nor care about. I will deal with this in the morning, once children have gone home and I am at one with my big garbage can and vacuum. I want my children to be children, to have fun without my interference as long as they are safe. 


I want my kids to know that I know that their home is a home where fun is permitted and boundaries are set widely. A drawer full of snacks to take at their discretion, you bet! I think of the hundreds of cookies and snacks I hid under my shirt on my way to my room and laugh at the memory. Hours at the pool, craft projects where the mess at the table is not questioned, nor expected, entire bedrooms fitted with entertainment centers, movies and video games...these kids have it easy, they are living a grand life!


But on the flip side, I know it is my responsibility to prepare them to be on their own and this is one lesson that is important: time management and responsibility for self in those constraints. It's a lesson that I find many adults still grapple with and I hope my children will learn before adulthood. I personally am a stickler when it comes to being on time. I see it as respect for where I am to be or who I am to meet. Of course, there are things out of my control that can keep me from getting to my destination from time to time, that comes with being a mother with three kids in tow. But for the most part, I pride myself in managing my time and being efficient in all that I do. 


So I struggle to find a balance in my life as a newly single Mom and on most days I find myself amazed at my capabilities and patience. A new normal is being set into motion and I am finding myself on a hit and miss venture. Most days go off with only minor situations, ones that I can over look or catch myself in a calm lesson learned environment.


I still cook well balanced home cooked meals. Not as often as I did before, but still more then many people I know. I end each meal with a special desert, a snack before bed to keep tummys full until morning. I wash and fold their clothes, make their beds, pick up after them constantly, but not in pearls and heels. I dance to Miley Cyrus and pretend to care about the quiz in the latest teen-bop magazine. I play Wii and watch High School Musical for the 100th time. I understand the importance of sharp tipped crayons and have been in attendance of over 1000 tea parties in my life,  including preparing tiny plates of minature sandwiches and cookies,  slices of cheese and real hot chocolate to pour and inevitable spill in the tiny porcelain cups. My kids are my life. 


Yet on the off days, I have to remind myself...I am not Donna Reed, nor do I want to be.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

DARE: to live life in the moment....

April 20, 1978. It was an special day for Josie, it was her 6th birthday. Already, the day had been a whirl of excitement. There were pink iced chocolate cupcakes, made with much love by her mother and packed on a foil wrapped cookie sheet to bring to school to pass out to her classmates and her beloved first grade teacher, Mr. W. 


She had worn a dress to school that day, which now bounced playfully in the warm spring wind as she trotted home from school, the thirteen block walk less daunting due to her small circle of friends that joined her on the journey. There was eight of them in all, including herself. They filled the sidewalk with their party dresses and backpacks as they linked arms as they walked, stopping frequently in  fits of giggles and side tracked observations. And what should have been the best walk home of the year, with nothing but thoughts of ice cream and strawberry pink cake, presents and balloons, came a sick feeling in Josie's stomach as the secret she kept inside began to come to realization.

It all began two weeks earlier when her mother instructed her to pick out six friends to invite to a birthday party. One girl for each year that she was turning. Simple math to a mother, a little more difficult for a social five going on six year old who was a people pleaser at heart. She invited the sweet ballerina with the long braids, the tomboy that was her closest friend at the moment  and the tomboys step-sister. There was the girl with a thick glasses and the strange but exotic  name.  There was a blonde girl that she spent endless hours playing with after school at the grandmother's house that watched her while her parent's worked. There was a girl named Tracey that she invited for no particular reason. That was six. And then there was Andi. Andi lived up the block, six houses part her own. She didn't know why she decided on a whim to invite that auburn haired freckle face girl, but she did. Now merely four blocks from a room full of streamers and paper cups of kool-aid, Josie realized that she had to interrupt this blissful excursion with the truth of her miss-step. 


And while memory alludes her to the exact words, somehow she told Andi that she couldn't come to her party and as the other's ran up the brick walk in front of Josie's green house, Andi continued on her way home.


Years later, Josie tells her Mom of this incident, to which her mother is horrified, "what must Andi's mother thought all these years? If I had known, she certainly could have come to the party...what was one more?"


And while it is unknown what Andi's mother thought, ironically, Josie and Andi became the best of friends years later when they were in middle school, a friendship that would last over the years, through marriages and babies. In fact, on her 18th birthday, Josie would receive a blue and white wrapped gift from her friend, inside a small stuffed squirrel, the exact gift that Andi had nestled in her back-pack years ago on that long walk home....




                                                                         *


Now a mother, I think back to that day can't imagine what this little girl or her mother dealt with that day. Oh, the mistakes we make as children. Why didn't I just confess to my mother that I had invited a 7th? I don't know....fear of not getting a present for not following her directions? I can't tell you why...I can only say that each year as my birthday approaches, I think about this certain day. More so, I think about the little girl and her stuffed squirrel and how we can now look back and laugh about it, how lucky am I that she didn't ban me from her life forever. 


Yesterday was my 38th birthday. Last Saturday, I arrived at my girlfriend's house, Ms. Sexy Spice to be surprised by friends and food and booze and laughter that spilled into the dark night. My first surprise party ever.  And while there were friends, both near and far that couldn't partake in the festivities, I went home that evening and thought to myself... it isn't who was actually at the party that really counted as a whole, but who was invited, who I wished were there... and in spirit, they were. And those that were there with me that night were a representation of every blessed person in my life. How lucky am I that they love me so much to want to celebrate the "Me" of Me. 


