So last week was Halloween. When I was little, I enjoyed trick-or-treating along with the rest of the kids in my neighborhood and school. I had a costume every year (although it wasn't anything elaborate like what we have nowadays), and I went out with my friends and went door to door in our neighborhoods. It was a careless time, and I didn't really think about it more than an excuse to get a lot of candy.
When our church started to put on alternative candy-centered events on the last day of October, I wasn't sure what to think of it. When I was in college it seemed like just another thing that would take my free time away. Of course who knows what else I'd be doing instead of that. Trick or treating? Hah! But it did get me to start thinking about the meaning of the holiday, and whether or not I wanted to encourage participation in it.
When we had kids, I wasn't quite sure what to make of the holiday either. We got costumes for the girls and took them around the neighborhood, but mostly just to show off how cute they were, especially in their costumes. Whether or not we got candy I could have cared less. Actually I think I would have preferred that the girls didn't get candy at all.
When Elizabeth got diagnosed with her tree nut allergy, it really changed candy and chocolate in our house. Suddenly I had to be careful with everything that she was about to eat. It got to be way too much to handle the first few years of elementary school, reading all the labels, looking up the candy manufacturers' websites, and calling them up and finding out whether or not the candy was made in what we call a "nutty facility."
So last year, we decided to go candy shopping and just do away with the whole Halloween idea. Sure, it's hard to get away from it because the elementary schools really seem to relish pushing the holiday on the kids. Many of the kindergarten homework assignments during the month of October involve costumes, jack-o-lanterns, etc. There's also a costume parade on the morning of the 31st, when all the kids, K thru 8, march around the school wearing their costumes.
But we were able to pull it off not only last year, but also this year.
Last year, we left for Hawaii on my mom's birthday, November 6. We decided to take my parents out for dinner to celebrate her birthday the week before, which happens to be October 31, which also happened to fall on a weekend. So we vacated the house, took my parents out to dinner, and then went to Target to buy candy for the kids. I told them to pick out whatever they wanted, and so they each picked a two-pack of ring pops and were so excited about how they could get whatever candy they wanted. We took it back to my parents' house, and I let the girls gorge on as much ring pops and M&Ms (courtesy of my parents) as they wanted that night. No complaints from anybody.
This year we didn't have to take my parents out on Halloween (we ended up doing it the day before her birthday this year), but we did end up running an errand right before dinner right next to one of our favorite Japanese restaurants. So we had sushi for dinner, and then went to Target to pick out candy, and then ToysRUs to use up a couple of gift cards the girls had received for their birthdays earlier this year. The girls picked out sugar free gum. No complaints from anybody again.
I think we've got a successful tradition going on. I've decided I've got a disdain for cheap candy, commercialized costumes and goblins and stuff. The girls told everyone what a fun evening they had the next day and I don’t think they felt deprived. We didnt have to deal with any candy we don’t like, and better yet, we don’t have to deal with any allergens.
Showing posts with label Abigail. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Abigail. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Friday, November 26, 2010
Hairy Adventures
So a few weeks ago I decided to finally cut my hair. After months of weak-mindedly wanting to do it and then changing my mind again, I finally made the leap and got my hair lopped off. Twelve inches of it. For some unknown reason, I had always considered my long hair an integral part of my identity. And I guess that's why I had always hemmed and hawed when it came to actually making a decision to cut off my hair.
Anyways, the final seed was planted when the girls wanted to cut off their long hair. I wasn't particularly attached to their hair, although it was pretty fun to show off their beautiful straight shiny hair. However, combing it and styling it were not so much fun, and the girls hated waking up with it tangled up every morning. So when their friend cut off her hair and and donated it to Locks of Love, we thought hey, that would be a cool idea, and decided that would be something we'd like to do too.
Elizabeth was the first one to do it in March. She loved it, and would probably do it again in a heartbeat. And I think she felt really good about donating her hair. She's growing it longer again now. For another donation? Who knows.
Abigail begged and begged to do it next. She wanted to do it the same day as Elizabeth, but due to a misunderstanding (the stylist thought it was a 12-inch minimum donation, not 10 inches), we ended up having to wait until her hair grew another two inches, in May. She also loves having her hair short. One difference is that Elizabeth wanted to grow out her bangs, but Abigail wanted to keep hers. Her hair is growing again, too, but two months behind Elizabeth.
Then it was my turn. I kept hesitating. I kept making the excuse that my hair is too curly, and it'll just puff out when it's short. I'll look like an old Korean lady with badly permed hair. The matronly look. You know, that look. I badly wanted to avoid the hairstyle I ended up with in sixth grade -- when my mom and aunt thought it'd be a great idea to cut my hair short and give me a perm. Yuck.
I had straight hair with a mind of its own when I was little. It was a decent length (not too short, not too long) when I was about 5 or 6. And then my mom and aunt (same aunt!) thought it'd be a great idea to cut my hair short. I really wanted to keep it longer, but they somehow convinced me that they're just gonna cut it a little bit. Well, every time her scissors went to my hair, they had decided that "it was uneven, and they had to cut the other side." You know, to "even it out."
I think I avoided putting scissors to my hair after that for a long time. By the time I was in fifth grade, my hair was pretty long again. But it was thicker, and getting coarse. I started to hate my hair because it was too hard to comb, but didn't know what to do with it. So again, I submitted myself to my aunt's scissors, and in sixth grade, I ended up with a bob and a perm.
You know how I feel about that.
So for the longest time after that, I largely avoided putting scissors to my hair again.
And I also avoided hair rollers like the plague.
After I got married, on a trip to Korea, I discovered "magic perm." I loved this perm. Basically they put perm solution in your hair and then iron it flat. Some people say they look dorky afterwards because their hair is so flat against the head. But I loved it. My hair looked so sleek, so smooth, so shiny, so not-coarse.
I think I went back to get it done once or twice, but then decided I didn't want to shell out the $$$ for it, so I decided to grow it out. That's when the nightmare began. My hair, remember, was naturally coarse and wrinkly. And the permed section was flat. I have no words to describe this phase of my hair where the roots had a mind of their own and the ends hung limp and lifeless.
And then I got pregnant. Too tired to style my hair, too scared of chemicals to do anything to my hair, and not girly enough to really care.
Needless to say, at that point, I finally decided I'm not going to fight my hair. I'm not going to make it do something it doesn't want to do, because first of all, I'm too lazy to spend half an hour blow-drying it into submission every morning, because at the end of the week, that's three and a half hours of my life I'm never going to get back. Second of all, I'm too cheap to shell out $$$ for my hair when it's just going to grow out anyway.
So that's when I decided when I get my hair cut I'm going to be honest with myself and the stylist that I'm not going to really style my hair in the morning, and I probably won't get my hair cut more often than once a year, so please please please don't give me a high maintenance haircut. So the stylist cut off the flat parts, and did some razor-cut thing that I never really understood, and I vowed this would be my last bad haircut.
A few years after my girls were born, I realized that my hair looks great when it's wet, but looks horrible when it dries, so I began my quest to find something that'll help there. I found some hair gunk that works well, and discovered that although combing my hair when wet is fine, I should never ever ever comb or brush my hair when it is dry. And I also concluded that long hair means heavy, weighed down hair, that won't puff out into the matronly permed look.
I went and got one last haircut just to clean off the razored edges and thin it out a little, and stayed away from any scissors for about a year and a half.
So until a few weeks ago, that was my routine: after my shower, I'd rub in two squirts of my hair gunk, comb it through, and let it air dry. Simple as that. It'd look fine until I wash it again. As long as I didn't comb or brush it. I think a few times I did blow-dry it straight, just to mix it up. But for the most part, my hair rarely got blow-dried. I loved the length because I could twist it up into a bun and then hold it there with a pencil. How easy was that!
My hair grew until it went down to my waist, and then I realized it was always getting caught in my purse straps, Abigail was always playing with it and pulling ONE strand just enough to make it hurt, and it was starting to look really scraggly. The thinning that had been done a year and a half earlier was now just horrible, and my hair was starting to feel chlorine-damaged, although I was pretty careful to wash my hair as soon as I got out of any pool. I got some deep conditioner but that didn’t help much, so it was time to go and get it cut again.
