Merry Christmas

I want a laptop. I want an Ever After High doll.  I want a camera.  I want a new hoodie.  I want Lego Friends.  

I need new shoes for choir.  I need new shoes for my soccer tournament.  I need skate guards for my figure skates.

Credit cards maxed.  Gifts opened.  Wrapping paper in the garbage.  Our souls spent and bloated from the gluttony of presents and food.  

Amidst all the things that were exchanged, my favourite gift this year was sitting down at a table with four generations of women and their families.  

Once the cognac and wine started to flow, so did the stories and laughter.

Stories spanned from 1940s Poland to 1970s South Korea to 2010s Abbotsford. Tears were shed in memories of lost friends and family.  Hardships were remembered of traveling abroad, not knowing a language, and being alone.  An old Polish folk song wishing long life and good health was sung to us by wispy voiced 86 year old Babcia.  A Korean love song was sung by my 60 something year old parents, the same song that they used to sing with each other when they were in their 30s, always together.  And then the little 6 year olds chimed in with their songs of Jeremiah, the Bullfrog and other jingly, Christmas songs.

In all this singing and clapping and cheering and crying and laughing, I know the children may never appreciate how precious this moment would be because it is fleeting.  But I hope that one day, they will rediscover this cherished moment and re-gift it to their children.  

LaFarge Grand Prix

My 9 year old daughter ran her first cross country race this past week.  She is lightweight at most, and compared to most 9 year girls, for height, she is on the bottom end of the spectrum.  I'm theorizing that she will have to run double the steps to keep up with some of her longer legged classmates.  But I am glad that she is going to try this.  I generally like to stand near the finish line as that is the most exciting spot for a runner.  With much anticipation and no expectations, I wait there for the race to begin. 

Once the starting horn bellows, I see a mass of little girls take flight; a huge clump running together.  And in the middle of that flock, I see Chloe with her fluorescent orange and yellow running shoes. They eventually approach a small hill and start running through some trees. I lose sight of them.  I am watching at the other end of the opening to see who is going to emerge from the trees.  I hear feet pounding….. It is only the pace rabbits.  A few seconds later, I see fluorescent
orange and yellow running shoes emerge, attached to some chopstick thin legs, and long, black hair flying behind her like a cape.  CHLOE!

 

Much to my surprise, she comes in ahead of the pack and goes on to win the race. While her cheeks are hot pink, she hadn’t even broken into a sweat.  So I ask her, “Aren’t you tired?”
 

“A little”, she replies.  “There’s a part when I got to the top of the hill, I wanted to stop, but I didn’t.  And I wanted to spit, but I couldn’t ‘cause I kept running”.

Beyond pride in her physical endurance, I am most impressed by her strength of will.  She doesn’t realize what she had just described to me was her digging deep and pushing through her pain.  She felt like she wanted to quit and maybe even spit (which I’m going to interpret as the urge to vomit from my hard running experiences...haha), but she didn’t stop. Those are 9 year old words of perseverance.  And whether she had come in at the front of the pack or at the end, in my eyes, she had won that race.   

 

Dear H.Y.

I am writing this letter because it was one of those special things that we used to do since we were children.  With the advancement of technology, I know that it is way easier to text or email a quick message, but your stories were much more tangible when they were written in ink.  They were much more mysterious when I would have to turn the page to see the conclusion of your story written on the back.  Knowing that the ink from your pen travelled all those miles across Canada into my hands made your stories of love and drama and gossip that much juicier.

As we both get older, I keep remembering the things from our childhood because these are the little things that have helped me become who I am today.  I relish in the little moments that have brought us to where we are in our lives.  In a way, your letters connected my Toronto childhood to my BC adolescence. 

 

I remember the games of truth or dare we would challenge each other with.  I remember playing hide and go seek with our siblings.  I remember some of the parties our parents would have, Korean music blaring and the smell of whiskey next to the glass of Coke on the tables, and all the while, we would be playing in someone’s basement or bedroom. 

 

I remember our letters of boys that we would have crushes on because for the most part, both of us were pretty sure that we would marry each one.  And we knew they were THE ONE because they were cute, smart, athletic, mixed, musical, or tall.

I remember our letters during university and the boys were even better because they were cute, smart, athletic, mixed, musical, tall, AND in university! 

