The Writing Mamas Daily Blog
Each day on the Writing Mamas Daily Blog, a different member will write about mothering.If you're a mom then you've said these words, you've made these observations and you've lived these situations - 24/7.
And for that, you are a goddess.
Thursday, April 09, 2009
A Scary Word Comes Between a Family
She asked if she could sit in my lap and I said of course. Mimi hesitated, than leapt onto me. I wondered why she thought before acting.
Mimi felt heavier. I tried to put my chin above her head, but it didn’t fit.
Something was odd. Something was different.
As I put my arms around her, I realized what it was -- she had physically outgrown me.
There was a gap between us. A distance apart.
Almost nine months earlier, nearly the time it takes to give birth, I labored with the delivery of a very different kind of announcement: I was told I had cancer. Just that word. . .
I had no idea how unbelievable it would all become. How sitting still for even a few minutes would be a major accomplishment. How senior moments would became EVERY moment. How much I would change.
There were times I would lose it and my husband and children would just stare because they were not used to seeing me this way.
Early on, during a three-month wait for a definite diagnosis, in my mind I journeyed to my own funeral. It was difficult for me to look at my family because then I would have to consider that possibility.
Now I know it’s in an early stage, but the disease is chronic and unusual. There is no net.
For some two-hundred nights I have applied a topical chemotherapy drug that smells like a bomb and is derived from one. I’m in a clinical trial, so the experimental agent comes in a yellow and black bag that looks like police tape, and my bathroom hutch resembles a crime scene.
Each tube of medication is plastered with warning labels.
In psychedelic pink: Caution: CYTOTOXIC DRUG. Dispose of properly.
In neon yellow: CAUTION: New drug limited by Federal Law to investigational use.
In bright orange: HIGH ALERT MEDICINE.
I feel like a spotlight is on me and a helicopter hovering above.
But then seriousness sets in. I know my situation has affected my children emotionally. My son will come into my daughter’s room while I stare off into middle distances that are never far enough away. “You’re OK, right?”
Mimi will move toward me but then face away with her back. She reminds me of a pissed-off cat. She wants to love, but she is afraid. Mimi has asked me not to die.
Today, when my husband dropped me off at the Cancer Center, my daughter began to cry as hard as the rain outside pounded. “Wait!” I pleaded to the valet. “I need to hug my daughter.” I felt her hot tears mingle with my own. Her body was warm and enveloped me as we clung tightly.
I promised Mimi repeatedly that everything will be alright.
I believe in those words. I have children. I must.
By Dawn Yun
I believe in those words. I have children. I must.
By Dawn Yun
Labels: algebra, breast cancer, clinical trial, cytotoxic drug, Dawn Yun, diagnosis, homework, labor, senior moments, topical chemotherapy
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Tuesday, February 17, 2009
China, Get Your Adoption Shit Together
A power-hungry, deeply insecure and insanely controlling government that actually cared enough about their parent-less children to give them to those who deeply longed to be their parents.
Not anymore.
Now the government is saying that with some sixty-five hundred Chinese children adopted annually, they are running out of babies and kids to give away.
In a nation of zillions, with a policy of one child per family and a government that favors boys over girls, not enough kids?
No, that’s not the real reason. The real reason is that the Chinese government only wants a certain type of person to adopt their children.
If you are under fifty, disease-free, make a certain amount of money, and, my very personal favorite, have only a certain amount of body fat -- then you can adopt from China.
No doubt that last requirement is to ensure that Chinese children are not given to parents who like junk food. That is a very important characteristic for a potential parent.
People who hope to become parents go through an enormous amount of pain, money and time trying to adopt. Given that it can take more than a year to get your papers in order, do a home study, wait, be approved, and then fly there to get your child – one has to REALLY want to be a parent.
I know so many people, married and single, who have adopted from China. When I see them with their children, it is hard to see them without.
They have enriched and made whole their children’s lives, as their children have done for them.
Today they would not be able to adopt their own children.
How insane.
By Dawn Yun
Labels: adoption, baby boys, baby girls, China, Chinese government adoption policies, Dawn Yun
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Friday, January 16, 2009
Smart-Ass Kids With Attitude Need Gratitude
It’s always one more thing. Okay, I’ll go to bed if I can just watch this show. Just ten more minutes. Is that more than fifteen minutes?
The adorable thing. In the midst of a major blowout, she always says something naïve and cute and my heart melts.
“No! NOW!” I scream. She relents. Well, actually, she has no choice. I’ve turned off the TV and hidden the remote.
She seems shocked when I announce we’re brushing our teeth. “Brushing our teeth, too?” she asks. Like we haven’t done this every night for the last four years -- which we have.
“Yes,” I hiss.
“What-e-v-e-r,” she says.
Whatever? She’s five. How does she know that word, and when did she learn to say it just that way?
Can you imagine if you ever said that to your mother? I know what mine would have said.
When they’re babies, it’s so routine. Poop. Hunger. Sleep. The Big Three. But as soon as they can walk and talk, there are all these other variables. It’s the variables that prevent them from knowing routines.
And realizing what to say and what not to say.
Can you imagine if you ever said that to your mother? I know what mine would have said.
When they’re babies, it’s so routine. Poop. Hunger. Sleep. The Big Three. But as soon as they can walk and talk, there are all these other variables. It’s the variables that prevent them from knowing routines.
And realizing what to say and what not to say.
Ah, it's a good thing they're cute.
by Dawn Yun
by Dawn Yun
Labels: brushing teeth, Dawn Yun, poop, sleep
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Thursday, January 08, 2009
How A School Field Trip Got Tripped Up
I said I would drive to Muir Woods and could chaperone another child. Once there, my daughter, Mimi, darted ahead to her friend, Annali, and her mother, Sherry, while my charge, Aimee, lagged behind, as did Sherry’s chaperoned child, Lizzie.
“Go ahead,” I yelled to Sherry. “We’ll catch right up with you.”
We never did.
“Hurry up, girls,” I kept saying to Aimee and Lizzie.
They didn't hear me.
Out of some forty children and twenty adults -- Aimee, Lizzie and I were last.
At one point, a father, Peter, observing my situation, asked the one question that played like a Mobius Loop through my head.
“Wish you were with your daughter?”
“It’s kind of why I came,” I said.
Lizzie thrust her arms in the air toward me so they formed a giant V.
“Pick me up,” she said. “I’m really tired.”
This child, who I did not know, and whose life I was responsible for -- wanted me to pick her up? I'm sure she was very sweet, but she wasn't even the kid I was supposed to watch.
Besides, I needed a pick-me up, too. Say a double-shot espresso latte grande? Actually -- two.
“How much longer?” I wearily asked another parent.
To quote pretty much every kid I knew -- this was not fun.
“We’re almost there.”
“Hear that girls?” I said to my charges. “Let’s go!”
We raced, well, s-l-o-w-l-y walked, a few hundred more feet. And there, by the banister was Sherry, her daughter and mine.
“Mommy, Mommy, where were you?” Mimi asked.
“I was with Aimee and Lizzie,” I said, while hugging her. My deep embrace revealed to me just how very worried I had been.
Mimi looked up. Her nose wrinkled, eyes confused. “Why weren’t you with me?”
It was the same query I would ask my mother when she didn't come on my field trips, while other mothers did.
“We’re almost there.”
“Hear that girls?” I said to my charges. “Let’s go!”
We raced, well, s-l-o-w-l-y walked, a few hundred more feet. And there, by the banister was Sherry, her daughter and mine.
“Mommy, Mommy, where were you?” Mimi asked.
“I was with Aimee and Lizzie,” I said, while hugging her. My deep embrace revealed to me just how very worried I had been.
Mimi looked up. Her nose wrinkled, eyes confused. “Why weren’t you with me?”
It was the same query I would ask my mother when she didn't come on my field trips, while other mothers did.
I apologized and made a mental note for our next field trip: stay very close to my own child, while still watching someone else's.
I put my arm around Mimi’s shoulders as we walked to the parking lot. Even if it was only a few minutes, and though it wasn’t exactly what I had planned, at least I did get to spend part of my daughter’s first field trip with her.
At least I tried.
By Dawn Yun
I put my arm around Mimi’s shoulders as we walked to the parking lot. Even if it was only a few minutes, and though it wasn’t exactly what I had planned, at least I did get to spend part of my daughter’s first field trip with her.
At least I tried.
By Dawn Yun
Labels: Dawn Yun, school field trips, volunteering
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Saturday, September 13, 2008
Reflections on Mothers and Daughters of Different Colors
My daughter dragged me into her classroom. She wanted to show me a drawing she had made of herself.
While we often joke that her name is Mimi, for a reason, her drawing was simple and devoid of conceit.
My daughter is multi-racial. She is Chinese, Korean, Hawaiian, Austrian, Russian, Jewish and Methodist.
Every mother thinks her child is beautiful. I’m no exception. But I believe it because I’ve had enough people tell me that she is exotic, attractive, tall, and thin, with perfect skin.
It is the color of her flesh that drew me to her drawing. Her skin was drawn brown.
The wall was filled with self-drawings of all the children in her class. Most of the kids had colored their skin pink or yellow.
I never look at either of my children or my husband as dark-skinned Asians. Though I always notice when others do. I just see them as my husband and kids.
But I was curious.
I told Mimi I loved her drawing, but wondered why she colored her skin so dark. She thought about it. Perhaps she became self-conscious. She said it was because it was the only crayon she could find.
Uh-huh.
I found another drawing she made of herself. Her skin was about the same tone.
“What color would you have drawn my skin?” I asked her.
She thought, even going as far as dramatically placing her finger on her chin and wrinkling her brow.
Skin deep in thought.
“Yellow or pink, probably,” she said.
“Ah-ha! It was deliberate,” I said. No I didn’t say that. Why would I? It didn’t matter. It was simply intriguing because while we have discussed that Mommy has the biggest nose in our family, including the cats’, we’ve never discussed the tones of our skin.