Well, since the girls had been brave and got their hair cut off and donated it, I couldn’t just chicken out and trim off the ends. I had to get it all cut off. So that’s just what I did. Twelve inches sent it from my waist to my shoulders.
It feels so much thicker and healthier now. And since I’ve got my hair gunk, it doesn’t look all puffy and old-lady-permed. At least that’s what I think.
Anyways, the final seed was planted when the girls wanted to cut off their long hair. I wasn't particularly attached to their hair, although it was pretty fun to show off their beautiful straight shiny hair. However, combing it and styling it were not so much fun, and the girls hated waking up with it tangled up every morning. So when their friend cut off her hair and and donated it to Locks of Love, we thought hey, that would be a cool idea, and decided that would be something we'd like to do too.
Elizabeth was the first one to do it in March. She loved it, and would probably do it again in a heartbeat. And I think she felt really good about donating her hair. She's growing it longer again now. For another donation? Who knows.
Abigail begged and begged to do it next. She wanted to do it the same day as Elizabeth, but due to a misunderstanding (the stylist thought it was a 12-inch minimum donation, not 10 inches), we ended up having to wait until her hair grew another two inches, in May. She also loves having her hair short. One difference is that Elizabeth wanted to grow out her bangs, but Abigail wanted to keep hers. Her hair is growing again, too, but two months behind Elizabeth.
Then it was my turn. I kept hesitating. I kept making the excuse that my hair is too curly, and it'll just puff out when it's short. I'll look like an old Korean lady with badly permed hair. The matronly look. You know, that look. I badly wanted to avoid the hairstyle I ended up with in sixth grade -- when my mom and aunt thought it'd be a great idea to cut my hair short and give me a perm. Yuck.
I had straight hair with a mind of its own when I was little. It was a decent length (not too short, not too long) when I was about 5 or 6. And then my mom and aunt (same aunt!) thought it'd be a great idea to cut my hair short. I really wanted to keep it longer, but they somehow convinced me that they're just gonna cut it a little bit. Well, every time her scissors went to my hair, they had decided that "it was uneven, and they had to cut the other side." You know, to "even it out."
I think I avoided putting scissors to my hair after that for a long time. By the time I was in fifth grade, my hair was pretty long again. But it was thicker, and getting coarse. I started to hate my hair because it was too hard to comb, but didn't know what to do with it. So again, I submitted myself to my aunt's scissors, and in sixth grade, I ended up with a bob and a perm.
You know how I feel about that.
So for the longest time after that, I largely avoided putting scissors to my hair again.
And I also avoided hair rollers like the plague.
After I got married, on a trip to Korea, I discovered "magic perm." I loved this perm. Basically they put perm solution in your hair and then iron it flat. Some people say they look dorky afterwards because their hair is so flat against the head. But I loved it. My hair looked so sleek, so smooth, so shiny, so not-coarse.
 |
| From haircut |
I think I went back to get it done once or twice, but then decided I didn't want to shell out the $$$ for it, so I decided to grow it out. That's when the nightmare began. My hair, remember, was naturally coarse and wrinkly. And the permed section was flat. I have no words to describe this phase of my hair where the roots had a mind of their own and the ends hung limp and lifeless.
And then I got pregnant. Too tired to style my hair, too scared of chemicals to do anything to my hair, and not girly enough to really care.
Needless to say, at that point, I finally decided I'm not going to fight my hair. I'm not going to make it do something it doesn't want to do, because first of all, I'm too lazy to spend half an hour blow-drying it into submission every morning, because at the end of the week, that's three and a half hours of my life I'm never going to get back. Second of all, I'm too cheap to shell out $$$ for my hair when it's just going to grow out anyway.
So that's when I decided when I get my hair cut I'm going to be honest with myself and the stylist that I'm not going to really style my hair in the morning, and I probably won't get my hair cut more often than once a year, so please please please don't give me a high maintenance haircut. So the stylist cut off the flat parts, and did some razor-cut thing that I never really understood, and I vowed this would be my last bad haircut.
A few years after my girls were born, I realized that my hair looks great when it's wet, but looks horrible when it dries, so I began my quest to find something that'll help there. I found some hair gunk that works well, and discovered that although combing my hair when wet is fine, I should never ever ever comb or brush my hair when it is dry. And I also concluded that long hair means heavy, weighed down hair, that won't puff out into the matronly permed look.
I went and got one last haircut just to clean off the razored edges and thin it out a little, and stayed away from any scissors for about a year and a half.
So until a few weeks ago, that was my routine: after my shower, I'd rub in two squirts of my hair gunk, comb it through, and let it air dry. Simple as that. It'd look fine until I wash it again. As long as I didn't comb or brush it. I think a few times I did blow-dry it straight, just to mix it up. But for the most part, my hair rarely got blow-dried. I loved the length because I could twist it up into a bun and then hold it there with a pencil. How easy was that!
My hair grew until it went down to my waist, and then I realized it was always getting caught in my purse straps, Abigail was always playing with it and pulling ONE strand just enough to make it hurt, and it was starting to look really scraggly. The thinning that had been done a year and a half earlier was now just horrible, and my hair was starting to feel chlorine-damaged, although I was pretty careful to wash my hair as soon as I got out of any pool. I got some deep conditioner but that didn’t help much, so it was time to go and get it cut again.
Well, since the girls had been brave and got their hair cut off and donated it, I couldn’t just chicken out and trim off the ends. I had to get it all cut off. So that’s just what I did. Twelve inches sent it from my waist to my shoulders.
It feels so much thicker and healthier now. And since I’ve got my hair gunk, it doesn’t look all puffy and old-lady-permed. At least that’s what I think.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Introducing Bob
They are so happy with their short bobs. I also love how it's so much easier to comb, although a part of me is secretly trying to figure out how long it'll take to grow it out again, in order to donate again. I mean, why not? It grows for free on their heads, and if it helps somebody out, why not!Now I want to cut off my hair and donate it too, but I'm so afraid of what short hair will do to me. It's curly, and who knows what'll happen when the weight of the length goes away -- will my hair go flying out in all different directions? If only I knew for sure that it'll be okay.
Hopefully the end of a half-year hiatus
It's amazing how life can get in the way of writing about life. Over the past ten months I had decided to take up some classes at the local community college, and although I got good grades (straight As!), managed to work part time at preschool and church (12 hours), had dinner on the table almost every night, and packed lunch for my family, I just couldn't manage blogging on top of it all. Well, now that school is done, I can now stop, take a deep breath, a good look around, and start writing about it again. Hopefully regularly.
Some updates:
Abigail is now beginning her last year of preschool. She's excited about being a Dinosaur -- a pre-K.
Elizabeth's last day of first grade was on June 10. She got sent home with summer vacation homework, a Flat Stanley that she needs to take around on her summer vacation adventures. She'll be going with me and Abigail to preschool.
We just got back from a five-day road trip to Southern California to see some friends -- details later. We've got plans for swimming lessons and art classes too, but unfortunately dance just can't fit into our schedule this year. I have a feeling I'll be keeping a Flat Stanley journal as well.
Some updates:
Abigail is now beginning her last year of preschool. She's excited about being a Dinosaur -- a pre-K.
Elizabeth's last day of first grade was on June 10. She got sent home with summer vacation homework, a Flat Stanley that she needs to take around on her summer vacation adventures. She'll be going with me and Abigail to preschool.
We just got back from a five-day road trip to Southern California to see some friends -- details later. We've got plans for swimming lessons and art classes too, but unfortunately dance just can't fit into our schedule this year. I have a feeling I'll be keeping a Flat Stanley journal as well.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Family Bike Day
We bought a bike trailer a couple of weeks ago off of Craigslist, and we took it for a 22-mile spin yesterday. We had a three-family, six-adult, six-child, three-trailer outing. We met at a friend's house just past 10am, and rode up the Iron Horse Trail to Danville, a little town about 11 miles away, to have lunch at a little restaurant called Chow. Then we rode back, returning to their house around 3pm, and got home.