I remember our letters when we did actually meet THE ONE.  Wedding plans and mortgages and baby plans all in its gritty details – angst, stress and excitement in the changes in our lives.  Oh how our lives would change.

And finally, we have met the “men of our dreams” in our little baby boys.  More letters, this time of exhaustion and nervousness and joy.  And I feel like we are going through the whole cycle again: our crushes on our sons because they are cute, smart, athletic, mixed, musical or hopefully tall; our dreams of them one day in university or off to meet their special ONES to start new families and lives.

I write this to you today on your birthday, because in the 39ish years that we have known each other, I cherished every single one of those letters of friendship.

 

Sincerely,

 

Your Pen Pal

 

 

 

 

Hot Yoga

I open the door and walk in.  There is a thick heat that almost hits me like a brick wall.  I try to breathe in the air, but it is heavy and requires a deep inhale to suck it all in.  In this dimly lit room, there are a few bodies splayed out on mats.  A light melody plays above my head, but it is oh so quiet, as if the heat is smothering the sound from blasting over the speakers.  I choose an obscure corner, and lay out my mat. There is a message reflecting back to me on the mirrored wall:  I love my life.  Hmmm. I haven’t really thought about my life lately, but suddenly, I feel like I have to make a mental inventory in my head so that I could love my life.

 

I do have beautiful, healthy children.

I do have family nearby that love and support me.

I do feel strong and powerful for entering this room through the smothering heat.

 

And before I know it, the music is blasting.  A petite, tattooed woman in nothing but second skin spandex and a sports bra is yelling at me.  We are pumping our legs and humping our mats. We are bouncing on bricks and squeezing rubber balls between our thighs.  We are downward facing dogs.  We are bouncing bears.  We are posed like children. 

 

I am dripping in sweat, feeling light-headed, trying to practice 4 seconds of deep inhale breathing and trying to force out a deep 4 second exhale through my mouth.  I am fighting to stay alive in this 42°C hot box of a hell. Right now, I am NOT loving my life!

 

And finally, we are splayed back out on our mats with our towels and our clothes soaked through with our sweat.  Exhilarated or delirious from the heat, I’m not sure which one, I walk out the door with gratitude for having survived and finished this class.  Ecstatic at seeing my beautiful, healthy children again; and knowing my family is nearby to love and support me; and feeling strong and powerful for walking out of this room of smothering heat; I love my life.

 

Namaste.

 

The Lunch Box

There is a little place by the railroad tracks called Jimmy’s Lunch Box. 

The food is simple.  The ambience is diner-café-dive at best.  The tables are tiny.  The floors are crooked.  And every time, the train goes by, it vibrates for the ride.  But the people that fill it every day are what make this place delicious.

It is a microcosm of small town Mission, it is colourful, eclectic and feels like family.  It would be too cliché to say that this is a place “where everybody knows your name” but everyone comes because they know each other’s names or they know someone's ex husband or they know someone’s aunt who eats there. This place is to Mission, what apple pie is to America, except I would call it more of a mincemeat pie with the meat, dried fruit and colourful spices. 

We have guys who bring their girlfriend for breakfast; and three months later, bring their new girlfriend; and three months after that, bring their newest girlfriend.  Weekend warriors would crawl in after a night of heavy drinking for a cure for their hangovers.  It has seen burly bikers, swimming clubs and local musicians through its doors.  At times, there are bible study groups, politicians or yummy mummies meet ups.  And there is always a toddler running up and down the ramp or a baby passed around for a cuddle.   

Sometimes it looks like a man cave with packs of men meeting every week to catch up, share stories of chicks and children, and mostly just laugh. Then there’s an older pack of men that meet daily to talk about their jobs when they weren’t retired, share stories of women and ex-wives, and mostly argue about politics. There are gaggles of girls that come in to gossip, rave about last night's party and complain about their boyfriends. 

Last night, someone broke into the restaurant.  Windows were smashed and food and garbage were thrown everywhere.  Knives were thrown out and motor oil was poured all over the floor.  And some coins were taken from the float.  The shock of the mess was devastating but the greater shock was when the customers trickled in to simply ask if we were ok or if we needed any help or offering hugs. 

There is a family here in the Lunch Box

C3 Wellness

“What does wellness mean to you?” my friend Ray asked me.