Sexy Spice. Skater Girl. Hoots. MarthaStew. Thank you ladies! Not only do you share in the ups and downs of my everday, you surprised me with one of the best surprises of my life and made me remember to 'live in the  moment", savor the sweetness....and I'm not talking about the candy from the pinata!
                                                               

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Lie #5: I don't believe in dieting....


Her thighs burned, starting to shake out of control. This pain couldn't possibly be endured much longer. She tried to sidetrack her brain by thinking about how her butt looked suspended in the air, her hips thrust forward in the awkward pose.
    
"Three, two, one and rest," instructed the girl in the mirror, clad in black yoga pants and a tight fitted white t-shirt. Josie scowled at the sight of her young, toned body, jealous of her flat abs and perky bottom.


It had been two weeks since she had joined this aerobic class and she had yet to discover any change besides the soreness of muscles that up until now she was unaware that she even had.


She hid herself behind a large Native American lady that was nearly two times her size, an overweight smile encouraging her along as Josie silently glanced at the clock. It had only been fifteen minutes since the start of the class,how in the world was she going to make it through the remaining forty-five? And whose idea was this torturous regiment?


Josie reached over and picked up her water bottle, chugging the entire contents in one breathe. Perhaps she would slip out during the dreaded wall squat to refill it,only to return once "perky bottom girl"got tired of drilling their thighs into submission.


Once again, she looked at her reflection in the wall of mirrors. She really couldn't complain much. Compared to some of the women in the class, she already was the 'after'to their 'before.' However, after three children and her 35th birthday, she really couldn't hold off the inevitable.


She had always been a thin child, almost anorexic looking by today's standard. She remembered returning home after her first semester in college, when most of the girls in her dormitory complained of gaining the "freshman fifteen." She imagined she had also gained weight on the cafeteria diet of cheeseburgers and pizza, but she was surprisingly welcomed home by the comment, "you look good, you've gained a little weight." So she returned to school, free to gorge on egg and bacon sandwiches for breakfast, burgers for lunch and dinner,with the occasional whole pizza during breaks from studying late at night. She had an aversion toward any kind of recreational or enforced exercise besides the awkward dancing at Homecoming, or later, when she was old enough to get into the latest hot spot club.


She didn't know if it was her Asian genes or just plan luck that until recently, she was never burdened with issues concerning weight. Of course, this didn't mean she didn't have issues concerning her body.


She was born with the prerequisite round Asian face,  flat nose and thick course dark hair. She watched in horror during middle school and then on in to high school as the girls around her developed breasts and curves, while remained pencil thin, her breasts easily contained in the white Playtex bra bought by her mother in the seventh grade in hopes of giving her some sense of body self-esteem. She had no hips to speak of, her body reminiscent of that of a thirteen year old boy from the neck down. She used to spend hours alone in her room, examining her body in a full length mirror on her closet door,praying for any sign that womanhood was approaching, only to realize that the hair that sprouted in her armpits, the mild acne and the small buds on her chest may be her only resemblance of being on the cusp of becoming a woman for years to come.


It was lack of self-esteem that led Josie to make some ill-fated choices when it came to male attention during her college years, only to leave her feeling used and ashamed on many a morning. However,even this didn't stop her from repeating the same choices over and over again. It wasn't until she met the man that would become her husband that she realized that the body she had been given was only a vessel in which she lived, it did not define who she was.


It was during her first pregnancy that she experienced her first weight issue. Despite the concerns and lectures from her handsome male obstetrician, she packed on a whopping 80 pounds during her daughter's nine month gestational period. She remembered craving McDonald's cheeseburgers and salty french fries dipped in thick chocolate milk shakes, making daily trips to the local WalMart under the disguise of picking up needed items for the nursery in order to quench her cravings at the in-store restaurant. She was one of those women who literally "ate for two", only she ate the equivalent of two grown adults on a free-buffet cruise line.


"I'm pregnant," was her excuse, even when she began to outweigh her husband and his healthy 175 pound body.


She relished in the delusion of not caring about the weight, convinced that she would lose it quickly after giving birth. Ice cream and potato chips became her best friend as she sat watching episode after episode of 'A Baby Story'on TLC, preparing for the birth of her first born.


The first of her girlfriends to have a baby, it came as quite a shock after twelve hours of labor, to discover that only six pounds of her 80 plus were actually cradled in her arms, sheer physical exhaustion blinding her from the girth around her middle that appeared to be the stomach of a woman still at least six months pregnant.


She returned home three days later with her little pink package of joy, delighting in the arrival of her new best friends; milk engorged breasts. Though painful as the milk first arrived, she was memorized by the sheer magnitude of them. High and thrust out from her chest, they were comparable to the breasts she had seen on celebrities and models on the E! Channel and quietly prayed that they would be forever hers. Of course,one  should be careful of what they pray for, because such vain prayers are rarely answered. 