It was quite an adventure. My husband managed to load our two bikes plus the new trailer (which we discovered isn't collapsible) into the minivan, which is a feat in itself. Once we arrived at the starting point, it took a good amount of time to get everything set up and ready to go. We finally got going (my husband pulled the trailer with both kids in it), but had to stop quite a few times along the way due to certain events including screaming children, a flat tire, and a wheel that fell off (these were all separate events). Thankfully nobody got hurt anywhere, and the return trip was uneventful. We returned sweaty, happy, and safely. And the kids who needed it napped in the trailer. Bonus!
Once we got back, all twelve of us had some ice cold water (Coke for those who wanted it) and popsicles as a reward.
Unfortunately I didn't think to bring a camera. Sorry. You'll just have to take my word for it that I actually voluntarily made myself sweat.
It was quite an adventure. My husband managed to load our two bikes plus the new trailer (which we discovered isn't collapsible) into the minivan, which is a feat in itself. Once we arrived at the starting point, it took a good amount of time to get everything set up and ready to go. We finally got going (my husband pulled the trailer with both kids in it), but had to stop quite a few times along the way due to certain events including screaming children, a flat tire, and a wheel that fell off (these were all separate events). Thankfully nobody got hurt anywhere, and the return trip was uneventful. We returned sweaty, happy, and safely. And the kids who needed it napped in the trailer. Bonus!
Once we got back, all twelve of us had some ice cold water (Coke for those who wanted it) and popsicles as a reward.
Unfortunately I didn't think to bring a camera. Sorry. You'll just have to take my word for it that I actually voluntarily made myself sweat.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Swimmingly
The kids have been taking swimming lessons this summer. Elizabeth is finishing up her third session of Level One today, and Abigail, her first preschool swimming session.
Abigail has adjusted well to the routine of swimming lessons. She doesn't exhibit any hesitation about going into the water or leaving the steps in the shallow end of the pool. She follows instructions well, about as well as a three-year-old kid typically does. (Actually I'd like to think that my kids follow instructions better than typical kids their ages...)
HOWEVER...
I was frustrated with Elizabeth just a few weeks ago because she hated going to swimming lessons. Every day she'd say how she doesn't want to go because they're going to make her "do bobs" -- put her head underwater. She has been able to do it through most of the summer, but she would only do it when she's fully acclimated to the water -- something that would sometimes take a full half hour to happen, while the swimming lesson is 25 minutes long. Of course the lessons all build on this one skill, and if she's refusing to do it, then basically nothing gets learned.
Well, about a week ago Elizabeth had a breakthrough: she practically sat down on the floor of the pool (about 3 feet deep), blew bubbles, and stayed there until she ran out of air, about three seconds. She has been doing it at every lesson ever since. Her confidence level has skyrocketed. After a summer of frustrating non-progress, she's now trying to swim independently. Of course she'll go about six inches before she has to stop to come up for air, but still -- just a few weeks ago she would get mad if we left her in the middle of a 3-foot-deep pool and walked away. Now she feels confident enough to try to swim to the side of the pool, without crying! And yesterday I saw her swim across the width of the pool alone with a kickboard.
Such a change from the second day of swimming lessons last summer: she refused to even sit next to the pool, preferring instead to throw a tantrum because I even dared to bring her within a mile radius of a swimming pool.
Abigail has adjusted well to the routine of swimming lessons. She doesn't exhibit any hesitation about going into the water or leaving the steps in the shallow end of the pool. She follows instructions well, about as well as a three-year-old kid typically does. (Actually I'd like to think that my kids follow instructions better than typical kids their ages...)
HOWEVER...
I was frustrated with Elizabeth just a few weeks ago because she hated going to swimming lessons. Every day she'd say how she doesn't want to go because they're going to make her "do bobs" -- put her head underwater. She has been able to do it through most of the summer, but she would only do it when she's fully acclimated to the water -- something that would sometimes take a full half hour to happen, while the swimming lesson is 25 minutes long. Of course the lessons all build on this one skill, and if she's refusing to do it, then basically nothing gets learned.
Well, about a week ago Elizabeth had a breakthrough: she practically sat down on the floor of the pool (about 3 feet deep), blew bubbles, and stayed there until she ran out of air, about three seconds. She has been doing it at every lesson ever since. Her confidence level has skyrocketed. After a summer of frustrating non-progress, she's now trying to swim independently. Of course she'll go about six inches before she has to stop to come up for air, but still -- just a few weeks ago she would get mad if we left her in the middle of a 3-foot-deep pool and walked away. Now she feels confident enough to try to swim to the side of the pool, without crying! And yesterday I saw her swim across the width of the pool alone with a kickboard.
Such a change from the second day of swimming lessons last summer: she refused to even sit next to the pool, preferring instead to throw a tantrum because I even dared to bring her within a mile radius of a swimming pool.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Pictures from July, finally.
Swimming lessons
Ballet class
So.Cal road trip: the beach, my souvenir, and Legoland
Ballet class
So.Cal road trip: the beach, my souvenir, and Legoland
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Going on a trip with my baby
A short funny:
Abigail said we're going on a trip, and she's driving. She sat down next to me on the couch, made the requisite car noises while waving her fists up and down (as if she's moving the steering wheel). Once in a while she emitted a high-pitched "burp."
K: "What was that, Abigail?"
A: "That was the car stopping at the red light."
She resumed driving (I guess when the light turned green again), and then suddenly made a weird "ptchu" noise.
K: "What was that, Abigail?"
A: "Speed bumps."
Abigail said we're going on a trip, and she's driving. She sat down next to me on the couch, made the requisite car noises while waving her fists up and down (as if she's moving the steering wheel). Once in a while she emitted a high-pitched "burp."
K: "What was that, Abigail?"
A: "That was the car stopping at the red light."
She resumed driving (I guess when the light turned green again), and then suddenly made a weird "ptchu" noise.
K: "What was that, Abigail?"
A: "Speed bumps."
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Artichokes
A few days ago I asked my husband to buy three artichokes. He came home with two because, frankly, he's scared of them and convinced that the kids aren't going to go anywhere near them. I was pretty sure that he was right about one of the kids -- Elizabeth is a great eater and will try almost anything once. Abigail, on the other hand, will declare that she doesn't like anything that resembles a green vegetable. She'll eat carrot sticks and corn, but she will eat edamame out of their shells (probably because it's fun to eat). Peas and green beans, she'll eat if I put them into her mouth, but she'll try to leave them on the plate if given a choice. Lettuce and fresh spinach, same thing, but with those I have a lower success rate. The best success I have with her vegetable eating is when we get "dda-ddu-goh" -- that's the word for "vegetable" that Elizabeth used when she was about 1-2 years old, in reference to the bag of frozen peas/carrots/corn/green beans. The kids will eat those straight out of the freezer (except the green stuff for Abigail).
Anyways, so he got two artichokes, and it took me a couple days to muster up the courage to prepare and cook them. I've eaten a few artichoke leaves about 20 years ago and thought it was kind of a neat experience, but I've never ever even watched anybody prepare and cook them. Never even saw it on TV. I mean, what's the choke look like? Will I recognize it and not mutilate the precious heart right below it? What if I don't get out the whole thing? Will I ruin the whole artichoke? Will I cause family-wide choking because of this? What if I cut off too many leaves? What if I stain my carbon-steel knives? I don't have lemon slices!
I got the artichokes out of the fridge today, cleaned them (and pricked my fingers on the thorns), got them prepared for steaming, and then realized that I don't have a steam basket big enough to fit two artichokes. Thank goodness that I only had two -- who knows how I would've gotten three to cook at once. Well, I was able to get them into the microwave and cooked. Whew.
After they cooled a little bit, I was eating the leaves and was quite proud of my accomplishment, when Elizabeth (with Abigail not far behind) asked me what I'm eating. I told her it's artichokes, and she wanted to try one. I dipped a leaf in salad dressing and showed her how to scrape the leaf with her lower teeth. Abigail then said she wants to try one too(!), so I did the same for her. Then they both asked for more! And then more!
I couldn't believe my ears -- my preschool-aged girls (Abigail!!) were asking for more artichoke! And then when we got to the heart and stem, I cut them into bite-sized pieces and we all shared them. Now I think Abigail was just happy that she had something with which to scoop up salad dressing, but nonetheless, she was really good about scraping the flesh from the artichoke leaves. And I was happy that she was willingly trying this new and very foreign vegetable.