Yesterday we went into a hip store that Mimi discovered in downtown San Rafael. I bought a cool dress and teardrop black Bakelite earrings for twenty bucks!!! Mimi wanted a necklace but it was twenty-four dollars! Major bling. I told her to go to the woman behind the desk and bargain.
“This is in your blood – on both sides,” I yelled out.
She didn’t know what I meant. But she seemed to recognize that this was an important rite of passage. She got the owner down to twelve dollars. I knew from somewhere above my mother, the world’s greatest bargainer, was beaming with pride at her seven-year old granddaughter. We agreed that if Mimi did her homework for a week and cleaned her room daily – it was hers.
The owner and I chatted and laughed, and then I was taken aback when she asked, “Is she your daughter?”
It was not the first time.
If we were the same color and Mimi didn’t look Asian and I didn’t look Caucasian, I doubt people would inquire as often. I would think it would be apparent from the way we speak and interact as only mothers and daughters can.
That the world may see us a bit differently was not a revelation.
That my daughter apparently does was the bigger surprise.
By Dawn Yun Stumble This Post
While we often joke that her name is Mimi, for a reason, her drawing was simple and devoid of conceit.
My daughter is multi-racial. She is Chinese, Korean, Hawaiian, Austrian, Russian, Jewish and Methodist.
Every mother thinks her child is beautiful. I’m no exception. But I believe it because I’ve had enough people tell me that she is exotic, attractive, tall, and thin, with perfect skin.
It is the color of her flesh that drew me to her drawing. Her skin was drawn brown.
The wall was filled with self-drawings of all the children in her class. Most of the kids had colored their skin pink or yellow.
I never look at either of my children or my husband as dark-skinned Asians. Though I always notice when others do. I just see them as my husband and kids.
But I was curious.
I told Mimi I loved her drawing, but wondered why she colored her skin so dark. She thought about it. Perhaps she became self-conscious. She said it was because it was the only crayon she could find.
Uh-huh.
I found another drawing she made of herself. Her skin was about the same tone.
“What color would you have drawn my skin?” I asked her.
She thought, even going as far as dramatically placing her finger on her chin and wrinkling her brow.
Skin deep in thought.
“Yellow or pink, probably,” she said.
“Ah-ha! It was deliberate,” I said. No I didn’t say that. Why would I? It didn’t matter. It was simply intriguing because while we have discussed that Mommy has the biggest nose in our family, including the cats’, we’ve never discussed the tones of our skin.
Yesterday we went into a hip store that Mimi discovered in downtown San Rafael. I bought a cool dress and teardrop black Bakelite earrings for twenty bucks!!! Mimi wanted a necklace but it was twenty-four dollars! Major bling. I told her to go to the woman behind the desk and bargain.
“This is in your blood – on both sides,” I yelled out.
She didn’t know what I meant. But she seemed to recognize that this was an important rite of passage. She got the owner down to twelve dollars. I knew from somewhere above my mother, the world’s greatest bargainer, was beaming with pride at her seven-year old granddaughter. We agreed that if Mimi did her homework for a week and cleaned her room daily – it was hers.
The owner and I chatted and laughed, and then I was taken aback when she asked, “Is she your daughter?”
It was not the first time.
If we were the same color and Mimi didn’t look Asian and I didn’t look Caucasian, I doubt people would inquire as often. I would think it would be apparent from the way we speak and interact as only mothers and daughters can.
That the world may see us a bit differently was not a revelation.
That my daughter apparently does was the bigger surprise.
By Dawn Yun
Labels: Asian, Bargains, Caucasian, Dawn Yun, multi-racial
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Thursday, August 28, 2008
The First Day of School -- A Success!!!
The morning began with my daughter, Mimi, telling me that she did NOT want to go to school.
As this was her first day – so far not so good.
Then she wanted to know if she could play her Nintendo DS.
“NOOOOOOOOOO!!!”
A lack of enthusiasm on her part, over-screaming on mine.
We agreed to begin again.
Together we made scrambled eggs. Mimi noted the pretty color swirls of the egg and yolk.
Good, I thought. Her artistic muscle is starting to move again.
I told her she could pick out any dress and shoes she wanted. To my delight, she chose the outfit her father had wanted her to wear. It was also the dress he had bought her. I consider myself incredibly lucky in that department as he buys all her clothing.
We got to school just as the first bell sounded and made it within the classroom before the second one did. I promised Mimi she would not be late a single day this year and I plan to keep that agreement.
Her teacher shook my hand and greeted us warmly. Some of the kids yelled out her name. Big smile. Mimi was assigned a seat next to a friend from last year’s class and her table was right next to that of one of her closest friends.
More importantly, the classroom felt right. What was so correct about it was its size: small. The room was intimate. This was what a classroom should be, and should have been during her previous grades. Now she would get the attention that all students, especially young ones, need to receive.
But that is behind us: the remainder of the year is ahead.
Mimi was completely happy. I left joyful, too. As I surveyed the school lawn filled with mommies in seemingly earnest conversations, I saw that the mothers I had decided I would hit up early for play dates were deep in talk and I didn’t feel perky enough to join in.
I realized I also lacked the required joviality to attend the parents’ coffee in the auditorium.
Besides, I had errands to run, an article to write and the classroom experience was so perfect -- I didn’t want to mar it.
I’ll bring my appointment book with me tomorrow and try again. If that doesn’t work, perhaps the next day.
Though I have this sense that I may not need to be involved in my daughter’s play life at all.
She seems to be doing just fine on her own.
School is for her. It is not social time for me. I already suffered through high school once. I don’t want to have to do it a second time.
By Dawn Yun
Labels: back to school, Dawn Yun
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Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Gone Daddy, Gone
How I wanted to be a hippie.
All my friends had teenage siblings with hair parted in the middle that reached halfway down their backs, and rebellious attitudes that extended even deeper.
A tween, the closest I came to being hip was covering my walls with DayGlo posters that said, love, peace and happiness.
This was 1968. The country was changing. We were losing the Vietnam War. There was one hope. Bobby Kennedy. He was running for president, and Bobby was going to save us.
Rescue me.
The political Bobby was not the man I saw. It was his patriarchal side that attracted me. A father of eleven. Eleven! His family played touch football. I didn’t even know what it meant. It sounded like a father giving his child a warm hug after a well-thrown spiral.
Nineteen sixty eight was a seminal year for me for another reason: it was when my father abandoned my family. His leaving marked us. Our upper-middle class status immediately changed: we became less thans.
Bobby Kennedy would never do that. He became the surrogate father I no longer had.
With great care, I cut out pictures of Bobby from my mother’s “Life,” and “Look” magazines as he played touch football on that fabled lawn in Hyannis Port and hung them between my Monkees posters and plastic signs that said, groovy.
I had pictures of Bobby on the campaign trail, too. His white shirtsleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, his skinny black tie flying in the wind, as he shook hand after hand, shoving a thatch of hair out of his eyes.
I was filled with love for him, but shrouded in anger. Angry that my father could run away so easily and take only one picture of his family with him while leaving an entire photo album scattered behind.
Bobby would never leave his children.
Then he did.
Jack LaLanne, the fitness guru of his day, was exercising on TV. Only Jack wasn’t on the air. I could not believe what was. I screamed for my mother.
She ran up the stairs as the blur of what she saw became painfully focused. We stared at the TV as our cries pierced the silence.
“There goes our hopes and dreams,” Mom finally said. “They shot another good man. John Kennedy. Martin Luther King, Jr. Now Bobby Kennedy.”
He passed the next day.
That morning, I carefully began removing his pictures from my walls. Bobby shaking hands. Playing touch foodball. Hugging his children.
It was like losing a father twice.
By Dawn Yun Stumble This Post
All my friends had teenage siblings with hair parted in the middle that reached halfway down their backs, and rebellious attitudes that extended even deeper.
A tween, the closest I came to being hip was covering my walls with DayGlo posters that said, love, peace and happiness.
This was 1968. The country was changing. We were losing the Vietnam War. There was one hope. Bobby Kennedy. He was running for president, and Bobby was going to save us.
Rescue me.
The political Bobby was not the man I saw. It was his patriarchal side that attracted me. A father of eleven. Eleven! His family played touch football. I didn’t even know what it meant. It sounded like a father giving his child a warm hug after a well-thrown spiral.
Nineteen sixty eight was a seminal year for me for another reason: it was when my father abandoned my family. His leaving marked us. Our upper-middle class status immediately changed: we became less thans.
Bobby Kennedy would never do that. He became the surrogate father I no longer had.
With great care, I cut out pictures of Bobby from my mother’s “Life,” and “Look” magazines as he played touch football on that fabled lawn in Hyannis Port and hung them between my Monkees posters and plastic signs that said, groovy.
I had pictures of Bobby on the campaign trail, too. His white shirtsleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, his skinny black tie flying in the wind, as he shook hand after hand, shoving a thatch of hair out of his eyes.
I was filled with love for him, but shrouded in anger. Angry that my father could run away so easily and take only one picture of his family with him while leaving an entire photo album scattered behind.
Bobby would never leave his children.
Then he did.
Jack LaLanne, the fitness guru of his day, was exercising on TV. Only Jack wasn’t on the air. I could not believe what was. I screamed for my mother.
She ran up the stairs as the blur of what she saw became painfully focused. We stared at the TV as our cries pierced the silence.
“There goes our hopes and dreams,” Mom finally said. “They shot another good man. John Kennedy. Martin Luther King, Jr. Now Bobby Kennedy.”
He passed the next day.
That morning, I carefully began removing his pictures from my walls. Bobby shaking hands. Playing touch foodball. Hugging his children.
It was like losing a father twice.
By Dawn Yun
Labels: Dawn Yun
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Thursday, May 29, 2008
Footprints
It has been more than a week since my brother-in-law, David, suddenly passed away.
I can't stop thinking about him.