A year went by as she blissfully raised her daughter, her stomach slowly reshaping itself into a soft round belly, silver raised stretch marks reminding her of the limitations of the human body, souvenirs she would carry with her for the rest of her life. She dutifully nursed her baby to give her all the nutrition and antibodies that she needed according to her ever faithful 'What to Expect' manual, secretly postponing any weaning because of the inevitable fear of losing her "stripper boobs."


Having no full length mirror in the rented apartment, she spared herself from the truth of the matter; losing the weight she had put on during her pregnancy was not going to happen overnight, or even that year in fact. A summer vacation at the in-laws would be the turning point. Particularly one casual snapshot of her frolicking in the waves with her picture perfect Gap baby.


She was fat.


A slim respectable 110 pounds on her wedding day had morphed into a 160 pound 'before' ad for Weight Watchers. She sat devastated at what she saw in the photograph. She knew that she wasn't huge by all means, but she didn't recognize the woman in the picture. She had always been the "skinny one" and this revelation of moving up the scale was undeniable and undesired.


"What am I going to do?" she wondered, making an ill-fated hormonal choice that the best thing to do was to get pregnant again, so her protruding stomach at least had a purpose.


To her delight, she had a bit more self control during her second pregnancy and the scale only grew 50 pounds. This said, with the additional pre-pregnancy weight, she was the size of a whale.


Another healthy baby in tow, she vowed to reclaim her body when the initial nursing was done, this time sped up by a looming wedding reception that was to take place on daughter number two's sixth month birthday. 


She joined Weight Watchers and found herself at the local chapter meeting, dutifully sitting through the hour long speech about "eating with boundaries",  learning the point system and purchasing all the required books and pamphlets that would her her "shed the pounds." She found strength in knowing that she was not alone in her struggle and promised that she would make a sincere effort to stick to the plan. She did stick to the plan and lost seven pounds in the first two weeks. Then she discovered the miracle of the "Atkin's Diet" and nearly went mentally insane with graphs and total consumption over carbohydrate grams, but succeeded in shedding another 25 pounds in time to make her grand entrance at the wedding reception. 


Now, one might think that this would be the end of her quest, but another pregnancy would be discovered a mere six months later and while she did contain herself from the overabundant smörgåsbord of her previous pregnancies, weight gain was inevitable and so she found herself again struggling to balance the nutrition needed to sustain a healthy baby and her knowledge that she could very easily spin out of control with her eating habits.


Perhaps it was running after two toddlers that kept her somewhat fit and unconsumed by the death-trap she called her kitchen.Or perhaps it was the boy that grew inside of her that biologically changed the physiology of her body. She was not new age enough to understand what changed in her. She only knew that this last pregnancy was by far her most successful when it came to the dreaded scale.


The next fall, she found herself stepping out of the shower, toweling off a body that had not been in her presence for nearly five years. Yes, there was extra hanging skin that is never attractive,  but this could be easily disguised in the right clothing. Her breasts, still full with nutrition looked alright in the mirror. It was the fact that she could see a curve in her waist that delighted her the most. She tentatively stepped on the scale,something she never did unless she was actively dieting and was amazed to find that she had lost all the baby weight and then some, all without opening one book, or denying herself one extra craved carbohydrate. She felt resigned to the fact that after three babies, her body had changed and would never be that of a 26 year old bride again, but felt content in most of what she saw reflected back at her.


"Okay, I think I can live with this," she told herself. " I might even attempt bringing the kids to the pool this summer."


Now living in the mid-west in the state known for it's great cheese and sausage, she knew that she was by far on the low end of any comparison scale.She decided that if she just maintained, she could be happy. This was all said and done until her son turned three, just four months shy of her 35th birthday.


And while she had never been one to shy away from getting older,crying over the end of her twenties or living in fear of the big 3-5, she wished someone would have keyed her in to the fact that physically, 35 is a major turning point.


She could no longer eat without questioning the fat or calorie content of particular delicacies that she had never though of before.


She knew that the scale could and would swing at any moment without diligent observation of herself and her eating habits. She could no longer rely on "good genes" to keep herself in check. She needed to start to exercise to maintain the current state of her body. With this knowledge, she found herself packing up all three kids into her beige mini-van and steering herself toward the local YMCA.


It is here that she found herself each morning, glued to the individual mini television set posted above the tread mill or elliptical machine. It is here that she has brought herself to endure the pain brought upon her by a young, chipper spandex clad girl named Stacy.


It is here that she discovered that beneath the multi-colored baggy sweat suits of the women in this torture room simply disguised with a simple black and white photocopied sign entitled "Totally Toned", are women with their own stories, and most often these stories have nothing to do with the numbers that appear on the scale.


                                                                       *


Today was the first hot day of the year, truly hot to the point that I allowed the girls to put on bathing suits and go outside. Today I am reminded that I have not been to the gym in nearly three months and summer is fast approaching... maybe I should rethink my priorities.... maybe eating ice cream in bed tonight while watching tv on the internet is not the greatest plan of attack... 





Friday, April 9, 2010

TRUTH: sisters are sometimes created, not born of blood...

I am a pre Sex and the City woman. Meaning, I missed the original broadcast of this phenomenon because I was too cheap to pay for HBO and was too busy out drinking and kissing strangers in the dark. I am now a mother of three beautiful children who can no fathom the idea of their mother partying the night away; mascara smudged around her glazed eyes, stumbling around at dawn collecting discarded pieces of clothing in order to make it back home to prepare for work, only to do it all over again that night. 