Anyways, so he got two artichokes, and it took me a couple days to muster up the courage to prepare and cook them. I've eaten a few artichoke leaves about 20 years ago and thought it was kind of a neat experience, but I've never ever even watched anybody prepare and cook them. Never even saw it on TV. I mean, what's the choke look like? Will I recognize it and not mutilate the precious heart right below it? What if I don't get out the whole thing? Will I ruin the whole artichoke? Will I cause family-wide choking because of this? What if I cut off too many leaves? What if I stain my carbon-steel knives? I don't have lemon slices!
I got the artichokes out of the fridge today, cleaned them (and pricked my fingers on the thorns), got them prepared for steaming, and then realized that I don't have a steam basket big enough to fit two artichokes. Thank goodness that I only had two -- who knows how I would've gotten three to cook at once. Well, I was able to get them into the microwave and cooked. Whew.
After they cooled a little bit, I was eating the leaves and was quite proud of my accomplishment, when Elizabeth (with Abigail not far behind) asked me what I'm eating. I told her it's artichokes, and she wanted to try one. I dipped a leaf in salad dressing and showed her how to scrape the leaf with her lower teeth. Abigail then said she wants to try one too(!), so I did the same for her. Then they both asked for more! And then more!
I couldn't believe my ears -- my preschool-aged girls (Abigail!!) were asking for more artichoke! And then when we got to the heart and stem, I cut them into bite-sized pieces and we all shared them. Now I think Abigail was just happy that she had something with which to scoop up salad dressing, but nonetheless, she was really good about scraping the flesh from the artichoke leaves. And I was happy that she was willingly trying this new and very foreign vegetable.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Raising bilingual children
I came here to the States when I was 2 months shy of 5 years old. My mom had the foresight to teach me to read and write Korean before we immigrated. I began kindergarten three months after setting foot here, knowing not a lick of English. I dropped Korean and adopted English as my language of choice within a few years though; you know what is your primary language when you do your times tables in that language and when you actually think your thoughts in that language -- mine's English.
Thankfully (although I resented it at the time) my grandmother came to live with us when I was 12, and since I commuted from home to college and continued living at home until the day I got married, I had a good 12 years of Korean immersion during which I also had the good fortune of studying one semester of basic Korean at Berkeley.
My parents and my in-laws can speak English well, although not fluently, so it's not absolutely crucial for my kids to learn to speak Korean in order to communicate effectively with their grandparents. However, I just personally feel that, like it or not, if you've got an Asian face, the world will pretty much expect you to speak some Asian language, most likely the one from whom your forefathers came. And at least one study has shown that growing up bilingually gives an IQ boost. And finally, I've got a dear friend (1/2 Japanese, 1/2 white) who can speak fluent Japanese thanks to her mother, although she grew up in California, went to American public schools, and had a father who doesn't speak a word of Japanese. I figure if she can do it, then my kids can too. So that's why I decided my children will speak Korean as well as English. And for free too -- no special classes to send them to, just do it at home.
As I said earlier, I think in English. Unguarded, the first words that pop out of my mouth are invariably English. When I speak Korean, I must first think the thought out in English, and then translate into Korean. It's a laborious process (at least in my mind) and I wish I didn't have to do that. But it's something that I set my mind to do from the very beginning. And we all know that with raising kids, consistency is key, no matter what the issue.
So from Day One, I spoke only Korean with my kids. I did this from Day One because I know it's almost impossible to speak one language with them for three or four years and then suddenly decide that we're going to speak a new language every day all day long. And the many words I didn't know in Korean? I just threw in the English words, but kept the sentence structure Korean. ("Umma-ga reach mot-hae" for "Mommy can't reach," "Oori freeway taja" for "Let's ride the freeway," etc.) So their vocabulary isn't so good, but their basic sentences are pretty good, as are their accents. I've even gotten comments from fluent native-speaking Koreans that my kids speak Korean better than their mommy does, and they're always surprised when they find out that mommy's the one that's been teaching them everything they know about the Korean language.
My husband, unfortunately, doesn't support me in this endeavor as much as I'd like him to. He doesn't oppose me speaking Korean with them, but he would rather converse in English with them; he says he feels closer to them when he speaks his primary language, English. Ironically, he lived in Korea from 5th grade all the way up until college, so his Korean is so much better than mine, but I dare say that he feels like his relationship with his parents (which is very good) could've been even closer if they shared the same primary language. So although his Korean is better than mine, unfortunately my kids are stuck with learning Korean from me.
(My husband and I speak English with each other (he and I agree that it feels absolutely silly to speak Korean to each other), and so our kids are exposed to English every single day. And despite my reluctance to communicate with them in any language other than Korean, their English skills have not suffered a single bit. My firstborn can read chapter books in English at the second grade level and she hasn't begun kindergarten yet. And she has absolutely no accent in either language. (Yes, I'm just a teensy weensy bit proud of her.) Jury's still out on my secondborn -- she's only three, so her Korean is still much stronger than her English, but she's moving along a similar trajectory as her sister.)
I know that this chapter will probably close soon though. My Korean skills are probably no better than a kindergartener's, and there will soon come a day when the level of sophistication in my conversation with my kids will need to be much higher than my Korean language skills can handle. I'm a little sad at the prospect, because that probably means that there's a good chance that by the time they're in middle school they will only know how to say their name in Korean. But we'll have to cross that bridge when we get there. Until then, I speak to them in Korean and insist that they speak to me back in Korean.
One big fear that I have about raising my kids bilingually is that I'm putting an artificial burden on my relationship with my children. You know how they say that it's very important to keep the lines of communication open, especially when they're going through those difficult years? Am I setting myself up for alienation between me and my kids? And the other big fear that I have is have I set up my kids for alienation from their peers at school? Right now they're in preschool, but there and elsewhere in public I insist on speaking in Korean with them, even in front of others. In a couple of years they probably will be embarrassed by me, and their classmates might also make fun of them for speaking a "ching-chong oriental" language. Am I doing the right thing?
*sigh* How can doing the right thing (according to the studies I'm boosting my kids' IQ for free!) be fraught with so many potential drawbacks? It makes me question whether I'm doing the right thing or not, but I'm given encouragement every time I hear somebody say that they wish their parents had taught them the language of their forefathers.
Thankfully (although I resented it at the time) my grandmother came to live with us when I was 12, and since I commuted from home to college and continued living at home until the day I got married, I had a good 12 years of Korean immersion during which I also had the good fortune of studying one semester of basic Korean at Berkeley.
My parents and my in-laws can speak English well, although not fluently, so it's not absolutely crucial for my kids to learn to speak Korean in order to communicate effectively with their grandparents. However, I just personally feel that, like it or not, if you've got an Asian face, the world will pretty much expect you to speak some Asian language, most likely the one from whom your forefathers came. And at least one study has shown that growing up bilingually gives an IQ boost. And finally, I've got a dear friend (1/2 Japanese, 1/2 white) who can speak fluent Japanese thanks to her mother, although she grew up in California, went to American public schools, and had a father who doesn't speak a word of Japanese. I figure if she can do it, then my kids can too. So that's why I decided my children will speak Korean as well as English. And for free too -- no special classes to send them to, just do it at home.
As I said earlier, I think in English. Unguarded, the first words that pop out of my mouth are invariably English. When I speak Korean, I must first think the thought out in English, and then translate into Korean. It's a laborious process (at least in my mind) and I wish I didn't have to do that. But it's something that I set my mind to do from the very beginning. And we all know that with raising kids, consistency is key, no matter what the issue.
So from Day One, I spoke only Korean with my kids. I did this from Day One because I know it's almost impossible to speak one language with them for three or four years and then suddenly decide that we're going to speak a new language every day all day long. And the many words I didn't know in Korean? I just threw in the English words, but kept the sentence structure Korean. ("Umma-ga reach mot-hae" for "Mommy can't reach," "Oori freeway taja" for "Let's ride the freeway," etc.) So their vocabulary isn't so good, but their basic sentences are pretty good, as are their accents. I've even gotten comments from fluent native-speaking Koreans that my kids speak Korean better than their mommy does, and they're always surprised when they find out that mommy's the one that's been teaching them everything they know about the Korean language.