I have known him since we were about 16 and we became fast friends.  But we became even faster workout buddies because he would literally knock on my door and wait for me to change so that I would go to the gym with him.  Talk about motivation. Back then, if I could fit into my size 28 jeans, whether it was through starvation, fad diets, smoking or exercising, I felt that I had been practicing wellness.  I know it was a superficial motivation to exercise, but a separate little seed of endorphin had been planted in me.  And without realizing it at the time, it made me happy. 
 
Fast forward fifteen years and two children later.  After giving birth to my daughter, I just couldn’t shed the last of my baby fat because of a herniated disk.  I couldn’t be active.  I didn’t think about what I was eating.  I was not sleeping well.  Sounds like most parents with small children, right?  I was just hiding behind my children.  Literally, I hid behind them because I was embarrassed about my body.  Figuratively, I hid behind them as my excuse for not taking better care of myself.  Most of all, I was frustrated because I couldn’t fit into my size 28 jeans!

This is when I shot Ray an email telling him that I just couldn't seem to lose that last 10 pounds.  He writes back with a general eating schedule, body measurement chart and a plan teaching me how to run.  Run?! Really?! Did he not know me at all?! I would never run…unless it was to chase after food or run from danger for survival.  
 
I have little kids. 
I have no time.
I am not in good enough shape to run.

These were my excuses why I could not do it. 
 
Then in one moment, I just asked myself “Why not?” 
 
Two minutes at a time, I started to jog with my daughter in a stroller.  Fifteen minutes at a time, I started to jog with my son riding behind me in a tricycle.  An hour and a half, I jogged from my daughter’s ballet school to my house and back while she was in her lessons
   
That “why not?” moment is the beginning of wellness.  The moment you decide IN YOUR HEAD to do something, your mind decides which battles your body will fight and your mind will provide the courage and strength to win that battle. 

Wellness becomes much more because it goes full cycle and also needs to end IN YOUR HEAD.  No matter what size or shape your body is, no matter how many kilometres you can run, no matter how many push ups you can hammer out in one minute, your mind needs to feel good about it and from it.  Your mind needs to feel good from the foods you put in your body to nourish it.  Your mind needs to feel good about being in your skin.  Your mind needs to find a balance in your life spiritually, emotionally and physically so that it can cope with the stress that bombards you every day. 

Now 20 years later, I am still imitating my friend Ray in going to the gym or trying to eat lean chicken or running a Spartan race with my children.  That endorphin seed has blossomed into a full blown addiction, making me want to try anything that crosses my path: running, floor hockey, crossfit, pole dancing, boxing….and I finally fit into my size 28 jeans. 

But beyond that, it also means that I am happy with my body in spite of the fact that my stretch marks have given birth to two children.  It means that I am happy to look to my friends for emotional support in spite of the fact that I could technically solve all my problems myself.  It means that I am grateful and awestruck by the magnificent trees and lakes and mountains surrounding my hike in spite of the fact that I could thankfully pray to God about them in a church.  It means I am living in wellness because I decided to

Silver and Gold I Have None

Silver and gold have I none,

but such as I have, give I thee. 

In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth

rise up and walk. 

Walking and leaping and praising god.

In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth

rise up and walk.

 

The other day, I heard my 5 year old niece singing these lyrics of a children’s hymn.  To boot, she was singing them in Korean.  It seemed strange, yet adorable since she doesn’t speak Korean and if you asked her what she was singing, she wouldn’t have a clue as to what the words meant. 

 

These words remind me of my grandfather and through him, they mean sadness, then hope, then peace.

 

My grandfather passed away when I was very young.  Of all my grandparents, he was the first one to pass away.  I think I was around 10.  In the last few weeks before he passed away, all my aunts gathered all of us cousins together to visit him in the hospital.  He was deteriorating pretty quickly from a losing battle with brain cancer. 

 

When we went to see him, he was unable to move and could barely speak.  But he was still alert enough to know all the 10 grandchildren who had come to see him.  Most of us shuffled in and were unsure of what we should say or feel or how we should react.  One of my aunts suggested that someone sing a song…one of his favourites.  So, our youngest cousin, Stella, who was probably barely 6 years old, stood up in front of him and sang this song.  In my mind, I can still hear her high pitched voice, her little body standing on twig legs, singing these words in Korean.  My grandfather’s eyes were wet with tears, but smiling.   Not sure if it was because this song rang true to his heart; maybe realizing that material possessions were useless unless you were spiritually rich.  Maybe he saw hope in the littlest of all his children and grandchildren singing to comfort and love him. 