There was a time when I used to refer to these as "the good old days".  Night after night filled with  great adventure, laughter and true friendship as we set out on a quest of loud music, sweaty dancing and ice cold beverages...Most of this close knit group were boys that I filled my life with brotherly love. Through the years, some of these would cross over to become lovers in moments of liquor induced frenzy, but ironically,  for whatever reason,  the friendships meant more to us and that is what has endured over the years and it is the group memories that remain clear in my mind, the moonlight  interludes but a fuzzy recollection in the midst of the chaotic times. Twenty years later we have grown apart, scattered throughout the nation and most of us have begun families of our own. I wonder if they think back to these times and have the same sweet memories. Some of these people have popped in and out of my life with some regularity, some I have only reconnected with through the amazing technology and invention of the internet mega hit, Facebook. Either way, I am happy of these reminders of my youth, no matter how many choices were made out of insecurity, self-loathing and plain old bad judgement, I know that this is a part of growing up, experiences that I cherish, lessons that sometimes had to be learned the hard way, but learned all the same. I miss them and wish them well. 



Today, at nearly forty, which to my delight I'm told is the new thirty, I have had the opportunity through DVD technology to have watched said iconic show and must admit to my chagrin,  for better or worse, I have been changed because of it. I wonder to myself if I would have been effected as much had I been a voyeur to these snippets of metropolitan mayhem and sexual awakenings the first time around in my twenties.


Perhaps I would have put less pressure on myself to go out and find that husband and instead, find that unique sense of self worth in my earlier years, ala Samantha.  I'm sure I would have a more polished wardrobe, extending beyond my daily uniform of khaki pants and t-shirts, a matching cardigan sweater thrown on top when I need to "dress it up." Maybe I would have set out to have a high powered career and found success and empowerment in the corporate world like Miranda. If I am honest with myself ,most likely I would be ... and am... a pared down version of the doe eyed optimist Charlotte,  dreaming of the perfect existence in the suburbs. 


In interviews they always claim that it was and is an ensemble show, but who are they kidding? It was ultimately all about Carrie. Carrie's wardrobe... Carrie's career as a writer ... Carrie's love affairs... Carrie's friends. Perhaps it's because if you think about it, Carrie is the ultimate fantasy character. Every  woman who is a fan of the show wishes she was the Carrie in her group of friends...while in reality I believe we all have a part of Carrie in us,  our distinct desire to be loved, to be accepted and to feel whole in a world filled with miss- understanding, miss communication and everyday mishaps of what is called life.


I must admit here that while I am an entertainment junkie and open minded enough to watch most anything, even the sometimes down right vulgar mishaps of these made up characters; you need not have watched a single complete episode to understand the true desire and gift of sisterhood and conditional love that was ultimately was the basis the show.


I am blessed. I have found my own clan of incredible women who fill my life with mishaps, laughter and shoulder's to cry on. Throughout my writing, you will hear about many of them.  Each one unique in their own way, perfect in what I need in my life to complete what I often refer to as "the inner circle". We come from all different backgrounds and experiences. And while from an outside view, we may all appear the same, busy mother's of young children...take the kids away, add a bottle of wine and a tray of snacks and our true colors come out, the true essence of the women we were, the women we are, the women we strive to become. I long for the times when we can find the time in our hectic schedules to get together and that I can leave my "Mom" title at the door and reclaim my "girlfriend" status. I know they all feel the same. 


I know these women have my back. They have shown in through the years by their actions, but their kind words, by their open ears, by their loving compassionate hearts that allow me to struggle on. In return, they have my eternal gratitude, my respect, my love. Not a day goes by that I don't think to myself, "how lucky am I?" Should I want for something more...my cup is filled to the brim with love and laughter and all I need to do is ask for more, and it will be provided. 


I have finally found peace in this desire. There is no Sex, though we do like to talk and giggle about it. There is no City, we live in a small midwest town, but the essence of it all is here and now and on my part, will remain forever.... 






As an adoptee, it is in my blood and in my being to not only desire, but to crave on an almost animalistic level the need for  connection... family ....sisterhood of sorts...... I have finally found "home".

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Lie #4: I am not vain....

From the time she was five, pink had become Josie's signature color. A girly girl at heart, everything about the hue made her happy and to this day, she finds that if up to her, this is the color of choice she dresses in.
  
 Perhaps it was because after two boys, her mother found herself intoxicated by the menagerie of frilly pink outfits befitting her sought after daughter. Or more likely, as she was told, it was her mother's mother, Gramma D, that went overboard on the shopping and stocked her closet full of 70's inspired girl's ware. No matter how the trend began, Josie would find herself both inspired and drawn to the delicate hue.


It was written in her adoption documents that while she was of Korean descent, they suspected that there was some type other mixed race in her blood as well, because of her unique exotic look, particularly her naturally curly hair. As a child, like most mothers, Josie's Mom revealed in dolling up these waves with plastic color matching barrettes, the kind that were either floral shaped of in the shape of small animals like ducks and bunnies.