My husband, unfortunately, doesn't support me in this endeavor as much as I'd like him to. He doesn't oppose me speaking Korean with them, but he would rather converse in English with them; he says he feels closer to them when he speaks his primary language, English. Ironically, he lived in Korea from 5th grade all the way up until college, so his Korean is so much better than mine, but I dare say that he feels like his relationship with his parents (which is very good) could've been even closer if they shared the same primary language. So although his Korean is better than mine, unfortunately my kids are stuck with learning Korean from me.
(My husband and I speak English with each other (he and I agree that it feels absolutely silly to speak Korean to each other), and so our kids are exposed to English every single day. And despite my reluctance to communicate with them in any language other than Korean, their English skills have not suffered a single bit. My firstborn can read chapter books in English at the second grade level and she hasn't begun kindergarten yet. And she has absolutely no accent in either language. (Yes, I'm just a teensy weensy bit proud of her.) Jury's still out on my secondborn -- she's only three, so her Korean is still much stronger than her English, but she's moving along a similar trajectory as her sister.)
I know that this chapter will probably close soon though. My Korean skills are probably no better than a kindergartener's, and there will soon come a day when the level of sophistication in my conversation with my kids will need to be much higher than my Korean language skills can handle. I'm a little sad at the prospect, because that probably means that there's a good chance that by the time they're in middle school they will only know how to say their name in Korean. But we'll have to cross that bridge when we get there. Until then, I speak to them in Korean and insist that they speak to me back in Korean.
One big fear that I have about raising my kids bilingually is that I'm putting an artificial burden on my relationship with my children. You know how they say that it's very important to keep the lines of communication open, especially when they're going through those difficult years? Am I setting myself up for alienation between me and my kids? And the other big fear that I have is have I set up my kids for alienation from their peers at school? Right now they're in preschool, but there and elsewhere in public I insist on speaking in Korean with them, even in front of others. In a couple of years they probably will be embarrassed by me, and their classmates might also make fun of them for speaking a "ching-chong oriental" language. Am I doing the right thing?
*sigh* How can doing the right thing (according to the studies I'm boosting my kids' IQ for free!) be fraught with so many potential drawbacks? It makes me question whether I'm doing the right thing or not, but I'm given encouragement every time I hear somebody say that they wish their parents had taught them the language of their forefathers.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Cherry picking
Last night I was a little disappointed because a few friends were planning on going strawberry and cherry picking today, and because I teach piano on Saturday mornings from 10-11, I couldn't go.
This morning I was a little disappointed because I remembered that I had to stay home and teach while my friends are picking fruit with their children. Oh well, I decided to just chill until my students came over, teach, and then just hang out at home for the rest of the day. I offered for my husband to take the kids and go -- that way they'll get to see fruit in their native state, enjoy a little bit of daddy-bonding time, and I'll get to teach in peace. He declined, preferring instead to just go to the gym.
Well, 10:15am and they're still not here. My husband is almost out the door with the girls to go to the gym, but before they leave, I gave my students a call, and it turns out that the mom forgot to tell me that they can't make it today. I'm a little disappointed now because my friends are out picking fruit with their children and I'm sitting at home NOT teaching piano. I'm *almost* mad at the mom for forgetting to tell me, but I remember that just a few weeks ago I had forgotten completely about teaching piano altogether and had flaked on them, leaving them to sit on my porch for an hour while I was at the gym with my husband and kids. I would like to say that it was the first week of this schedule, so I hadn't gotten into the habit of having something on Saturday mornings, but still. I flaked on them and felt horrible. So I guess I shouldn't feel so mad that they didn't tell me until the last minute, although I could have made plans to go fruit picking had I known earlier.
Oh well, let's go anyway!!
So in record time we got the kids dressed (it's forecast for mid-high 90s today), found a couple of beach buckets (for the kids to hold their own cherries), packed a million gallons of water, slapped on some sunblock, and out we went. It's too late for strawberries (they said they'd get to the cherry orchard around 10:30-11am) so we went straight to the cherry orchard. We didn't see any of our friends there except for one other family that missed the strawberry picking too. I guess I could've been a little disappointed that we didn't get to see them, but oh well. Who says that fruit must be picked in the company of friends? Yeah, it would've been nice to see them, but we had our buckets, we had our water, we had our beautiful girls, and we had our camera. And we had sushi for lunch, after feasting on cherries all morning long.
Windmills on the drive along Vasco Road
The lovely Elizabeth
The cute Abigail
Cherries!
And I shouldn't leave out...
The bicep!
And you know what? I wasn't disappointed at all.
This morning I was a little disappointed because I remembered that I had to stay home and teach while my friends are picking fruit with their children. Oh well, I decided to just chill until my students came over, teach, and then just hang out at home for the rest of the day. I offered for my husband to take the kids and go -- that way they'll get to see fruit in their native state, enjoy a little bit of daddy-bonding time, and I'll get to teach in peace. He declined, preferring instead to just go to the gym.
Well, 10:15am and they're still not here. My husband is almost out the door with the girls to go to the gym, but before they leave, I gave my students a call, and it turns out that the mom forgot to tell me that they can't make it today. I'm a little disappointed now because my friends are out picking fruit with their children and I'm sitting at home NOT teaching piano. I'm *almost* mad at the mom for forgetting to tell me, but I remember that just a few weeks ago I had forgotten completely about teaching piano altogether and had flaked on them, leaving them to sit on my porch for an hour while I was at the gym with my husband and kids. I would like to say that it was the first week of this schedule, so I hadn't gotten into the habit of having something on Saturday mornings, but still. I flaked on them and felt horrible. So I guess I shouldn't feel so mad that they didn't tell me until the last minute, although I could have made plans to go fruit picking had I known earlier.
Oh well, let's go anyway!!
So in record time we got the kids dressed (it's forecast for mid-high 90s today), found a couple of beach buckets (for the kids to hold their own cherries), packed a million gallons of water, slapped on some sunblock, and out we went. It's too late for strawberries (they said they'd get to the cherry orchard around 10:30-11am) so we went straight to the cherry orchard. We didn't see any of our friends there except for one other family that missed the strawberry picking too. I guess I could've been a little disappointed that we didn't get to see them, but oh well. Who says that fruit must be picked in the company of friends? Yeah, it would've been nice to see them, but we had our buckets, we had our water, we had our beautiful girls, and we had our camera. And we had sushi for lunch, after feasting on cherries all morning long.
Windmills on the drive along Vasco Road
 |
The lovely Elizabeth
 |
The cute Abigail
 |
Cherries!
 |
And I shouldn't leave out...
The bicep!
 |
And you know what? I wasn't disappointed at all.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Nut allergy
Elizabeth was diagnosed with a nut allergy last year. For the most part it doesn't really affect our day-to-day lives since I'm not a huge nut fan, although I do appreciate a good candy-covered nut once in a while. But it's not something that I insist on eating, and frankly I could go my entire life without tasting a nut and I'll be fine with that.
Elizabeth hasn't had an anaphylactic reaction where her throat closes shut and she stops breathing, but she has broken out in hives and complained about her mouth hurting. The allergist has told us to keep an EpiPen around at all times, just for that reason. It's a prescription that hopefully we'll never ever have to use, but it's there, for that slim chance that we might need it.
I'm generally good about checking for nuts when I give food to Elizabeth, and she's generally good about reading the ingredient list as well. And if something has nuts in it, she knows to avoid it, even if it's a tempting treat that everybody else is happily munching on.
Recently I realized that Indian food (one of my husband's favorites) commonly contains nuts, so we're very careful to ask about everything that we order when we go out to eat.
And on Friday we had a potluck lunch at the girls' preschool, and once again, we were careful to ask about the common offenders. Thankfully the suspect items (a banana muffin and an Indian dish) were homemade, so the parents were able to say that the food that they brought didn't have nuts in them, and I was able to give the girls a taste of each.
Unfortunately there was an offender that I didn't know about until after Elizabeth ate it all up. It was a sandwich. The bread was a sweet Hawaiian roll (nut-free), and the filling looked like it was a tuna or chicken salad (apparently nut-free, at least in all of my previous sandwich-eating experience). I'm not a sandwich-type of person, especially for potlucks, but I know the girls will eat them, so I put one on each of their plates.