 

Recently, someone I had known suddenly and unexpectedly passed away from brain cancer.  When speaking with his mother about his death, while I imagine she was grieving, she smiled at me with wet tears and said that there was a reason he passed on so suddenly and God knew that he would suffer less this way. 

 

I am cynical of religion and not sure what category of Christian I would fall under, if at all.  But I believe there is a higher being and something greater than us in this universe.  It goes by many names, God or Buddha or Allah or The Tree in my Backyard, but when faced with moments of loss and grief, whether it is for the person dying in the hospital or for the people who are left behind after their loved ones pass away, this belief in this greater power provides hope and gives peace. 

 

When I hear this song, I like to believe that my grandfather is in his heaven “walking and leaping and praising his God”. 

 

 

Sweet Dreams

When I found out I was pregnant, the first thing I did was go out and grab as many books about pregnancy and baby care as possible.  There were so many resources with many different approaches to everything.  Some of the advice was conflicting, some of the advice was troubling, but all of it was downright stressful.  And to make matters worse, they would put out a disclaimer saying that ultimately we should do what our instincts as mothers tell us to do.  The reason I went to these resources in the first place was because I was not yet a mother and I did not possess any “mothering instincts” to rely upon. 

 

One of the things that fascinated me most was the topic of sleep. Yes, we were going to be sleep deprived when the baby was born.  Yes, we were going to have uncomfortable sleeps in the later part of our pregnancy due to our huge size and all the aches and pains.  Yes, we will never really sleep as deeply again. 

 

But beyond that, putting a baby to sleep became a dark 8-10 hour tunnel of despair and exhaustion, the only light of  hope being the sun coming up over the horizon and the sound of the chirping birds. There were books solely dedicated to how to put our children to bed.  Soothe them, not soothe them.  Let them share our bed, do not let them in our beds.  And if our child didn’t sleep well, they were labelled as fussy, cholicky, or “not textbook”.  I lost a lot of sleep just trying to implement all the practical ways to put our children to sleep: cluster feeding, using soothers, putting our children on their back, putting our children on their tummies, swaddling them, letting them cry it out first in intervals of 5 minutes to whole 45 minute periods.

 

Up until I was 13 years old, because of my father’s business ventures, we moved almost every year.  For every different housing situation we ended up in, be it a tiny apartment, a sprawling rancher or a temporary seedy motel room, I always shared my bed with either my parents or my sister.  As babies, my sister and I would sleep with our parents in one bed.  Even when we got older and my sister and I had our own bedrooms and had separate beds, we would always end up sleeping together in one bed.  One of us would always end up crawling into the other’s bed.  I didn’t think it strange.  We were not fussy or cholicky children.  We were happy and felt safe.  We laughed and shared stories together.  We would drift off into dreamland together, my sister and I. 

 

That bed that my sister and I shared became my reference when deciding to let my toddler climb into bed with my husband and I.  My children do not need a reason or have to be ill or require soothing in order to sleep with us if they want.  In fact, there is nothing more comfortable and peaceful at the end of the day than our family bed.  We share stories about the day.  Sometimes we talk about things that scare us.  Sometimes we end up laughing about a funny secret.  There are no sweeter dreams.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

Just the other day, I was reading an article in the newspaper about residential schools in BC.  During my undergrad studies at SFU, I remember reading literature about students who had attended these schools.  I had studied textbooks about their experiences, their indoctrination, and some of the social issues that have arisen from these institutions.  This newspaper article discussed how these Aboriginal children were educated in these residential schools and how many of them were lost.  Some of these children were forced to attend these schools.  Some of these parents were sold on the idea that their children would be getting a greater education. 

 

When these children went to school, they were to forget their language, their history and their parents. Sometimes, these children never made it back home to their parents and families.  It was the death of these children. It was the death of their culture. It breaks my heart because sometimes the parents would not know that their children had passed away during school until it was summer break and their child just never came back home. 

 

When I was a baby, my mother left me.  Luckily, I was so young, I do not have any recollection of being left behind. I do not have any conscious memory of being sad or having to suppress this painful experience deep inside me.  I only know this because my mother told me. 