"Oh my goodness, what lovely curls," people would comment, "is her hair naturally curly?"


In time, these beautiful curls would become a lifetime battle of tears and tantrums as technology hadn't progressed to what it is now in the beauty industry. 


She remembers late nights in middle school spent brushing out the curls into a submissive wave with what was referred to as a "curling brush" in those days. A flaming hot rod surrounded with black plastic bristles that would inevitably end up stuck in her hair and have to be painfully extracted with sensitive burned finger tips. And on the  occasion that she would forget to unplug said curling brush, it would be put into hiding by her mother as a learning experience as to "not burn down the house." On these occasions, going to school with her now hormonally changed hair was a nightmare to say the least, and if it had been up to her, she would have been suspiciously ill the remainder of the week in question.


How could her mother be so unfair? she would cry as she experimented with hair bands and braids, frantic and desperate to somehow find away to keep her hair under control in the moist northwest air. How she yearned for long stick straight that would dry in it's natural state after her bath. How she begged God to somehow miraculously change the molecular structure of each strand that tortured her on a daily basis. Unfortunately, each morning she would awake to her same head of hair and the quest would continue.


For a brief time in highschool, she succumbed to the curls...luckily big hair was the look of the 80's and while she yearned for gravity AquaNet induced bangs, she knew it was never meant to be for her.


How many hours spent over her life span were actually spent trying to transform her hair are a mystery...a unfortunate test of finding peace in what nature had bestowed upon her, and her tolerance and desire for what she envisioned as beautiful. 




There is something to be said about a woman that says she is NOT vain. I don't believe it to be true no matter what one says. For example, I have one acquaintance that is quite "granola like" and natural, but I know she washer her long shiny hair at least three times a week. Even if she does it out of normal "hair maintenance", there must be a part of her that does it so it doesn't look greasy. My education and experience from Cosmetology school tells me that there are many women in the world that ONLY wash their hair once a week when they come in for their weekly 'wash and set'. Also, I know that washing one's hair too much is actually damaging to the hair follicles and promotes hair breakage and excess hair loss. So even if not consciously, this woman washes her hair in order for it to look nice, not out of necessity.


Of course, this is said from one who is extremely vain. Not in a "gosh, aren't I soooo gorgeous, I won't leave the house without full make-up" vanity, but as in a "I want to look the best I can." This is said from one who has struggled all of her life with the reflection she sees in the mirror.


I have to be honest and sat that I among of those women that has been mind fucked over the years by society, the media; ie the E-Channel and every other rediculous port of idealism of what beauty is and how my appearance stacks up in a world of unrealistic expectations. Over the years, I have learned to fight this insecure battle better, but I still have my days when I feel less then stellar about my appearance and find myself restless with insecurities.


I am happy to announce that through the blessing of the invention of the hot iron, and hours of practice, I have finally nailed down the perfect blow out and am the proud owner of long straight sleek hair. How my life could have progressed in a different direction had this been so twenty years ago. 


Now don't you go feeling sorry for me and think I have super low self esteem... I think I am a  realistic example of many women across this country. I think I've found a balance between accepting how I look and wanting to look better. I have come to peace with the fact that I will never be the blue eyes, blonde haired girl from the Lo real commercial. I have come to peace with the fact that after breast feeding three babies, I will never have the perky breasts of a teenager again. Nor would I change my decision or the memories of my warm babies nestled in so close, even knowing the physical repercussion of these choices. 


Though I must admit that I do sometimes harbor flashes of jealousy when I see my good friend Sexy Spice and her fabulous new full monster boobs! But unless I win the lotto (which won't happen since I'm too cheap to even buy a ticket in the first place) or find a man who is willing to pay for them, I'll have to make do with my simple National Geographic breasts.

As for the rest of my reflection, I have my good days and my bad days... everyone does....


Most importantly, even on the bad days...I have come to learn that my beauty resides inside...in the goodness of my heart, in the moral of my being...but hey, that doesn't mean I don't  still yearn to be "the hottest bitch around"...



Monday, April 5, 2010

Lie #3: I don't have a temper....

There were certain things in her childhood she could always depend on staying the same. One of these being the Sunday evening ritual of Banquet Pot Pies and ice cream for supper before rushing off to yet another church service to finish out the weekend. In this quaint home of home cooked meals and not a store bought cookie in sight, this had become quite a treat for the little wavy haired girl. Her favorite was chicken pot pie, the perfectly diced vegetables and processed chicken surrounded by salty light brown gravy beneath a toasty golden crust. She looked forward to this meal each weekend, a taste of store bought goodness and a foray into a life long addiction to comfort food. This tasty meal was the predecessor to yet another treat that would be known as ice cream Sunday, the only day of the week that desert took on the form of creamy cold vanilla or chocolate goodness. These two things made Sunday and all the hushed sitting in church and memorizing of Bible verses a little more tolerable to this young girl who usually spent her days on the go,  an energized whirl of action and destruction left in her wake.


It was one such Sunday evening when her world was suddenly turned upside down without any notice.  She saddled up to the green Formica table, licking her small rose bud lips in anticipation of her much loved meal, her silver fork perched over the steaming golden crust in it's shiny miniature tin pan.  After a quick simple blessing, she dug into her supper, but was surprised and shocked when she was met not by a golden gravy center, but a dark brown liquid surrounding her tiny peas and perfectly square cut carrots.