Elizabeth ate all of hers up, along with everything else on her plate, and she said her tongue tickled. I asked her if it felt like an allergic reaction and she said it didn't, so I just let it go. And then Abigail ate about 2/3 of everything on her plate, so I finished off her food, including half her sandwich. (Yeah, that's how I get my seconds at buffets now.) A few bites into the sandwich I realized there's some texture in there that's a little different from your typical sandwich filling, so I took a closer look and realized that there are chopped almonds in there.
Folks, I just fed my nut-allergic daughter a chopped almond sandwich.
Thankfully her only reaction was the tickly tongue, but it could easily have become a much more dire situation. I don't know much about allergic reactions other than what the allergist and a few allergic-children's-parent-friends have told me, but I have been told that a reaction to nuts that involves the face or mouth can easily become a reaction that involves the airway closing shut.
And that scares the crap out of me.
Elizabeth hasn't had an anaphylactic reaction where her throat closes shut and she stops breathing, but she has broken out in hives and complained about her mouth hurting. The allergist has told us to keep an EpiPen around at all times, just for that reason. It's a prescription that hopefully we'll never ever have to use, but it's there, for that slim chance that we might need it.
I'm generally good about checking for nuts when I give food to Elizabeth, and she's generally good about reading the ingredient list as well. And if something has nuts in it, she knows to avoid it, even if it's a tempting treat that everybody else is happily munching on.
Recently I realized that Indian food (one of my husband's favorites) commonly contains nuts, so we're very careful to ask about everything that we order when we go out to eat.
And on Friday we had a potluck lunch at the girls' preschool, and once again, we were careful to ask about the common offenders. Thankfully the suspect items (a banana muffin and an Indian dish) were homemade, so the parents were able to say that the food that they brought didn't have nuts in them, and I was able to give the girls a taste of each.
Unfortunately there was an offender that I didn't know about until after Elizabeth ate it all up. It was a sandwich. The bread was a sweet Hawaiian roll (nut-free), and the filling looked like it was a tuna or chicken salad (apparently nut-free, at least in all of my previous sandwich-eating experience). I'm not a sandwich-type of person, especially for potlucks, but I know the girls will eat them, so I put one on each of their plates.
Elizabeth ate all of hers up, along with everything else on her plate, and she said her tongue tickled. I asked her if it felt like an allergic reaction and she said it didn't, so I just let it go. And then Abigail ate about 2/3 of everything on her plate, so I finished off her food, including half her sandwich. (Yeah, that's how I get my seconds at buffets now.) A few bites into the sandwich I realized there's some texture in there that's a little different from your typical sandwich filling, so I took a closer look and realized that there are chopped almonds in there.
Folks, I just fed my nut-allergic daughter a chopped almond sandwich.
Thankfully her only reaction was the tickly tongue, but it could easily have become a much more dire situation. I don't know much about allergic reactions other than what the allergist and a few allergic-children's-parent-friends have told me, but I have been told that a reaction to nuts that involves the face or mouth can easily become a reaction that involves the airway closing shut.
And that scares the crap out of me.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
sickie in the house
On Saturday morning Abi played normally after eating a normal breakfast of cereal and milk, but right before lunch she suddenly complained of a stomachache. She'd complained of stomachache in the past and sometimes it turned out to be because of diarrhea, but many times it turned out to be nothing, just a call for attention. Anyway, her stomachache on Saturday quickly turned into vomiting. After her nap she said she was hungry, so I gave her yogurt, which she promptly vomited back after ravenously snarfing it down. She ended up throwing up 4 times on Saturday. I tried to limit her intake for the rest of that day, basically giving her popsicles and apple juice.
At the end of the day, though, she kept saying she was hungry, so I gave her a few bites of plain watered-down rice. She kept it down okay, and was fine all day Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, playing, eating and pooping normally.
I had had a pretty unpleasant case of stomachache/vomiting/diarrhea the week before, beginning Saturday and ending on Tuesday, so I thought she had what I had, until I saw that she was fine and didn’t even have loose stools.
Fast forward to today. She had a normal breakfast of yogurt, half-bagel, and cream cheese, and a sippy of milk. After breakfast, however, she lay on the floor, which is totally not normal of her. She’s usually busy playing and running around. Anyways, she said her tummy hurt (sometimes she’ll say that right before she goes poop), so she went to the bathroom, but only peed – she said her poop wouldn’t come out. I don’t think she’s constipated though – she had a normal poop yesterday, and she’s never been constipated, even as a baby. She then went back to lying down, took a five-minute catnap, and then woke up saying her stomach hurt again. I asked if she needed to throw up, and she said she did. This turned out to be about a three-second warning – she ended up barfing her whole breakfast again, all over her clothes, her hair, and the living room carpet.
So off to the shower we go, and now that she's all cleaned up and I finally got the carpet de-nastified, she's playing like normal and claiming she's hungry.
Color Abi sick :-( , color me confused :-/.
At the end of the day, though, she kept saying she was hungry, so I gave her a few bites of plain watered-down rice. She kept it down okay, and was fine all day Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, playing, eating and pooping normally.
I had had a pretty unpleasant case of stomachache/vomiting/diarrhea the week before, beginning Saturday and ending on Tuesday, so I thought she had what I had, until I saw that she was fine and didn’t even have loose stools.
Fast forward to today. She had a normal breakfast of yogurt, half-bagel, and cream cheese, and a sippy of milk. After breakfast, however, she lay on the floor, which is totally not normal of her. She’s usually busy playing and running around. Anyways, she said her tummy hurt (sometimes she’ll say that right before she goes poop), so she went to the bathroom, but only peed – she said her poop wouldn’t come out. I don’t think she’s constipated though – she had a normal poop yesterday, and she’s never been constipated, even as a baby. She then went back to lying down, took a five-minute catnap, and then woke up saying her stomach hurt again. I asked if she needed to throw up, and she said she did. This turned out to be about a three-second warning – she ended up barfing her whole breakfast again, all over her clothes, her hair, and the living room carpet.
So off to the shower we go, and now that she's all cleaned up and I finally got the carpet de-nastified, she's playing like normal and claiming she's hungry.
Color Abi sick :-( , color me confused :-/.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
the Mommy Voice
Like most mommies, I've developed that Mommy Voice. You know the kind: the one that says "I mean business, and you better obey me or else the toys will revolt and all run away in separate directions in a blink of an eye."
Well, today I was folding socks and underwear with the girls, and Elizabeth, in true form, tried to sneak away to play in the middle of matching socks. Many times. Finally, I said in my sternest Mommy Voice: "Elizabeth, you come right back here and finish your folding." (Don't worry, I just make her do her own while I do the rest of the family's. I try to get Abigail to do her share, but her attention span is about the size of a gnat.) Thankfully the Mommy Voice worked, since really, it's hard to look authoritative while holding up a pair of undies.
Well, today I was folding socks and underwear with the girls, and Elizabeth, in true form, tried to sneak away to play in the middle of matching socks. Many times. Finally, I said in my sternest Mommy Voice: "Elizabeth, you come right back here and finish your folding." (Don't worry, I just make her do her own while I do the rest of the family's. I try to get Abigail to do her share, but her attention span is about the size of a gnat.) Thankfully the Mommy Voice worked, since really, it's hard to look authoritative while holding up a pair of undies.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Sometimes I'm so immature...
I was thinking about Abigail's standard mispronunciations. Here are some of my favorites...
* My fananee wub me = My family loves me
* kottattae = Korean for "the same"
* Oodiduh Pooh = Winnie the Pooh
* Sindero = Cinderella
* Toe White = Snow White
and the fact that I giggle at this one reassures me that I'm still immature:
* Seeping Booty = Sleeping Beauty
* My fananee wub me = My family loves me
* kottattae = Korean for "the same"
* Oodiduh Pooh = Winnie the Pooh
* Sindero = Cinderella
* Toe White = Snow White
and the fact that I giggle at this one reassures me that I'm still immature:
* Seeping Booty = Sleeping Beauty
Saturday, February 14, 2009
three years ago today
happy birthday to my baby girl. here's the story, beginning a few days earlier:
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Saturday, February 11, 2006, 9:39pm
For the last few days I felt like my abs are about to rip open down the middle above my belly button. Is there anything I can do about the pain? It hurts to laugh, it hurts to cough or sneeze, it hurts to wear pants, it hurts to walk, it hurts to touch! Anyone? Please, somebody, tell me that you had this too and I'm not the only freak with hurting abs!