I see him in the coffin -- talk about a bad make-up job. Where do these people learn that skill? Or better, where CAN they learn that it is a skill? When my stepfather died he was so overly made-up that he looked transgender. I make no judgements, but I knew him -- this was a man who admired John Wayne and would not have minded going out looking like him instead of the lead character from "Hairspray."
I joke, because so did David. He was one of the happiest people I have ever met. His body in repose was in contrast to the smiling picture that stood beside him. He was so alive in that photo. So lifeless in that box.
Judging from the overflowing church, the words that were said about him and the loud sobs that were heard -- he was deeply beloved.
On top of his coffin was a beautiful spray of flowers that said, "Daddy." They were from his only child, his daughter, Tiffany. Theirs was, in my mind, the perfect father-daughter relationship. She was very much daddy's girl. Having never been one myself, and always desiring that role, I would listen with longing to their playful, easy banter. The love between them was evident.
There is a deep bond between mother and daughter, as well, but David adored his daughter, and she, him.
Tiffany is also a dutiful daughter. Her parents asked that she get her undergraduate and graduate degrees in electrical engineering from Stanford in four years, so it would cost less. She did so this past summer at only 21 -- and with honors. She would do anything for them, and they for her. That is why Tiffany took so much control in the planning of his funeral, from the perfect music to the heartbreaking PowerPoint photo presentation on the fifty-inch plasma TV. This was, afterall, the Silicon Valley. The funeral had to be high-tech. It was a daughter's final act for her father and she was going to do it right.
At the funeral, his brother, Sam, gave the most eloquent speech one sibling could give to another. David's boss, a high-ranking company titan, spoke extemporaneously, took a deep breath, said he was going to cry, and did.
As did everyone else.
When my husband, John, had to leave his mother to go to the front of the church to greet guests before the ceremony, I nudged my stepson, Jay, and whispered, "Comfort Grandma." Jay rose, at 15 not quite five feet, seven inches, but he stood more than six feet tall as he gently put his arm around her shoulder and patted it.
When John returned he took his son's place, while Jay joined my six-year old daughter, Mimi, and me, in the second pew. I nudged John and whispered, "Comfort your mother." (Why do mothers and wives always have to tell their sons and husbands what to do -- even at times like this?) John put his arm around her shoulder and patted it, in the exact way his son had.
One man came from as far away as Singapore and spoke about what a good person David is, was. It is so hard to speak in the past tense about a person who is still very much alive to you. Who you still want to be alive with you.
David was one of the last people I thought would pass so soon. He was such a great guy who touched so many lives in such a positive way.
Though I only knew him for 10 years it is hard to imagine even a month without his happy countenance.
David did something I think most of us hope to do.
He left footprints.
By Dawn Yun Stumble This Post
I can't stop thinking about him.
I see him in the coffin -- talk about a bad make-up job. Where do these people learn that skill? Or better, where CAN they learn that it is a skill? When my stepfather died he was so overly made-up that he looked transgender. I make no judgements, but I knew him -- this was a man who admired John Wayne and would not have minded going out looking like him instead of the lead character from "Hairspray."
I joke, because so did David. He was one of the happiest people I have ever met. His body in repose was in contrast to the smiling picture that stood beside him. He was so alive in that photo. So lifeless in that box.
Judging from the overflowing church, the words that were said about him and the loud sobs that were heard -- he was deeply beloved.
On top of his coffin was a beautiful spray of flowers that said, "Daddy." They were from his only child, his daughter, Tiffany. Theirs was, in my mind, the perfect father-daughter relationship. She was very much daddy's girl. Having never been one myself, and always desiring that role, I would listen with longing to their playful, easy banter. The love between them was evident.
There is a deep bond between mother and daughter, as well, but David adored his daughter, and she, him.
Tiffany is also a dutiful daughter. Her parents asked that she get her undergraduate and graduate degrees in electrical engineering from Stanford in four years, so it would cost less. She did so this past summer at only 21 -- and with honors. She would do anything for them, and they for her. That is why Tiffany took so much control in the planning of his funeral, from the perfect music to the heartbreaking PowerPoint photo presentation on the fifty-inch plasma TV. This was, afterall, the Silicon Valley. The funeral had to be high-tech. It was a daughter's final act for her father and she was going to do it right.
At the funeral, his brother, Sam, gave the most eloquent speech one sibling could give to another. David's boss, a high-ranking company titan, spoke extemporaneously, took a deep breath, said he was going to cry, and did.
As did everyone else.
When my husband, John, had to leave his mother to go to the front of the church to greet guests before the ceremony, I nudged my stepson, Jay, and whispered, "Comfort Grandma." Jay rose, at 15 not quite five feet, seven inches, but he stood more than six feet tall as he gently put his arm around her shoulder and patted it.
When John returned he took his son's place, while Jay joined my six-year old daughter, Mimi, and me, in the second pew. I nudged John and whispered, "Comfort your mother." (Why do mothers and wives always have to tell their sons and husbands what to do -- even at times like this?) John put his arm around her shoulder and patted it, in the exact way his son had.
One man came from as far away as Singapore and spoke about what a good person David is, was. It is so hard to speak in the past tense about a person who is still very much alive to you. Who you still want to be alive with you.
David was one of the last people I thought would pass so soon. He was such a great guy who touched so many lives in such a positive way.
Though I only knew him for 10 years it is hard to imagine even a month without his happy countenance.
David did something I think most of us hope to do.
He left footprints.
By Dawn Yun
Labels: Dawn Yun
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Monday, May 19, 2008
How Do I Tell My Child?
Last night was Mimi’s big ballet performance at the Civic Center. She was a cowgirl who carried a bucket. A spear, a bucket -- a kid has to start somewhere.
She was excited because she would get to take a bow at the end, awash in audience applause. When she was in “The Nutcracker” in December, for some reason, children in the first act were not allowed to take a bow at the end. She felt gypped. This time, she would feel the love.
My husband, John, and myself, sat in the audience, watching each group of dancers. Every so often I would put my hand on his knee and ask if he was alright. He said yes. I watched, but my thoughts were elsewhere. Jay, our son, had already been told.
How would I inform Mimi?
I had been playing telephone tag with my sister, who is a psychologist, to learn the best way to talk to our six-year old. I wanted to do this right. The ramifications could be devastating.
I watched her “Rodeo” performance from beginning ballet to advanced seniors. The dancing and music sometimes lifted my mood, but just as often the music faded from one score to another, and so, too, did my spirits.
It was all so sad. So surreal. So unexpected.
We stayed through the second half watching the junior hip hop team dance to “Good Vibrations,” a combo jazz/tap performance of all “All Shook Up,” which morphed into “Jailhouse Rock,” “Hound Dog,” and ended with five fathers all dressed as The King.
We left at intermission. Elvis, of course, was still in the house.
On the ride home I thought, ‘What do I say to Mimi?’ while out loud I bellowed, “YOU REALLY ROCKED! You were a star. And you’re dancing, girlfriend -- you were awesome and we are so PROUD of you!” My words overcompensating for the very different ones I would soon say.
Mimi’s pigtails moved up and down, as she smiled and wiggled her shoulders.
In the house I took Mimi by the hand and said we needed to talk. “Am I getting a time-out again?” she asked, fear flooding her face.
“No, no, this, this isn’t about that.” I sat in the rocking chair. The one I used to breastfeed her in when she was a baby. “Come sit in my lap.”
She sat and played with my fingers. I turned her face so we were looking into each others’ eyes.
“I have some bad news, sweetie. "You know your Uncle Dave?”
She nodded.
“Baby, Uncle David died this morning.”
“That’s surprising,” she said. Her words stunned me. The were so – adult. Her gestures were not. She curled into the fetal position in my lap, laid her head under my neck and said, “I’m really going to miss Uncle Dave. He was a really nice man.”
“He was the nicest man. He truly was.”
“Where is he? If he’s dead.”
Whew, boy! The big questions. Well, we’ve talked about death a lot in my family, since it’s happened so often. I didn’t expect it in my husband’s. I didn’t anticipate my niece calling at 12:05 that morning to tell me that her father had a sudden heart attack. When the phone rang that late – I knew someone had died. I call them the death night calls. This is at least the fourth one I’ve received. Still, I never thought it would be David.
“Is Daddy sad that his brother died?”
“Daddy’s sad. We’re all sad, baby. But Uncle Dave is in heaven and Uncle Dave is always around us whenever you need him. Always remember that. Just like Grandma Rae is always around.”
“Maybe they’ll be together," she said hopefully.
“May-be,” I said, kind of hoping not, ‘Perhaps it’s better if he gets used to his new surroundings first,' I thought. 'Mom can be a little overwhelming.’
We hugged for awhile, and then Mimi slipped out of my arms. In the living room, Mimi was sitting next to her brother, their shoulders touching, she practically in his lap, both deep in concentration, playing Game boy. My husband was outside watering the plants. I watched them and thought of David. Gregarious, sweet, menschy David. I wanted to cry and went downstairs, not wanting the rest of the family to hear me.
We all mourn in different ways.
By Dawn Yun Stumble This Post
She was excited because she would get to take a bow at the end, awash in audience applause. When she was in “The Nutcracker” in December, for some reason, children in the first act were not allowed to take a bow at the end. She felt gypped. This time, she would feel the love.
My husband, John, and myself, sat in the audience, watching each group of dancers. Every so often I would put my hand on his knee and ask if he was alright. He said yes. I watched, but my thoughts were elsewhere. Jay, our son, had already been told.
How would I inform Mimi?
I had been playing telephone tag with my sister, who is a psychologist, to learn the best way to talk to our six-year old. I wanted to do this right. The ramifications could be devastating.
I watched her “Rodeo” performance from beginning ballet to advanced seniors. The dancing and music sometimes lifted my mood, but just as often the music faded from one score to another, and so, too, did my spirits.
It was all so sad. So surreal. So unexpected.
We stayed through the second half watching the junior hip hop team dance to “Good Vibrations,” a combo jazz/tap performance of all “All Shook Up,” which morphed into “Jailhouse Rock,” “Hound Dog,” and ended with five fathers all dressed as The King.