"This isn't chicken?" she exclaimed in her squeaky Smurfett voice.
"No, that one is beef," her mother gently explained.
"But I don't LIKE beef, I LIKE chicken," she said, her eyes crinkled up in a confused stare.
"I only have two chicken pot pies, tonight you're having beef," her mother rationalized, "you always have chicken, tonight you can try beef."


She felt the tears begin to well up in her dark almond shaped eyes, her gaze falling upon her older brother's plate, his chicken pot pie already naked of it's flaky pastry top. 


"Why can't I have Ethan's pot pie, he has chicken... I LIKE chicken..." she spoke softly, more to herself then to someone else, having not yet learned to filter her thoughts before voicing them at her young age.


"Josie, you can try beef tonight.  Next week you can have chicken again," her father interjected in a calm, but firm baritone voice.


It was more then she could take, her small heart beating faster and faster as her tear stained face transformed into a grimace and then a frown.


"If I can't have a chicken pot pie, then I'm running away!" she declared in a shrill demanding tone.


Her always calm father put down  his fork and turned slowly toward her. "Fine, if you're going to run away, then you better go pack."


With this said, she flung herself away from the table, tears of rage and frustration falling down her rose blushed cheeks. Bounding out of the kitchen, she pounded up the stairs, making sure she was extra careful to make as much noise as possible on the orange and brown shag carpet. She kicked the white painted door shut with her foot and scurried toward her closet, reaching deep into the back to retrieve the bright floral miniature suitcase that she used when she went on family vacations to Gramma's farm.


Into the polyester lined rectangle, she put her most prized possessions... her brown teddy bear with the orange glass eyes she had named Pumpkin, a hair brush with what she assumed was a real ivory handle and her fake patent leather Mary Jane dress shoes with the little heels that tip tapped along the sidewalk when she would run off to the Sunday school building.


"Now where can I run away to?" she pondered, before coming up with the perfect idea. Of course, the front hall closet was perfect, they wouldn't be able to find her behind all the winter coats and stacks of boots. Zipping the suitcase shut with a relish and a evil pint-size grin, Josie tip toed down the entryway staircase and quietly opened the closet door. She peered in at the surroundings and found a small nook near the back and nestled in for the chaos of what would surely be the frantic search for the dear beloved young princess.


She sat and waited....the smell of the hot fragrant meat pies making their way to her hiding spot. "Maybe beef would be good?" she thought, and then shook her head in disbelief that she could or would give in that easily. "No, I like chicken!" she reminded herself. She sat, one arm perched on her suitcase, the other placed firmly in a tight fist beneath her chin.


It is said that it was mere minutes after her disappearance into the closet, but for her, it seemed an eternity, when suddenly the door squeaked open and she looked up to see her older brother's tousled dark hair. 


"Josie, you can have my chicken pot pie...." he sighed,  the look in his eyes one of disbelief of how one such incident could put his baby sister into such a tizzy and yet still a glimpse of true brotherly kindness.


"Really, I can have yours?" she perked up immediately, a look of triumph on her sweet small devilish face.


"Sure," Ethan agreed, "Mom said  I get the last of the chocolate ice cream for desert," he proudly announced. 
  
Josie's eyes widened in amazement of  such a statement, "Wait a minute! I LIKE chocolate ice cream...."






My dear sweet mother will be the first one to tell you, "Josie has always been her own woman, feisty and stubborn and willing to tell you when she doesn't like what's up!" 
I know this to be too true. And while there are times when I have incredible patience and tolerance, I have found that there is an invisible line that once crossed can never be rewritten in the sand. I will be your best friend, or your worst enemy...or much worse in my mind, I have no thought either way of your existence in the world in which I live. This may come off as rather harsh. Is there no in between, you may ask? Not for me. I have lived what seems to be a thousand years trying to be the peacemaker, the one who will tolerate anything in order to be liked and admired. And what has this gotten me? Stepped on and pushed aside, made to feel inadequte and under appreciated, that's what it has gotten me. 


Not to say that I am inconsiderate or even a bitch when it comes to my relationships. Don't get me wrong on this statement. I have found that I have an incredibly large loving and kind heart when it comes to my friendships. I find immense joy in helping those in need, lending a nonjudgmental ear, a warm hug or a hot home cooked meal. I just expect that in return.  My love and respect are hard to earn, but given free reign one taken until I sense the feelings are not reciprocated in a kind and loving manner to which I now realize I deserve. 


I believe my long lasting friendships, some over the entire span of my life, are a testament to my devotion to those close to my heart.  And yet there are a few people, relatives included that I have put not only in a recycle box of the inventory of bad and unhealthy relationships, but have also emotionally shipped off to Switzerland, the land of neutrality, as I find I have no emotional ties to these people.


I have discovered over the last few years that my life is too short to spend unnecessary emotional energy on those who cannot or will not bring their best light to my life. Perhaps it is a matter of an ill fitted, one sided relationship that I find so disturbing. I just know that I am a giver of my heart, my mind, my soul, my time and energy and rather then harbor ill feelings when I feel I'm not given the same in return, I use my recycle method to rid my life of those I don't find complementary to my needs or desires.