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Monday, February 13, 2006, 2:09pm
I feel so cheated!
Yesterday I got to play in my concert without any incident. Whee! I was joking to the other people in the orchestra that I'm in the clear to go into labor or for my water to break at 6:15pm, when the concert ends. Well, I got home, hung out with my daughter and husband for a little while, and then went to bed early. My husband and I normally don't go to bed until like 1, so it is kind of a treat for me to go to bed early. (Yeah, I know, I'm weird like that.) Anyways, around 12:30am I woke up from my evening nap (hah!) and my husband was still awake, so we just got to talking. We had a really good talk. Talking about our plans for the future, his job, a pending promotion, a different pending job offer... it was a really really good talk. Haven't had one of those in a long time.
Well, finally around 1:30am or so we got tired so we turned out the lights and rolled over to go to sleep. I started feeling contractions here and there (a bit stronger than Braxton-Hicks contractions -- they'd start with a general tightening, then finish off with a big surge of pain near the cervix), and I decided to stay up and start timing them. They were pretty regular, about 5-8 minutes apart. I woke up my husband around 3:30 and told him to not plan to go to work today. We did a frantic packing of the hospital bags, woke up our 2-year-old and loaded her up the car, called the doctor, and headed out to the hospital at around 4:45am. I joked to my husband that the baby must have waited for me to play in the concert and then decided to come right after that.
Once we're in the hospital, I got hooked up to a monitor, had an internal exam, and was found to be 3cm. (I had an appointment just a day and a half earlier, and was 2cm at that point.) We decided to walk the halls, and get checked again in an hour. Around 7am I'm determined still to be a good 3cm and my contractions have slowed down to almost nothing!!! The doctor comes to check me at 8am, I'm still 3cm, and we decide to have me walk some more. Again at 11:30 I'm still 3cm, and after talking with the doctor, we decide to send me home. Waaaaahhhhh!!!
Not that I want to have the baby today or anything (we're so far from ready it's not even funny), but I can't help but feel cheated. Cheated of my good night's sleep, cheated of my husband's sleep, cheated of my 2-year-old daughter's sleep. Cheated of getting my hopes up. Cheated of the precious gas that was spent driving 30 mins each way to and from the hospital. *sigh*
And I'm still getting contractions. Still just as strong. But only about once every hour or so.
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Monday night, February 13, 2006, around 9pm.
We went to the mall tonight to pick out the pictures we'd like to have from my pregnancy photo shoot the Saturday before. While we're there, looking at pictures, I suddenly got really quiet. The guy at the photo studio asked me what I was thinking, since I was just kinda' staring at the pictures and not having much of a facial expression at all. (Normally I'm quite gregarious and my husband's always looking for my "off" switch.) My response? "Oh, nothing... I'm just having a contraction."
You should've seen the look on his face!
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Tuesday morning, February 14, 2006.
Around 5am I woke up again with contractions. They're probably false labor again, so I ignored it as best as I could, but they still came every 5-6 minutes. Around 6am my husband asked if I'm okay (I guess my stirring woke him up). I said that I'm having contractions again, so he asked if we should call the doctor. I was afraid of calling the doctor again at such an unholy hour, so we decided to wait until at least 7. I was still convinced that this is just false labor, so he took a shower, and then I decided I'd take a shower. The nerd in me was fascinated with the fact that I knew exactly what time it was just from my contractions. After my shower, still in denial, we decided to have breakfast (two years earlier when I was in the hospital to give birth to my firstborn, they wouldn't let me eat anything, so I made sure I got myself something to eat this time).
Finally around 7 we decided to call the doctor, and the first question she had for me, of course, was "are these contractions different from those you had yesterday morning?" I wasn't completely sure, but thought they *might* be a little harder, so she recommended that we get to the hospital.
We finished up breakfast, got Eliz, and began our drive to the hospital. It was around 8am (we took our time, figuring that it's just false labor again) so we just moseyed along with the rush-hour traffic. It took us a good 35-40 minutes to get there, and by the time I was there, contractions were coming a little faster and much harder. About 25 minutes into the drive I felt it was getting unbearable -- two years earlier when I was in labor with my first one, this is about the point of pain when I asked for my epidural. I decided this was enough pain, and that I'll ask for the epidural as soon as we get to the hospital. This was so different from the day before, when I sauntered into the hospital, practically singing "I think I'm in labor." This time I staggered in, between contractions, and I guess the expression on my face said everything to the nurses. I wanted to get under some hot water again, to ease the pain, but they said that they had to monitor me and check my dilation first. I reluctantly agreed, figuring that once they get the formalities out of the way I can hop into the shower and get that hot water on my back.
So they checked me and it turned out that I was already 8cm dilated. Too late for an epidural, the doctor said. And not only that, but I'll be ready to push in about an hour or two. What!??? I was expecting to hang out and chill with my epidural for a few hours first, and then maybe sometime in the afternoon have the baby. And my poor husband, I think he wanted the pain relief more than I did. He asked the doctor a few times if there's anything that can be done about the pain. She assured him that there was nothing to do but to just go through it since it's too late.
So here I was, hanging out and trying to chill with my contractions, and some lady walked in asking if it's okay for some student nurses to come and observe the birth, since it'll be an unmedicated one. Uhhh, okay, I guess. I'm in labor and can't really think clearly, so whatever.
A few contractions later I realize hey, waitaminnit, this is a bunch of strangers coming in to see me push a baby out of my hoohaa, and the least they can do is babysit my two-year-old in a different room so she doesn't have to witness all of this! So I guess it worked out -- we have a babysitter!
Anyways, around 10am I was determined to be fully dilated, so they instructed me to push. No epidural, just a bunch of ladies that I don't know, one counting to ten every time I push (one of my personal pet peeves), and another telling me "how wonderful it is to be bringing a baby into the world" (that particular wording, I discovered, is another one of my personal pet peeves).
Finally at 10:29am, Abi (she prefers Iga) came out, looking just like her daddy, just like her big sister did when she was born. I was a little disappointed, not because looking like daddy is a bad thing, but because I was hoping that at least one of my two kids would look anything like me. Oh well, she's a beautiful baby, and still is a beautiful three-year-old girl today.
The crazy thing was, the first time around I gained 31 pounds, and Eliz came out 7 pounds, 7 ounces. This time I gained 11 pounds, and Abi came out 8 pounds, 2 ounces. Okay, I guess it doesn't always mean that bigger weight gain means bigger babies!
************************
As a baby she was even easier than Eliz. Even in the hospital she was sleeping 5 hours at night, and she hardly cried either. Just like her big sister, she nursed like a champ and was never picky with clothes or food. To have gotten lucky twice, I would love to say it was my superb parenting skills that made my children this way, but you and I both know, it was all God's grace.
I nursed my firstborn for 13 months, so I figured I'd nurse my secondborn until she starts walking. Little did I know that she'd wait until weaning (at 16 months) to start walking (a few days shy of 18 months)! For the longest time she'd communicate with a two-syllable "Ah-ah?" It really meant anything between "I'm sitting here and having a good time" to "Let's play!" Soon after that was her "Weng-oh-weng-oh-weng-oh-weng." It took us a few weeks to realize that that was her way asking "What is this?" Nowadays she loves to sing and dance, she loves to jump around and play with her big sister. She is very good about waiting her turn for things, and even her Terrible Two wasn't really that terrible. I guess now that she's three, I can't say she's a baby anymore, especially since she's now fully potty-trained, sleeps in a big-girl bed, and is beginning to learn the alphabet and the sounds of each letter too. Oh well, she'll always be my baby.
Happy birthday, my baby. I love you. You're truly your parents' joy. May God bless you and keep you in the palm of His hand. May he love you and call you his own, and may you grow into a woman who fears the Lord and therefore is greatly to be praised.