We left at intermission. Elvis, of course, was still in the house.
On the ride home I thought, ‘What do I say to Mimi?’ while out loud I bellowed, “YOU REALLY ROCKED! You were a star. And you’re dancing, girlfriend -- you were awesome and we are so PROUD of you!” My words overcompensating for the very different ones I would soon say.
Mimi’s pigtails moved up and down, as she smiled and wiggled her shoulders.
In the house I took Mimi by the hand and said we needed to talk. “Am I getting a time-out again?” she asked, fear flooding her face.
“No, no, this, this isn’t about that.” I sat in the rocking chair. The one I used to breastfeed her in when she was a baby. “Come sit in my lap.”
She sat and played with my fingers. I turned her face so we were looking into each others’ eyes.
“I have some bad news, sweetie. "You know your Uncle Dave?”
She nodded.
“Baby, Uncle David died this morning.”
“That’s surprising,” she said. Her words stunned me. The were so – adult. Her gestures were not. She curled into the fetal position in my lap, laid her head under my neck and said, “I’m really going to miss Uncle Dave. He was a really nice man.”
“He was the nicest man. He truly was.”
“Where is he? If he’s dead.”
Whew, boy! The big questions. Well, we’ve talked about death a lot in my family, since it’s happened so often. I didn’t expect it in my husband’s. I didn’t anticipate my niece calling at 12:05 that morning to tell me that her father had a sudden heart attack. When the phone rang that late – I knew someone had died. I call them the death night calls. This is at least the fourth one I’ve received. Still, I never thought it would be David.
“Is Daddy sad that his brother died?”
“Daddy’s sad. We’re all sad, baby. But Uncle Dave is in heaven and Uncle Dave is always around us whenever you need him. Always remember that. Just like Grandma Rae is always around.”
“Maybe they’ll be together," she said hopefully.
“May-be,” I said, kind of hoping not, ‘Perhaps it’s better if he gets used to his new surroundings first,' I thought. 'Mom can be a little overwhelming.’
We hugged for awhile, and then Mimi slipped out of my arms. In the living room, Mimi was sitting next to her brother, their shoulders touching, she practically in his lap, both deep in concentration, playing Game boy. My husband was outside watering the plants. I watched them and thought of David. Gregarious, sweet, menschy David. I wanted to cry and went downstairs, not wanting the rest of the family to hear me.
We all mourn in different ways.
By Dawn Yun
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Monday, May 05, 2008
Less is More
It was Valentine’s Day and I dragged home my cards in a paper bag, as my brother, Russell, did his.
We dumped them on the table to show my mother. My brother must have gotten thirty of them! I think I received maybe eight, and started crying.
“I got more than you did! I got more than you did!” Russell taunted before he left, probably to annoy the dog.
My mother asked me what was wrong.
“Russell got a whole bunch more cards than I did,” I said, trying to wipe away my tears.
My mother carefully picked up a few of Russell’s cards and then inspected mine.
She could see the difference.
“Dawn, it’s true. Russell did get more. But they all look the same. None of them look very special. And look how tiny they are.”
She held up one of mine.
”See how big this one is? And look at it? Somebody cut out the heart by hand, and glued a doily on it. And drew more hearts. And look, he wrote his name so nicely. Gary.”
My mother held up each of the few cards I had received. I could see she was right.
“Maybe everyone in Russell’s class sent one to him. Probably everyone got the same cards. But if you look, none of them are very great. You may have gotten less, but each person really wanted to send you that card. Each one is special. And each one was made just for you.”
She was right.
I looked at every one of my cards and suddenly each was special. There was effort and thought put into every one. It didn’t matter how many I had received because the one’s I did get were the ones people really wanted me to have.
That’s the first time I learned the lesson less is more. It’s been a mantra ever since.
Today, with my own children, I try to apply this lesson to their friends.
“You don’t have to have a hundred of them. But you do need to have a handful that no matter what, you can always count on and who will always be there for you and you for them, no questions asked.”
Jay, my fifteen year-old “gets” it. Mimi, my six old, is still learning the importance of social skills and loyalty.
Neither has a zillion friends. But the ones they do have – are true.
“Less is more,” I tell them.
“Wouldn’t you rather have a million dollars than a dollar in your piggy bank?” asks Mimi. Oy! This kid!!!
“In that case,” I tell her, “you’re right. More is more. I would prefer the extra ka-ching.”
“But you’re young. Sometimes things are hard to explain. Just remember that in most cases, less is more. It’s not the quantity, it’s the quality. That’s what counts.”
By Dawn Yun Stumble This Post
We dumped them on the table to show my mother. My brother must have gotten thirty of them! I think I received maybe eight, and started crying.
“I got more than you did! I got more than you did!” Russell taunted before he left, probably to annoy the dog.
My mother asked me what was wrong.
“Russell got a whole bunch more cards than I did,” I said, trying to wipe away my tears.
My mother carefully picked up a few of Russell’s cards and then inspected mine.
She could see the difference.
“Dawn, it’s true. Russell did get more. But they all look the same. None of them look very special. And look how tiny they are.”
She held up one of mine.
”See how big this one is? And look at it? Somebody cut out the heart by hand, and glued a doily on it. And drew more hearts. And look, he wrote his name so nicely. Gary.”
My mother held up each of the few cards I had received. I could see she was right.
“Maybe everyone in Russell’s class sent one to him. Probably everyone got the same cards. But if you look, none of them are very great. You may have gotten less, but each person really wanted to send you that card. Each one is special. And each one was made just for you.”
She was right.
I looked at every one of my cards and suddenly each was special. There was effort and thought put into every one. It didn’t matter how many I had received because the one’s I did get were the ones people really wanted me to have.
That’s the first time I learned the lesson less is more. It’s been a mantra ever since.
Today, with my own children, I try to apply this lesson to their friends.
“You don’t have to have a hundred of them. But you do need to have a handful that no matter what, you can always count on and who will always be there for you and you for them, no questions asked.”
Jay, my fifteen year-old “gets” it. Mimi, my six old, is still learning the importance of social skills and loyalty.
Neither has a zillion friends. But the ones they do have – are true.
“Less is more,” I tell them.
“Wouldn’t you rather have a million dollars than a dollar in your piggy bank?” asks Mimi. Oy! This kid!!!
“In that case,” I tell her, “you’re right. More is more. I would prefer the extra ka-ching.”
“But you’re young. Sometimes things are hard to explain. Just remember that in most cases, less is more. It’s not the quantity, it’s the quality. That’s what counts.”
By Dawn Yun
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Friday, April 04, 2008
Fabulous!
After making my daughter breakfast, Fruity Pebbles and soy milk, I laid on the couch in the fetal position wracked with ulcer pain.
This was not at all noticed by Mimi. She asked if I could play her “High School Musical” CD.
“You want me. . . to get up?”
I put on the CD.
We listened to a couple of songs when Mimi turned to me and with the most serious look on her face and announced, “Mom, this song is about – being fabulous.”
I went from writing in pain to rolling with laughter.
“No, Mom,” Mimi said, her face deeply serious. “I speak the truth. This song is about being fabulous.”
I tried not to laugh. Laughing at her “serious” statements really sets her off. Then -- brainstorm!
“Hey, Mom, can I use your yoga mat as a runway and walk up and down it like a rock star?
I knew I would NOT be a good mother if I did not allow her to pursue this "important" pursuit.
From behind the couch I pulled out my mat and unfurled it.
Inspired, Mimi ran into her room and came back with her recently won yellow tae-kwon-do belt wrapped around her neck like a boa constrictor. She sang, posed, and danced up and down the mat until the song ended.
Mimi then informed me that she wanted to be a rock star like her idols, Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers.
“But I thought you wanted to play the drums?”
She put her hand on her hip and stared at me, like I didn’t get it. “How can I dance and sing on stage if I’m sitting behind drums? I need to play the guitar so I can run around the stage like Miley.”
“O-kay, if that’s what you want to play, we’ll get you guitar lessons.”
She looked sad.
“What’s wrong, baby?”
“But how am I going to be a rock star if I don’t have a songwriter?”
She did have a dilemma.
“Hon, I’ve written a lot of song lyrics. They’re about feelings. If you sit and write what you feel, you’ll have a song.”
Inspired, she sat down and wrote two lines. The first was about hating school. The second was about loving her cat.
She had her song. I have no idea where her rock star fantasies will take her. I do know I took the song lyrics and put them in my keepsake drawer containing all the things I love most that she has painted and made since she was a baby.
When I next saw her she was wearing “rock star” glasses and had attitude aplenty.
As she danced, a combination of ballet, tae-kwon-do, High School Musical, and Mimi, all I could think was -- this girl is fabulous.
I can’t wait to see what becomes her when she turns 7.
By Dawn Yun Stumble This Post
This was not at all noticed by Mimi. She asked if I could play her “High School Musical” CD.
“You want me. . . to get up?”
I put on the CD.
We listened to a couple of songs when Mimi turned to me and with the most serious look on her face and announced, “Mom, this song is about – being fabulous.”
I went from writing in pain to rolling with laughter.
“No, Mom,” Mimi said, her face deeply serious. “I speak the truth. This song is about being fabulous.”
I tried not to laugh. Laughing at her “serious” statements really sets her off. Then -- brainstorm!
“Hey, Mom, can I use your yoga mat as a runway and walk up and down it like a rock star?
I knew I would NOT be a good mother if I did not allow her to pursue this "important" pursuit.
From behind the couch I pulled out my mat and unfurled it.
Inspired, Mimi ran into her room and came back with her recently won yellow tae-kwon-do belt wrapped around her neck like a boa constrictor. She sang, posed, and danced up and down the mat until the song ended.
Mimi then informed me that she wanted to be a rock star like her idols, Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers.
“But I thought you wanted to play the drums?”
She put her hand on her hip and stared at me, like I didn’t get it. “How can I dance and sing on stage if I’m sitting behind drums? I need to play the guitar so I can run around the stage like Miley.”