I have found the lifting of the emotional burden amazing and thus I can go forward and give my all to those special people in my life that truly enliven and enrich my life in so many blessed ways.


Those close to me already know this about me. I was quickly reminded of that when I was told, "the first day I met you at playgroup, I could tell you were someone I wanted to know... but I also knew that you weren't one to mess with... if I was going to be your friend, I would have to go all in!" And I am delighted to say that after years of ill timing, we finally did find the courage and energy to seek each other out on a more personal level and this wonderfully insightful woman is one of my closest and most cherished friends.


As for the temper issue of the girl of my youth, I think that age and experience has softened me somewhat. I must be honest and admit that at times, I can fly off the handle into the utmost irrational behavior if I don't monitor myself. God's cheap thrill in it all is that he gave me a daughter with the same vibrant attitude as my own. There is plenty of shrill tearful moments to remind me of my former self and I feel as if I need to apologize to my mother on a daily basis for some of the  hysterical antics of my youth. Who the hell did I think I was to be so demanding when I was given every opportunity and blessing in my life. I do not want the legacy of such an attitude to be handed down to Minnie Me. Fortunately I am still young enough with a almost "Ripley's Believe it or Not'" type of  memory of such times that I can find tolerance and patience to explain in a loving way how such behavior is unnecessary and unflattering to my beautiful, truly kind hearted daughter.


And it is the wee ones around the house that remind me to tone back my speech, as my sailor mouth can sometimes get the best of me. 


"Mommy, that's a bad word!" Teeny will exclaim in faked comical horror if I slip up and start ranting.


 Or better yet,  Mr. Whitestrips will grimace his small handsome GQ face at me from the back seat of the car as we arrive at MacDonalds and I take an extra moment digging in my purse for my wallet and innocently exclaim, "Come on Mom, quit fuckin' around and let's go!" 



Sunday, April 4, 2010

Lie #2: My name is Josie....

Her parents were somewhat of a mystery to her. She sensed what knowledge she had of them were only simple tales heard at family get gatherings, but not the detailed stories she desired. She knew that had to be special people to have sent for a lonely orphaned infant from across the sea. But who they were, she spent years trying to understand. 


Residing in a small town in the Pacific Northwest, her father worked at the local college and her mother, a former special education teacher, now spent her days a a life coach to her three young children. Devote Christians, God came first in the home, with discipline a close second.


There was always enough to go around financially, but nothing was wasted and frivolous purchases were few and far between. Whether this was because of basic necessity or a by-product of having grown up at the end of the depression, it is not known. The structure of the somewhat ridged household brought both the good and the bad that that entailed and she would not understand the importance of growing up in such an environment until much later in life.


What she did know from the beginning was that she grew up in a  loving home. Everything she had ever seen on television reminded her of that one true fact.Nothing that she had ever watched on Oprah ever made her question it. Of course,a loving household often meant restrictions and unfair expectations, in her opinion, but there was never yelling or even raised voices in her recollections of her formative years.


If anything,it was the lack of communication that was the one downfall of her childhood. Her father, a quiet computer professor; before the Microsoft boom, before the dot.com generation, was a man who spoke few words, but thought deeply with a mathematical mind that was confusing to her. Growing up, the youngest son of eleven siblings, she imagined that it must have been difficult to be heard in a home filled with so many voices and assumed that this is why he internalized his voice and remained content in his silent reflections.  


On the other side, her mother was optimistic and talkative, always one to share in the conversations with the other mother's that often gathered together. Yet, the daughter sensed that there was something behind her mother's cheerful disposition. It would be as an adult that she would question her mother's lack of gumption when it came to serious matters. It was as if her mother felt uneasy speaking her mind in case it would upset or differ from the general concessions. It would be years later that she would begin to understand the environment that her mother had grownup in and why her mother, underneath the positive attitude, remained tethered to a childhood where positive words and actions were often used to cover up the secrets of chaos and addiction. 


She often wondered what brought her parents together, but knew that as parents, they were a good team. A balance that brought secure consistency to her life,no matter how stifling that felt at times.



She grew up in a green house with a red brick porch and a white glass front door. The front hall had a wood floor and a wood staircase on the left wall that led upstairs to the bedrooms and pink,later green and purple bathroom. There was a coat closet in the hallway that after a pot-pie incident became a cave to run away to and an old fashion metal steam heater that would become a drop-off spot to dry wet mittens and hats throughout the dreary months, this being most of them in the rain soaked town. There were four bedrooms upstairs. Three of them would be used by her throughout the years. Sometimes shared with her younger sister, sometimes as a solo escape from the world she lived in. 


She doesn't recollect the house every being cluttered,with the exception of her bedroom. She doesn't remember seeing her mother do a daily clean as she would find herself doing years later with her own family, but such mundane things surely didn't warrant a space in her memory. It was particular tangible memories she did have of this residence where she spent so many years. The heavy green curtains in the living room, that would be memorialized behind her passport photo for all eternity. the big red fake leather chair that she could squeak her toes across as she sat and watched Sesame Street. The piano that she would listen to her father play church hymns on and where she would later sit upon the glossy black piano bench and cry when she didn't want to practice for her weekly lessons.