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Saturday, February 11, 2006, 9:39pm
For the last few days I felt like my abs are about to rip open down the middle above my belly button. Is there anything I can do about the pain? It hurts to laugh, it hurts to cough or sneeze, it hurts to wear pants, it hurts to walk, it hurts to touch! Anyone? Please, somebody, tell me that you had this too and I'm not the only freak with hurting abs!
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Monday, February 13, 2006, 2:09pm
I feel so cheated!
Yesterday I got to play in my concert without any incident. Whee! I was joking to the other people in the orchestra that I'm in the clear to go into labor or for my water to break at 6:15pm, when the concert ends. Well, I got home, hung out with my daughter and husband for a little while, and then went to bed early. My husband and I normally don't go to bed until like 1, so it is kind of a treat for me to go to bed early. (Yeah, I know, I'm weird like that.) Anyways, around 12:30am I woke up from my evening nap (hah!) and my husband was still awake, so we just got to talking. We had a really good talk. Talking about our plans for the future, his job, a pending promotion, a different pending job offer... it was a really really good talk. Haven't had one of those in a long time.
Well, finally around 1:30am or so we got tired so we turned out the lights and rolled over to go to sleep. I started feeling contractions here and there (a bit stronger than Braxton-Hicks contractions -- they'd start with a general tightening, then finish off with a big surge of pain near the cervix), and I decided to stay up and start timing them. They were pretty regular, about 5-8 minutes apart. I woke up my husband around 3:30 and told him to not plan to go to work today. We did a frantic packing of the hospital bags, woke up our 2-year-old and loaded her up the car, called the doctor, and headed out to the hospital at around 4:45am. I joked to my husband that the baby must have waited for me to play in the concert and then decided to come right after that.
Once we're in the hospital, I got hooked up to a monitor, had an internal exam, and was found to be 3cm. (I had an appointment just a day and a half earlier, and was 2cm at that point.) We decided to walk the halls, and get checked again in an hour. Around 7am I'm determined still to be a good 3cm and my contractions have slowed down to almost nothing!!! The doctor comes to check me at 8am, I'm still 3cm, and we decide to have me walk some more. Again at 11:30 I'm still 3cm, and after talking with the doctor, we decide to send me home. Waaaaahhhhh!!!
Not that I want to have the baby today or anything (we're so far from ready it's not even funny), but I can't help but feel cheated. Cheated of my good night's sleep, cheated of my husband's sleep, cheated of my 2-year-old daughter's sleep. Cheated of getting my hopes up. Cheated of the precious gas that was spent driving 30 mins each way to and from the hospital. *sigh*
And I'm still getting contractions. Still just as strong. But only about once every hour or so.
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Monday night, February 13, 2006, around 9pm.
We went to the mall tonight to pick out the pictures we'd like to have from my pregnancy photo shoot the Saturday before. While we're there, looking at pictures, I suddenly got really quiet. The guy at the photo studio asked me what I was thinking, since I was just kinda' staring at the pictures and not having much of a facial expression at all. (Normally I'm quite gregarious and my husband's always looking for my "off" switch.) My response? "Oh, nothing... I'm just having a contraction."
You should've seen the look on his face!
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Tuesday morning, February 14, 2006.
Around 5am I woke up again with contractions. They're probably false labor again, so I ignored it as best as I could, but they still came every 5-6 minutes. Around 6am my husband asked if I'm okay (I guess my stirring woke him up). I said that I'm having contractions again, so he asked if we should call the doctor. I was afraid of calling the doctor again at such an unholy hour, so we decided to wait until at least 7. I was still convinced that this is just false labor, so he took a shower, and then I decided I'd take a shower. The nerd in me was fascinated with the fact that I knew exactly what time it was just from my contractions. After my shower, still in denial, we decided to have breakfast (two years earlier when I was in the hospital to give birth to my firstborn, they wouldn't let me eat anything, so I made sure I got myself something to eat this time).
Finally around 7 we decided to call the doctor, and the first question she had for me, of course, was "are these contractions different from those you had yesterday morning?" I wasn't completely sure, but thought they *might* be a little harder, so she recommended that we get to the hospital.
We finished up breakfast, got Eliz, and began our drive to the hospital. It was around 8am (we took our time, figuring that it's just false labor again) so we just moseyed along with the rush-hour traffic. It took us a good 35-40 minutes to get there, and by the time I was there, contractions were coming a little faster and much harder. About 25 minutes into the drive I felt it was getting unbearable -- two years earlier when I was in labor with my first one, this is about the point of pain when I asked for my epidural. I decided this was enough pain, and that I'll ask for the epidural as soon as we get to the hospital. This was so different from the day before, when I sauntered into the hospital, practically singing "I think I'm in labor." This time I staggered in, between contractions, and I guess the expression on my face said everything to the nurses. I wanted to get under some hot water again, to ease the pain, but they said that they had to monitor me and check my dilation first. I reluctantly agreed, figuring that once they get the formalities out of the way I can hop into the shower and get that hot water on my back.
So they checked me and it turned out that I was already 8cm dilated. Too late for an epidural, the doctor said. And not only that, but I'll be ready to push in about an hour or two. What!??? I was expecting to hang out and chill with my epidural for a few hours first, and then maybe sometime in the afternoon have the baby. And my poor husband, I think he wanted the pain relief more than I did. He asked the doctor a few times if there's anything that can be done about the pain. She assured him that there was nothing to do but to just go through it since it's too late.
So here I was, hanging out and trying to chill with my contractions, and some lady walked in asking if it's okay for some student nurses to come and observe the birth, since it'll be an unmedicated one. Uhhh, okay, I guess. I'm in labor and can't really think clearly, so whatever.
A few contractions later I realize hey, waitaminnit, this is a bunch of strangers coming in to see me push a baby out of my hoohaa, and the least they can do is babysit my two-year-old in a different room so she doesn't have to witness all of this! So I guess it worked out -- we have a babysitter!
Anyways, around 10am I was determined to be fully dilated, so they instructed me to push. No epidural, just a bunch of ladies that I don't know, one counting to ten every time I push (one of my personal pet peeves), and another telling me "how wonderful it is to be bringing a baby into the world" (that particular wording, I discovered, is another one of my personal pet peeves).
Finally at 10:29am, Abi (she prefers Iga) came out, looking just like her daddy, just like her big sister did when she was born. I was a little disappointed, not because looking like daddy is a bad thing, but because I was hoping that at least one of my two kids would look anything like me. Oh well, she's a beautiful baby, and still is a beautiful three-year-old girl today.
The crazy thing was, the first time around I gained 31 pounds, and Eliz came out 7 pounds, 7 ounces. This time I gained 11 pounds, and Abi came out 8 pounds, 2 ounces. Okay, I guess it doesn't always mean that bigger weight gain means bigger babies!
************************
As a baby she was even easier than Eliz. Even in the hospital she was sleeping 5 hours at night, and she hardly cried either. Just like her big sister, she nursed like a champ and was never picky with clothes or food. To have gotten lucky twice, I would love to say it was my superb parenting skills that made my children this way, but you and I both know, it was all God's grace.
I nursed my firstborn for 13 months, so I figured I'd nurse my secondborn until she starts walking. Little did I know that she'd wait until weaning (at 16 months) to start walking (a few days shy of 18 months)! For the longest time she'd communicate with a two-syllable "Ah-ah?" It really meant anything between "I'm sitting here and having a good time" to "Let's play!" Soon after that was her "Weng-oh-weng-oh-weng-oh-weng." It took us a few weeks to realize that that was her way asking "What is this?" Nowadays she loves to sing and dance, she loves to jump around and play with her big sister. She is very good about waiting her turn for things, and even her Terrible Two wasn't really that terrible. I guess now that she's three, I can't say she's a baby anymore, especially since she's now fully potty-trained, sleeps in a big-girl bed, and is beginning to learn the alphabet and the sounds of each letter too. Oh well, she'll always be my baby.
Happy birthday, my baby. I love you. You're truly your parents' joy. May God bless you and keep you in the palm of His hand. May he love you and call you his own, and may you grow into a woman who fears the Lord and therefore is greatly to be praised.
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