“O-kay, if that’s what you want to play, we’ll get you guitar lessons.”
She looked sad.
“What’s wrong, baby?”
“But how am I going to be a rock star if I don’t have a songwriter?”
She did have a dilemma.
“Hon, I’ve written a lot of song lyrics. They’re about feelings. If you sit and write what you feel, you’ll have a song.”
Inspired, she sat down and wrote two lines. The first was about hating school. The second was about loving her cat.
She had her song. I have no idea where her rock star fantasies will take her. I do know I took the song lyrics and put them in my keepsake drawer containing all the things I love most that she has painted and made since she was a baby.
When I next saw her she was wearing “rock star” glasses and had attitude aplenty.
As she danced, a combination of ballet, tae-kwon-do, High School Musical, and Mimi, all I could think was -- this girl is fabulous.
I can’t wait to see what becomes her when she turns 7.
By Dawn Yun
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Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Haircut
I had spent a good part of my day doing the thing I enjoy least – cleaning. This meant I was not spending time with my daughter. She noticed.
“Mommy come see what I drew.’
“In a minute,” I said repeatedly. Mimi came into my bedroom. I heard her words before I saw what she had done.
“Do you like it?” I don’t think I’ve screamed that much since, well, I was giving birth to her. Mimi had cut her hair so the sides were now above her ears, while the back remained well past her shoulders.
She started crying, we hugged and I told her we would make her hair work. I sat Mimi on the toilet and stared. Mothers routinely pull out miracles, but I was thinking salons are closed, it’s late Sunday and she has school early in the morning. How does one correct an unintentional mullet haircut?
I had to think.
Bangs or no bangs? I didn’t know. Then I noticed something. There was a long strand of hair that she had somehow missed in front. Hmm. And Mimi has those Angelina Jolie-esque pouty lips. I thought, if I cut her back hair short, so it curled, and with some gel. . . maybe? Perhaps something stylish could emerge??? I cut the back as straight as I could.
Then I tried to angle her already too-short sides and gave the front a side part. That long strand framed her face, revealing it in a way that her formerly long hair had not. To my complete surprise, it worked! She looked kinda Asiany-Frenchy.
After the incident had passed, I asked Mimi why she had cut her hair. My five-year old said to get attention. She used those words. It was an extreme act. And she won’t do it again. But I must admit that I do admire that at such a young age she does know how to get her needs met. By being able to do that now, she will save a fortune in therapy later.
I did stop cleaning. Which made her very happy – and me, too.
By Dawn Yun Stumble This Post
“Mommy come see what I drew.’
“In a minute,” I said repeatedly. Mimi came into my bedroom. I heard her words before I saw what she had done.
“Do you like it?” I don’t think I’ve screamed that much since, well, I was giving birth to her. Mimi had cut her hair so the sides were now above her ears, while the back remained well past her shoulders.
She started crying, we hugged and I told her we would make her hair work. I sat Mimi on the toilet and stared. Mothers routinely pull out miracles, but I was thinking salons are closed, it’s late Sunday and she has school early in the morning. How does one correct an unintentional mullet haircut?
I had to think.
Bangs or no bangs? I didn’t know. Then I noticed something. There was a long strand of hair that she had somehow missed in front. Hmm. And Mimi has those Angelina Jolie-esque pouty lips. I thought, if I cut her back hair short, so it curled, and with some gel. . . maybe? Perhaps something stylish could emerge??? I cut the back as straight as I could.
Then I tried to angle her already too-short sides and gave the front a side part. That long strand framed her face, revealing it in a way that her formerly long hair had not. To my complete surprise, it worked! She looked kinda Asiany-Frenchy.
After the incident had passed, I asked Mimi why she had cut her hair. My five-year old said to get attention. She used those words. It was an extreme act. And she won’t do it again. But I must admit that I do admire that at such a young age she does know how to get her needs met. By being able to do that now, she will save a fortune in therapy later.
I did stop cleaning. Which made her very happy – and me, too.
By Dawn Yun
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Sunday, March 02, 2008
Meditation
When I was 16 a group of friends and I decided we would learn to meditate. I wanted to do it, but was a bit hesitant. There was a pair of Frye boots that cost the same as learning to practice Transcendental Meditation, the hottest new thing.
I let the choice simmer, deciding that the boots would last two seasons at most. Meditation a lifetime.
We had to bring flowers, an offering. I took some from my mother’s garden. My friends and I each went into a room and young man who could have been my parents’ accountant, smiled beatifically. I bit my lower lip so I wouldn't laugh as he chanted, something I had never heard before.
Maybe I should have gotten those Frye Boots.
“Ima,” he said. “Repeat. Im-ma.”
“Ima,” I said tentatively.
“This is your mantra. Yours alone. You must not share it with anyone,” he said solemnly. He rang a gong, we got it on (not really -- just an old T-Rex song) and it was over.
I went home, closed the door and tried to meditate. The idea was as a thought came into my mind, I was gently supposed to push it away. I practiced saying my mantra out loud over and over until I could do it silently in my hyperactive mind.
At first I could only sit still for five minutes, soon it became ten and eventually the required twenty. It was supposed to be done twice a day but that was too stressful. I meditated once daily.
Soon something shifted. I felt a calmness inward; an awareness outward.
My girlfriends and I were at my best friend, Amy’s house, when she asked us what our mantras were.
Andy, an artist and one of the more serious among us, was aghast. “You CANNOT tell anybody else your mantra.” She couldn’t believe Amy would ask such a thing.
“Ima,” Amy quickly said with an enormous smile. “Ima! Ima!” she shouted with joy.
“Ima!” I joined in.
“Dawn,” admonished Andy.
“Well, mine’s Ima, too,” said Bonnie.
“I’m Ima,” added Jane.
Andy was all deep sighs and shaking head. She didn’t have to meditate because now she had the ability to telegraph her feelings: disgust.
“Sacred what?” Amy asked. “It’s a sound.”
It was more.
There was something profound that at such a young age we were seeking something deeper, searching within, yet still acting our ages, skipping school, getting stoned.
It’s some 30 years later and after a few years of stopping my practice, I have recently resumed meditating. I do it after I drop my daughter off at school in the morning.
The last two years have been difficult. I’m trying to get back to the place I was before a medical journey I had no desire to take overtook me.
I want my groove back.
I sit on my couch, stare at Mt. Tam and the guardian angel tree in our backyard, the one that has a chronic disease much like me, and sit with my legs folded, my hands resting on my knees, pray for protection for my loved ones, and I, internally, repeat, “Ohm.” I have found over the years that the singular sound, rather than a double consonant works more comfortably and quickly.
During a recent meditation, at the top and bottom of my mind was darkness. Black. In the middle were what appeared to be white teacups sitting one atop the other. I started to push this thought away when I realized I was being shown something.
The darkness represented the muck that I sometimes feel stuck in when I’m overwhelmed, tired and unwell. The white teacups? A lotus flower. Despite the dark, light is growing within. I felt refreshed, renewed and filled with remembrances of the power of meditation.
Not long ago I saw a pair of Frye Boots in the store. Maybe now I will buy them. They're back in style.
By Dawn Yun Stumble This Post
I let the choice simmer, deciding that the boots would last two seasons at most. Meditation a lifetime.
We had to bring flowers, an offering. I took some from my mother’s garden. My friends and I each went into a room and young man who could have been my parents’ accountant, smiled beatifically. I bit my lower lip so I wouldn't laugh as he chanted, something I had never heard before.
Maybe I should have gotten those Frye Boots.
“Ima,” he said. “Repeat. Im-ma.”
“Ima,” I said tentatively.
“This is your mantra. Yours alone. You must not share it with anyone,” he said solemnly. He rang a gong, we got it on (not really -- just an old T-Rex song) and it was over.
I went home, closed the door and tried to meditate. The idea was as a thought came into my mind, I was gently supposed to push it away. I practiced saying my mantra out loud over and over until I could do it silently in my hyperactive mind.
At first I could only sit still for five minutes, soon it became ten and eventually the required twenty. It was supposed to be done twice a day but that was too stressful. I meditated once daily.
Soon something shifted. I felt a calmness inward; an awareness outward.
My girlfriends and I were at my best friend, Amy’s house, when she asked us what our mantras were.
Andy, an artist and one of the more serious among us, was aghast. “You CANNOT tell anybody else your mantra.” She couldn’t believe Amy would ask such a thing.
“Ima,” Amy quickly said with an enormous smile. “Ima! Ima!” she shouted with joy.
“Ima!” I joined in.
“Dawn,” admonished Andy.
“Well, mine’s Ima, too,” said Bonnie.
“I’m Ima,” added Jane.
Andy was all deep sighs and shaking head. She didn’t have to meditate because now she had the ability to telegraph her feelings: disgust.
“Sacred what?” Amy asked. “It’s a sound.”
It was more.
There was something profound that at such a young age we were seeking something deeper, searching within, yet still acting our ages, skipping school, getting stoned.
It’s some 30 years later and after a few years of stopping my practice, I have recently resumed meditating. I do it after I drop my daughter off at school in the morning.
The last two years have been difficult. I’m trying to get back to the place I was before a medical journey I had no desire to take overtook me.
I want my groove back.
I sit on my couch, stare at Mt. Tam and the guardian angel tree in our backyard, the one that has a chronic disease much like me, and sit with my legs folded, my hands resting on my knees, pray for protection for my loved ones, and I, internally, repeat, “Ohm.” I have found over the years that the singular sound, rather than a double consonant works more comfortably and quickly.
During a recent meditation, at the top and bottom of my mind was darkness. Black. In the middle were what appeared to be white teacups sitting one atop the other. I started to push this thought away when I realized I was being shown something.
The darkness represented the muck that I sometimes feel stuck in when I’m overwhelmed, tired and unwell. The white teacups? A lotus flower. Despite the dark, light is growing within. I felt refreshed, renewed and filled with remembrances of the power of meditation.