There was a fireplace that was only used for Christmas parties when she was told to stay upstairs, but she would sometimes sneak out of her room and sit at the top of the stairway and listen to the hushed voices and see the flicker of the flames reflected off the glass French doors that closed off the living room from the hallway. 


There was one party she was invited to, a honored guest,  when she was only nine months old. Two days before Christmas on her arrival into the country of freedom and promise. It was at this party that her not only her life changed, but also her name as she was introduced around as Josie, her newly given name; named in honor of her new proud mother. 




For years I hid the fact that Josie is not my true name. Not that I am particularly fond of my birth name, nor could I even say it correctly until a sweet old Korean man at the local grocery store taught me phonetically how to pronounce it. For as far as I am concerned, and since I have no recollection of life before my "American birth", my name is Josie. Recently however, my mother mailed me the contents of my adoption files and there I was, a tiny eleven pound version of myself, a stranger in a 37 year old torn and faded manila envelope wearing a homemade name plate across my chest, Yun Sun Jung. 


I get teary thinking of my own children and the special attention I made in the choice of their given names. How can I so easily forget my own, condemn my own? Who lovingly choose out this name for me? I will never know. In fact, for all I know, this was given to me by a worker at the orphanage as part of their daily paperwork. So I don't feel bad at my lack of ownership, that is not why the tears form slowly for me. It is because while I know I  was not conceived or born the conventional way by my mother, it is this woman that chose me, loved me  and  named me even  before I arrived that snowy winter day into her loving arms.

Lie #1: I am at peace with myself....

Ever since I was a young child, I was taught that it was bad to lie and yet I find that I have been lying my entire life. Not that, "I didn't hit my sister", when indeed I had, type of lie. But rather, the "I feel fine", when I feel like shit, type of lie. Why do I do it, I don't know. Perhaps if I could be honest with myself, I'd understand better. Perhaps if I could muster up the courage and get myself into therapy for more then a month jaunt at a time, I could start to uncover the reasons behind a lifetime of lying to myself and to others.

In any case, I suppose everyone is a liar, but they don't really know it. I have come to accept it as a reality in my life. Not that I see myself as a villain in my actions, but rather I've come to accept that sometimes the truth is too hard to manage at times. Sometimes the truth can hurt too much to say out loud.

One might ask, then why should we believe that I am telling the truth now then? Because for the first time in my life, I've found the ability and the strength to be honest with myself .For the first time I have the courage to believe that living in an honest state of chaos instead of succumbing to what society has taught me to be or to want to be, is more important to me than living in the lies of my own cowardice.

It is Easter Sunday, for some people, the celebration of new life, if you're the religious type. Perhaps you'd think that that is why I choose this day to begin this blog. I could lie and say that it is, but rather it's the inspiration of a dear friend, who renewed the spirit of the writer in me. So I end this day with a vow to myself... to live each day to the fullest, to not hold back anymore from the past that has been pulling me down my entire life. To quit lying to myself and purge it all in order to do so. My hope is by writing this down I can finally put it all to rest, reflect on the lessons I learned from the lies, bury them in the past and begin a life worth living with honest emotion and honest convictions. Once again, I wonder, am I lying by thinking this is possible...I guess I'll find out.

In the beginning....

Yun Sun Jung. Born in 1972, across the ocean in a land filled with almond shaped eyes and olive skinned people, she is but a faded black and white snapshot in a faded worn photo album. Who is this dark haired baby with the "doe in the headlights" look upon her face? Did she cry when she was first born? Did her mother nuzzle her against her warm breast, sweaty and exhausted from a hard labor? Or did this black eyed baby emerge from the womb alert, content and curious of her bright new surroundings? Only that woman and God can answer this for sure. This is the first of many mysteries that will haunt this child for decades to come as she struggles to survive in a world where the questions are many and the answers few.



I look into the mirror and wonder where the years have gone. I neither look young nor old, but somewhere in between. Is it my Asian genes that mask my age or is it the dazed, blank look in my eyes? My blue black hair is now tinted a dark brown as I attempt to cover up the coarse gray strands that have crept in over the previous years. My irises, still dark in color are surrounded by whites that are reddened by daily lack of sleep and stress. I would love to say that I see wisdom behind those eyes, but rather, I will call it experience. Of innocence and childhood, of teenage angst and youthful follies and mishaps. Of first love and all encompassing lust. And most recently, of unconditional motherly love and relationship disillusionment.

It is now in my 37th year that I find myself at a crossroads in my physical, emotional and spiritual life. I have bore my children and as I approach sending them all off to school, I ask myself, now what? What is my purpose? Where is the woman I was told I was to become one day? From all my extensive research on daytime television talk shows, I realize that this has been the normal scenario for woman all around the world since the beginning of time and I am certainly not alone in my renewal for purpose. The only difference in my situation is that I must ask myself, did I ever feel that I had purpose? Value? That is the ultimate question that I ask myself. One I hope to answer by writing this blog, this journal, this memoir of sorts. My true story of the unique authentic me. Perhaps by writing of years gone by, of current struggles and observations will inspire me to find peace in myself. Perhaps it will allow me to let go of the lies embedded in my brain and in my soul and discover the woman I was meant to be, but have yet to become.