Not long ago I saw a pair of Frye Boots in the store. Maybe now I will buy them. They're back in style.
By Dawn Yun
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Sunday, February 24, 2008
Cool Boys!
We were at the checkout-counter when my daughter, Mimi, spotted something she wanted.
"Look! It's the Jonas Brothers!!! Can I have the magazine, please, please, please?"
The Jonas Brothers are three siblings ages fifteen to eighteen that are one of the hottest boy bands on the planet. Mimi has watched them on TV and she saw them on the "Hannah Montana" movie.
Her request brought back a flood of memories. When I was a tween I would buy "16 Magazine" every month because it featured cute posters of boy musicians and TV stars. I remember the editor's name, Gloria Stavers. I already knew then that I wanted to be a writer. I would read each word carefully.
Then I would cut the cute boys' photos and tape them to the walls of my room.
"Please," Mimi said jumping up and down. "Please can I have it?" It was a Disney magazine. I said OK.
At home we opened the publication. "Look Joe Jonas!" Mimi screamed. He's the oldest brother and the lead singer. "And Nick Jonas!" He's a guitiarist and the youngest.
She got a pair of scissors, tape and cut their photos out, then adherred them to her walls.
I stared. She was doing the same thing I used to do. Only she's six.
I used to think I grew up young. Taking the train from Westport, Connecticut, into Grand Central and going to concerts in Central Park when I was 11 and 12. My friends' parents and my own were from New York where they grew up taking city buses, at, well, 6. It was never a big deal to them for us to take the train into the City to go clothes shopping or to see a concert.
That option isn't available to Mimi or her brother, Jay, 15. Safety is such an issue these days that childhood is overscheduled and parents overly-watch their children because we KNOW what's out there.
I have mixed feelings that Mimi is a little boy crazy. "Boys are dweebs," she says, while chasing after her old boyfriend, Ethan, while he tries to steal kisses and she hits him, then chases him when he ignores her.
She wants to be a singer like Miley Cyrus when she grows up. Mimi was quite upset the other day. When I asked what was wrong she was genuinely distraught. "How am I going to be a singer if I don't have a songwriter? Whose going to write my songs?"
"Sweetie, you can write your own songs. The most talented singers and musicians all do their own writing that way they can really express themselves. You can do it."
"What do I write?"
"Well, a lot of songs are about emotions. How people feel. Why don't you write about your feelings?"
Mimi grabbed a piece of lined paper, a pencil, her face scrunched into her work, and wrote: I love my family. I love mommy and daddy and Jay when he's not beeing a nerd, and Pikie and Paris. I feel emotion.
I will keep her first song lyrics forever.
This year its ballet and taekwondo. Next year she will take up an instrument and singing since that's what most interests her. I've always promised her and her brother that we'll try to give them whatever they want if something intrigues them so that it might develop into a passion. That has happened for Jay with taekwondo. I had writing from a young age. Mimi is very into art, but her new, unfulfilled passion seems to be singing.
After she saw the Hannah Montana movie I asked her what she thought. "Rockin," she said. This summer, when she should be reading fully, I will buy her a karokee machine.
As I pass her room and see paintings from pre-school on the walls and animals prints put there before she was born, Hello Kitty posters, and now photos from "High School Musical" and The Jonas Brothers, I can see her tastes and personality change.
I smile. My little girl is growing up. I can't wait to see what's in her future.
By Dawn Yun Stumble This Post
"Look! It's the Jonas Brothers!!! Can I have the magazine, please, please, please?"
The Jonas Brothers are three siblings ages fifteen to eighteen that are one of the hottest boy bands on the planet. Mimi has watched them on TV and she saw them on the "Hannah Montana" movie.
Her request brought back a flood of memories. When I was a tween I would buy "16 Magazine" every month because it featured cute posters of boy musicians and TV stars. I remember the editor's name, Gloria Stavers. I already knew then that I wanted to be a writer. I would read each word carefully.
Then I would cut the cute boys' photos and tape them to the walls of my room.
"Please," Mimi said jumping up and down. "Please can I have it?" It was a Disney magazine. I said OK.
At home we opened the publication. "Look Joe Jonas!" Mimi screamed. He's the oldest brother and the lead singer. "And Nick Jonas!" He's a guitiarist and the youngest.
She got a pair of scissors, tape and cut their photos out, then adherred them to her walls.
I stared. She was doing the same thing I used to do. Only she's six.
I used to think I grew up young. Taking the train from Westport, Connecticut, into Grand Central and going to concerts in Central Park when I was 11 and 12. My friends' parents and my own were from New York where they grew up taking city buses, at, well, 6. It was never a big deal to them for us to take the train into the City to go clothes shopping or to see a concert.
That option isn't available to Mimi or her brother, Jay, 15. Safety is such an issue these days that childhood is overscheduled and parents overly-watch their children because we KNOW what's out there.
I have mixed feelings that Mimi is a little boy crazy. "Boys are dweebs," she says, while chasing after her old boyfriend, Ethan, while he tries to steal kisses and she hits him, then chases him when he ignores her.
She wants to be a singer like Miley Cyrus when she grows up. Mimi was quite upset the other day. When I asked what was wrong she was genuinely distraught. "How am I going to be a singer if I don't have a songwriter? Whose going to write my songs?"
"Sweetie, you can write your own songs. The most talented singers and musicians all do their own writing that way they can really express themselves. You can do it."
"What do I write?"
"Well, a lot of songs are about emotions. How people feel. Why don't you write about your feelings?"
Mimi grabbed a piece of lined paper, a pencil, her face scrunched into her work, and wrote: I love my family. I love mommy and daddy and Jay when he's not beeing a nerd, and Pikie and Paris. I feel emotion.
I will keep her first song lyrics forever.
This year its ballet and taekwondo. Next year she will take up an instrument and singing since that's what most interests her. I've always promised her and her brother that we'll try to give them whatever they want if something intrigues them so that it might develop into a passion. That has happened for Jay with taekwondo. I had writing from a young age. Mimi is very into art, but her new, unfulfilled passion seems to be singing.
After she saw the Hannah Montana movie I asked her what she thought. "Rockin," she said. This summer, when she should be reading fully, I will buy her a karokee machine.
As I pass her room and see paintings from pre-school on the walls and animals prints put there before she was born, Hello Kitty posters, and now photos from "High School Musical" and The Jonas Brothers, I can see her tastes and personality change.
I smile. My little girl is growing up. I can't wait to see what's in her future.
By Dawn Yun
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Saturday, February 09, 2008
Late
No matter how early I get up, I’m always late in bringing my daughter to school.
After spending a couple of hours at my desk writing in the morning, one would think that this initial sense of accomplishment would propel me to ensure that I would succeed in getting my daughter out the door, in the car and into her classroom on time.
It doesn’t.
It seems like there is always something. And that something always seems to come during the last, critical five minutes before school departure. My five-year old will suddenly have to go to the bathroom; need me to admire her output; wipe her bottom; want a different breakfast; have a stain that can’t be hidden; can’t find a sock; doesn’t like her shoes; hasn’t brushed her teeth; asks if she has to go to aftercare; cries that she has to go to aftercare; wants to have a spirited discussion on why she has to go to school at all.
Those five minutes are the difference between getting to school on time and missing the second bell.
I always think, “Made it!” when the bell hasn’t rung. When it already has, I have to make a decision. Do I press my daughter through the classroom door, where all the other children are already sitting neatly at their desks, and smile at or avoid the teachers, or admit defeat and trudge into the school office and ask for a late slip.
Gail, the women at the front desk, already knows my name. I can only attribute this to our tardiness.
I wish I could figure out a way to magically make us arrive at school on time. But the truth is that I have been late for everything my entire life, including my own wedding, so it’s really no surprise that I’m late when bringing my daughter to school.
Or that my daughter is late on her own. The thing about progeny is that they inherit the good and the not so good. Oddly, for some reason, I’m always one of the first mothers for school pick-up. And Mimi is always one of the first kids in line waiting to be picked up.
She loves to possesively shout, “My mommy’s here!” her hand waving wildly in the air as her Hello Kitty! backpack wiggles behind her.
While school mornings usually have insane beginnings, afternoon pickups almost always have happy endings.
By Dawn Yun Stumble This Post
After spending a couple of hours at my desk writing in the morning, one would think that this initial sense of accomplishment would propel me to ensure that I would succeed in getting my daughter out the door, in the car and into her classroom on time.
It doesn’t.
It seems like there is always something. And that something always seems to come during the last, critical five minutes before school departure. My five-year old will suddenly have to go to the bathroom; need me to admire her output; wipe her bottom; want a different breakfast; have a stain that can’t be hidden; can’t find a sock; doesn’t like her shoes; hasn’t brushed her teeth; asks if she has to go to aftercare; cries that she has to go to aftercare; wants to have a spirited discussion on why she has to go to school at all.
Those five minutes are the difference between getting to school on time and missing the second bell.
I always think, “Made it!” when the bell hasn’t rung. When it already has, I have to make a decision. Do I press my daughter through the classroom door, where all the other children are already sitting neatly at their desks, and smile at or avoid the teachers, or admit defeat and trudge into the school office and ask for a late slip.
Gail, the women at the front desk, already knows my name. I can only attribute this to our tardiness.
I wish I could figure out a way to magically make us arrive at school on time. But the truth is that I have been late for everything my entire life, including my own wedding, so it’s really no surprise that I’m late when bringing my daughter to school.
Or that my daughter is late on her own. The thing about progeny is that they inherit the good and the not so good. Oddly, for some reason, I’m always one of the first mothers for school pick-up. And Mimi is always one of the first kids in line waiting to be picked up.
She loves to possesively shout, “My mommy’s here!” her hand waving wildly in the air as her Hello Kitty! backpack wiggles behind her.
While school mornings usually have insane beginnings, afternoon pickups almost always have happy endings.
By Dawn Yun
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Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Old Friend
The clinical medical trial I was in for a year and a half, 18 months, 540 nights (not to mention monthly and bi-monthly visits) – was finally over.
It was the holidays and I was not going back East to visit family because I can’t handle the cold. But I missed my roots.
Spontaneously, I thought of a friend who I heard had moved nearby. In the summer she had invited me through Evite to a party at her new house, but I had a friend visiting from out-of-state who didn’t want to go so we ended up not.
The next day I sent an e-mail of apology. She wrote that there were so many people there we probably wouldn’t have had much time to talk.
In junior high and high school we had similar friends, yet were not ones ourselves. We ended up going to the same college, driving cross country and becoming best friends. I had befriended a professor, purely platonic, and invited him to get to know my roommates and I got to know his. My dream was to take a boat ride down the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon.
One day the professor called, but instead of talking to me, he asked to speak to my friend. He invited her to take that trip down the Colorado River. I was shocked. Shocked that he could be so brazen, and hurt that she would say yes, since he obviously liked her and she said they could never be more than friends. She just wanted the trip.
One night I borrowed her car and at the top of my lungs was singing The Talking Heads, “Take Me to the River,” when I hit another car. Her car while still drivable, but for insurance purposes, was totaled.
I had given her money toward that car, it was in her name, and after the accident she demanded more. Unlike her, I had put myself through college. I sold the majority of my possessions and gave her the money.
When I left college to live with a boyfriend in California, I said goodbye to everyone, but her.
Our relationship was never the same.
In October, I wrote an article for “Marin Magazine” about my health situation and the insanity of trying to find a good doctor, let alone getting one to make a correct diagnosis.
The holidays were approaching and for some reason, I thought of this friend. I wondered if she had read the piece. If so, why hadn't she contacted me? One of the things cancer has given me is a total lack of fear. I have nothing to lose.
I called and said, “So it’s not a suburban legend. You actually do live in Marin.”
There was a long silence, then she said, “Dawn, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I read that article. Are you okay?”
I was stunned. She had read it but had neither e-mailed nor called me.
We talked some more, she was going away and we agreed to get together when she returned.
Last Saturday I went to her home. She lives exactly six minutes from me. The next day I e-mailed her and thanked her for a lovely time, but I said I had to ask her something.
I wrote: ”I know you said you read about me. That you were concerned. I need to know. Were you ever going to e-mail me or call me, or were you too overwhelmed? I’d just like to know.”
To her credit, she e-mailed back quickly and said that she tried to find my e-mail but could only find an old one. (It hadn’t changed from the summer’s Evite invitation.) Though she said she knew that wasn’t a good excuse since I was easy to find. She said, “believe it or not, my guilt caused my inaction.” She said she guessed it was “a flaw in my character.” She said of course she felt bad that I made the first call, but she was glad that I did.
I thought, I could leave this e-mail hanging or I can reply. I thanked her for her honesty and said it couldn’t have been an easy e-mail to write. I also said that we have had our ups and downs since college. I did thank her for a lovely card that she sent after my mother died. And I would always remember the gesture.
But I can’t forget that she read that article I wrote, that was so bare, honest and vulnerable, and did not contact me. If the situation were reversed, I would have been on the phone in a second.
Character flaw? More like lack of character. I don’t think I’ll be contacting her again. It’s not so much that I can’t forgive, but that I can’t forget. And this episode is so representative of her. She is someone who has led an extremely easy life. She has no idea what real hardship involves.
I feel sorry for her because when it hits –and it will -- it will come down hard. But I do know this: when it does, I will be there for her.
I just can’t deal with her now.
By Dawn Yun Stumble This Post
It was the holidays and I was not going back East to visit family because I can’t handle the cold. But I missed my roots.
Spontaneously, I thought of a friend who I heard had moved nearby. In the summer she had invited me through Evite to a party at her new house, but I had a friend visiting from out-of-state who didn’t want to go so we ended up not.
The next day I sent an e-mail of apology. She wrote that there were so many people there we probably wouldn’t have had much time to talk.
In junior high and high school we had similar friends, yet were not ones ourselves. We ended up going to the same college, driving cross country and becoming best friends. I had befriended a professor, purely platonic, and invited him to get to know my roommates and I got to know his. My dream was to take a boat ride down the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon.
One day the professor called, but instead of talking to me, he asked to speak to my friend. He invited her to take that trip down the Colorado River. I was shocked. Shocked that he could be so brazen, and hurt that she would say yes, since he obviously liked her and she said they could never be more than friends. She just wanted the trip.
One night I borrowed her car and at the top of my lungs was singing The Talking Heads, “Take Me to the River,” when I hit another car. Her car while still drivable, but for insurance purposes, was totaled.
I had given her money toward that car, it was in her name, and after the accident she demanded more. Unlike her, I had put myself through college. I sold the majority of my possessions and gave her the money.
When I left college to live with a boyfriend in California, I said goodbye to everyone, but her.
Our relationship was never the same.
In October, I wrote an article for “Marin Magazine” about my health situation and the insanity of trying to find a good doctor, let alone getting one to make a correct diagnosis.
The holidays were approaching and for some reason, I thought of this friend. I wondered if she had read the piece. If so, why hadn't she contacted me? One of the things cancer has given me is a total lack of fear. I have nothing to lose.
I called and said, “So it’s not a suburban legend. You actually do live in Marin.”
There was a long silence, then she said, “Dawn, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I read that article. Are you okay?”
I was stunned. She had read it but had neither e-mailed nor called me.
We talked some more, she was going away and we agreed to get together when she returned.
Last Saturday I went to her home. She lives exactly six minutes from me. The next day I e-mailed her and thanked her for a lovely time, but I said I had to ask her something.
I wrote: ”I know you said you read about me. That you were concerned. I need to know. Were you ever going to e-mail me or call me, or were you too overwhelmed? I’d just like to know.”
To her credit, she e-mailed back quickly and said that she tried to find my e-mail but could only find an old one. (It hadn’t changed from the summer’s Evite invitation.) Though she said she knew that wasn’t a good excuse since I was easy to find. She said, “believe it or not, my guilt caused my inaction.” She said she guessed it was “a flaw in my character.” She said of course she felt bad that I made the first call, but she was glad that I did.
I thought, I could leave this e-mail hanging or I can reply. I thanked her for her honesty and said it couldn’t have been an easy e-mail to write. I also said that we have had our ups and downs since college. I did thank her for a lovely card that she sent after my mother died. And I would always remember the gesture.
But I can’t forget that she read that article I wrote, that was so bare, honest and vulnerable, and did not contact me. If the situation were reversed, I would have been on the phone in a second.
Character flaw? More like lack of character. I don’t think I’ll be contacting her again. It’s not so much that I can’t forgive, but that I can’t forget. And this episode is so representative of her. She is someone who has led an extremely easy life. She has no idea what real hardship involves.
I feel sorry for her because when it hits –and it will -- it will come down hard. But I do know this: when it does, I will be there for her.
I just can’t deal with her now.
By Dawn Yun
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Saturday, January 05, 2008
Time to Begin
My office was once my sanctuary.
It was pristine. Every paper in it's place. I knew just where to reach to get exactly what I wanted.
Now when I reach for something -- I have no idea what I will get. Nor, do I really want to know.
At one point I shared my office with my stepson and my daughter. Now my stepson has his own computer and desk in his room. That leaves Mimi downstairs in my office, er, make that HER office.
I want it back.
I need order. I need a lack of things. There are simply too many items in my office now. Too much of the something/anything syndrome that I am desperate to break this year. Hence, I have enrolled my daughter in Master Kim's Taekwondo class twice a week.
There are many rules. A rebel by nature myself -- I have learned to love rules for my children. I love that they have to bow before entering the workout area. I adore that they have to bend at the waist and say "sir," or "'mam" when seeing an adult male or female.
I can't believe that I dig it, but I do.
And then there are all sorts of rules about listening to parents, keeping one's room clean and being obedient. I realize these are akin to a foreign language to the children, especially Mimi, but she knows if she wants to earn different color belts -- the highest status symbols in karate! -- then she must learn the rules and her daily forms or moves.
Tomorrow I have asked, actually informed, my husband that he must spend the ENTIRE day (none of this half day or worse -- a few hours stuff) with the children so I can clean my office.
Master Kim may have his rules, but I have mine, too.
To start the new year writing exactly the way I want -- I need minimalism. A clear desk save for my new black, Macbook computer. Then the only other thing I want to see is the blank page of the computer screen and my words that will fill it.
By Dawn Yun Stumble This Post
It was pristine. Every paper in it's place. I knew just where to reach to get exactly what I wanted.
Now when I reach for something -- I have no idea what I will get. Nor, do I really want to know.
At one point I shared my office with my stepson and my daughter. Now my stepson has his own computer and desk in his room. That leaves Mimi downstairs in my office, er, make that HER office.
I want it back.
I need order. I need a lack of things. There are simply too many items in my office now. Too much of the something/anything syndrome that I am desperate to break this year. Hence, I have enrolled my daughter in Master Kim's Taekwondo class twice a week.
There are many rules. A rebel by nature myself -- I have learned to love rules for my children. I love that they have to bow before entering the workout area. I adore that they have to bend at the waist and say "sir," or "'mam" when seeing an adult male or female.
I can't believe that I dig it, but I do.
And then there are all sorts of rules about listening to parents, keeping one's room clean and being obedient. I realize these are akin to a foreign language to the children, especially Mimi, but she knows if she wants to earn different color belts -- the highest status symbols in karate! -- then she must learn the rules and her daily forms or moves.
Tomorrow I have asked, actually informed, my husband that he must spend the ENTIRE day (none of this half day or worse -- a few hours stuff) with the children so I can clean my office.
Master Kim may have his rules, but I have mine, too.
To start the new year writing exactly the way I want -- I need minimalism. A clear desk save for my new black, Macbook computer. Then the only other thing I want to see is the blank page of the computer screen and my words that will fill it.
By Dawn Yun
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Tuesday, January 01, 2008
New Beginnings
It comes the same time annually.
The new year.
Each is filled with promise, hope, new beginnings.
What makes each year so special is all of the above.
Everything is fresh, new and possible.
It really is a time where you can make life changes; both simple and pronounced.
Two thousand and eight is THE year. Why not? The possibilities are endless, and with a bit of time alone, some thought and words on paper -- ANYTHING can happen.
Best of all -- it will.
By Dawn Yun Stumble This Post
The new year.
Each is filled with promise, hope, new beginnings.
What makes each year so special is all of the above.
Everything is fresh, new and possible.
It really is a time where you can make life changes; both simple and pronounced.
Two thousand and eight is THE year. Why not? The possibilities are endless, and with a bit of time alone, some thought and words on paper -- ANYTHING can happen.
Best of all -- it will.
By Dawn Yun
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Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Material Girl
Most people think Madonna is the Material Girl.
Wrong.
My daughter is.
What she loves more than anything are stuffed animals. She has about 150 of them, including three that she recently received for Hanukah and several await her for Christmas.
She has so many that they cover more than half her bed, are piled atop her dresser and fight for space in her rocking chair.
Mimi, 6, is addicted to having things bought for her, but clearly, she needs to be 12-stepped from stuffed animals.
I wonder if there is an SAA (Stuffed Animals Anonymous) meeting for her. Or a GRMWBTMFTC (Guilt-Ridden Mothers Who Buy Too Much for Their Children) meeting for me. In some ways, I think her constant purchase requests enable me to stop feeling guilty over whatever I might be feeling guilty about at that moment.
At a recent Hanukah party, her friend, Michael, asked his mother if she would buy him a book. Mimi already had her chosen stuffed animal, a horse, in her hands. It looked remarkably like the other 25 ponies that she already has. I was ready to say yes, when Helen said no. I immediately said no, too, but my first instinct was to say yes.
Until my father left, my brother, sisters and I were pretty spoiled, too. We got whatever we wanted. I remember my mother picking me up from a play date when my friend’s mother said to wait, that she would get the toy I left behind. My mother begged the woman to keep it. “They have too many things already,” she said. “Please. I have no more room in the house.”
When I was older, I asked my mother why they bought us so much. “Because when you’re father and I were kids we didn’t have a lot and we wanted our children to have what we didn’t.”
After my father left, so did the shopping sprees. That’s why I buy so much for my stepson, Jay, 14, and Mimi. To give them what I stopped getting, but still wanted.
Jay’s outgrown his desire for things. Thankfully, his interest now lies with books. Thank you, Harry Potter!
Mimi is a different story. Sometimes after I buy her something she’ll say, “Oh, Mommy, I know you love me so much.”
Ah, wrong lesson. I have to explain that my hope is that she loves me for being her mommy and not because of what I’ve purchased.
From all that material abundance I’ve noticed something: an abundance of love for her stuffed animals. Nightly, she sleeps with a different one so each feels special.
True, many have the same name so they may develop identity issues, but still! There is love.
Then there is Pote. Pote was her first stuffed animal. My best friend, Amy, her godmother, bought the black and white panda bear for her when she was born. When Mimi was a baby she would suck on his paws so now the cloth below the “hair” on his body is all that remains.
“Pote is super special,” Mimi told me. Then she whispered in my ear. “He’s really my favorite, but don’t tell the other animals ‘cause they might feel really bad.”
I drew my finger across my mouth. “My lips are sealed,” I said. “You’re a good mommy, Mimi.”
She may be a Material Girl, but she is also a loving one.
Now her Pokemon obsession, that is another blog.
By Dawn Yun Stumble This Post
Wrong.
My daughter is.
What she loves more than anything are stuffed animals. She has about 150 of them, including three that she recently received for Hanukah and several await her for Christmas.
She has so many that they cover more than half her bed, are piled atop her dresser and fight for space in her rocking chair.
Mimi, 6, is addicted to having things bought for her, but clearly, she needs to be 12-stepped from stuffed animals.
I wonder if there is an SAA (Stuffed Animals Anonymous) meeting for her. Or a GRMWBTMFTC (Guilt-Ridden Mothers Who Buy Too Much for Their Children) meeting for me. In some ways, I think her constant purchase requests enable me to stop feeling guilty over whatever I might be feeling guilty about at that moment.
At a recent Hanukah party, her friend, Michael, asked his mother if she would buy him a book. Mimi already had her chosen stuffed animal, a horse, in her hands. It looked remarkably like the other 25 ponies that she already has. I was ready to say yes, when Helen said no. I immediately said no, too, but my first instinct was to say yes.
Until my father left, my brother, sisters and I were pretty spoiled, too. We got whatever we wanted. I remember my mother picking me up from a play date when my friend’s mother said to wait, that she would get the toy I left behind. My mother begged the woman to keep it. “They have too many things already,” she said. “Please. I have no more room in the house.”
When I was older, I asked my mother why they bought us so much. “Because when you’re father and I were kids we didn’t have a lot and we wanted our children to have what we didn’t.”
After my father left, so did the shopping sprees. That’s why I buy so much for my stepson, Jay, 14, and Mimi. To give them what I stopped getting, but still wanted.
Jay’s outgrown his desire for things. Thankfully, his interest now lies with books. Thank you, Harry Potter!
Mimi is a different story. Sometimes after I buy her something she’ll say, “Oh, Mommy, I know you love me so much.”
Ah, wrong lesson. I have to explain that my hope is that she loves me for being her mommy and not because of what I’ve purchased.
From all that material abundance I’ve noticed something: an abundance of love for her stuffed animals. Nightly, she sleeps with a different one so each feels special.
True, many have the same name so they may develop identity issues, but still! There is love.
Then there is Pote. Pote was her first stuffed animal. My best friend, Amy, her godmother, bought the black and white panda bear for her when she was born. When Mimi was a baby she would suck on his paws so now the cloth below the “hair” on his body is all that remains.
“Pote is super special,” Mimi told me. Then she whispered in my ear. “He’s really my favorite, but don’t tell the other animals ‘cause they might feel really bad.”
I drew my finger across my mouth. “My lips are sealed,” I said. “You’re a good mommy, Mimi.”
She may be a Material Girl, but she is also a loving one.
Now her Pokemon obsession, that is another blog.
By Dawn Yun
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Sunday, December 09, 2007
Chaperone
With four high-octane children and a husband often away on business, my mother never had the energy to go on field trips with me when I was in school.
So for my daughter’s first kindergarten trip – I wanted to be there to share this new experience. I said I would drive to Muir Woods and could chaperone another child. Once there, my daughter, Mimi, darted ahead to her friend, Annali, and her mother, Sherry, while my charge, Aimee, lagged behind, as did Sherry’s chaperoned child, Lizzie.
“Go ahead,” I yelled to Sherry. “We’ll catch right up with you.”
We never did.
“Hurry up, girls,” I kept saying to Aimee and Lizzie. They never heard me. Out of some 40 children and 20 adults -- Aimee, Lizzie and I were last. At one point, a father, Peter, observing my situation, asked the one question that had played like a Mobius Loop through my head. “Wish you were with your daughter?”
“It’s kind of why I came,” I said. Lizzie thrust her arms in the air toward me so they formed a giant V.“ Pick me up,” she said. “I’m really tired.”
This child, who I did not know, and whose mother was not there, and whose life I was responsible for -- wanted me to pick her up?
I needed a pick-me up, too. Say a double-shot espresso latte? “How much longer?” I asked a parent.“ We’re almost there,” she said.
“Hear that, girls?” I said to my charges. “Let’s go!” We raced, well, s-l-o-w-l-y walked, a few hundred more feet. And there, by the banister, was Sherry, her daughter and mine.
“Mommy, Mommy, where were you?” Mimi asked. “I was with Aimee and Lizzie,” I said, while hugging her. My daughter looked up. “Why weren’t you with me?”
It was the same query I would ask my mother when she wouldn’t come on my field trips and I would see other mothers with their children.
I put my arm around Mimi’s shoulders as we walked to the parking lot. Even if it was only a few minutes, and though it wasn’t exactly what I had planned, at least I did get to spend part of my daughter’s first field trip with her.
At least I tried.
By Dawn Yun Stumble This Post
So for my daughter’s first kindergarten trip – I wanted to be there to share this new experience. I said I would drive to Muir Woods and could chaperone another child. Once there, my daughter, Mimi, darted ahead to her friend, Annali, and her mother, Sherry, while my charge, Aimee, lagged behind, as did Sherry’s chaperoned child, Lizzie.
“Go ahead,” I yelled to Sherry. “We’ll catch right up with you.”
We never did.
“Hurry up, girls,” I kept saying to Aimee and Lizzie. They never heard me. Out of some 40 children and 20 adults -- Aimee, Lizzie and I were last. At one point, a father, Peter, observing my situation, asked the one question that had played like a Mobius Loop through my head. “Wish you were with your daughter?”
“It’s kind of why I came,” I said. Lizzie thrust her arms in the air toward me so they formed a giant V.“ Pick me up,” she said. “I’m really tired.”
This child, who I did not know, and whose mother was not there, and whose life I was responsible for -- wanted me to pick her up?
I needed a pick-me up, too. Say a double-shot espresso latte? “How much longer?” I asked a parent.“ We’re almost there,” she said.
“Hear that, girls?” I said to my charges. “Let’s go!” We raced, well, s-l-o-w-l-y walked, a few hundred more feet. And there, by the banister, was Sherry, her daughter and mine.
“Mommy, Mommy, where were you?” Mimi asked. “I was with Aimee and Lizzie,” I said, while hugging her. My daughter looked up. “Why weren’t you with me?”
It was the same query I would ask my mother when she wouldn’t come on my field trips and I would see other mothers with their children.
I put my arm around Mimi’s shoulders as we walked to the parking lot. Even if it was only a few minutes, and though it wasn’t exactly what I had planned, at least I did get to spend part of my daughter’s first field trip with her.
At least I tried.
By Dawn Yun
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