 

When I was an infant, my parents made a courageous decision to leave their family and friends back home and come to Canada without any real plans other than to make a living and to raise a family in a beautiful and prosperous country.  But in order to get ahead, they decided it would be better for me to stay behind with my grandmother who was my “mother” for 6 months.  When it was time for me to come to Canada to join my parents, I came on an airplane as a barely 2 year old guest to a complete stranger whose task was to ensure that when we landed I was reunited with my parents. After arriving in Canada, I cried for months, looking for my grandmother, not recognizing my real mother.  Thirty-seven years later, my mother still weeps when she tells me this story. 

This story of being separated from my parents, these Aboriginal children being separated from their families and their homes rings deeper in my heart because I have two small children of my own.  The perspective suddenly shifts when I hear these stories as a parent because I couldn’t imagine living without my children.  As parents, we are torn to make decisions that we think might be for the greater good of our children. That is what makes these choices so painful, yet courageous.  I am thankful every day that my children are close and I can hold them tight. 

 

Love

My son was asked to write about “Love” for a grade 4 assignment. 

 

In essence, it was a nine year old summarization of 1 Corinthians 13. Included in his understanding of love were hand printed words like patience, understanding, and trust.

 

Maturing into the teenage years, my definition of love was filled with angst and dramatic romance because I just didn't know how to love.   

As I entered into womanhood, I kept searching for a love filled with passion and excitement.  Relationships that started out with novel enthusiasm and passionate discovery soon fell short.  My love was merely fanciful and fleeting.

After many years of being married, I see the definition of love more clearly.  In spite of the fact that there is nothing passionate or exciting about sharing the same bed or parenting the same children or sharing the same bathroom sink for 14 years, I finally understand the love that was summarized by my nine year old son.

 

I never realized the depth or capacity of love until I had children of my own, with the man I married. It began with learning to love our children, but as a result our love for each other deepened. It was as if the love sapling had taken root deeper and thicker into the rich soil of our family. Our patience was tested, our trust was tried, and understanding expanded to outside of ourselves.

 

Suddenly the clear diamond that my husband bought for me as an engagement present doesn't sparkle so brightly as the smile that spreads across my daughter's face when she sees her daddy walk through the door.   His arms not only embrace me, but lift our babies out of their cribs.  His hands not only hold mine, but help the children build their school projects or bandage their wounds.  He not only drives an hour during his lunch break to come meet me for a rendezvous, but to see his son's preschool graduation ceremony. No longer do I see the young man that I married, but I see the father he has become. His love is understanding and trusting and patient.

LOL

Eggs!  I see them over-easy, I see them sunny-side up, I see them scrambled.  Eggs are nutrient rich, lean and high in protein.  Aesthetically, their whites and golden yellow yolks are pleasing as much to the eyes as they are to the palate.  But the ones that I am most fond of are the ones that are just over easy and slightly greasy from the oil in the pan to ensure that they don’t stick to the pan and rupture the beautiful soft yolks. 

Why?  These ones remind me of my grandmother.  As a child, we didn’t eat a lot of eggs and most of the time, when we did, it was scrambled haphazardly, which I think my parents made because we were always in a hurry to get to school or piano lessons, or maybe my parents were just too tired to wait patiently for the egg whites to cook slowly, while keeping the yolks soft.  So whenever we went to our grandmother’s house and she made these eggs for us, what a treat!

But the treat wasn’t necessarily the eggs itself.  The treat was being with my grandmother and her love of laughter and her hunger for joy.  As a child, she used to take care of me while my parents went to work.  There wasn’t ever a lot of money.  There weren’t shopping sprees or elaborate lunch dates or any fancy cars to drive us anywhere.  There weren’t any dolls with sophisticated wardrobes or a 3 storey doll house.  There weren’t any video games or indoor play places with a maze of jungle gym apparatus. We walked where we needed to go.  We ate when we were hungry.  We talked when we were together. 

One time, I specifically remember the both of us walking to one of her friend’s apartments.  We knocked on the door and when the door opened, there were almost a dozen other “grandmothers”, some of them playing card games, some of them laughing and dancing, and even one other grandmother by the window smoking a cigarette.  Back then, smoking wasn't as taboo as it is today.  But if you were a woman, a Korean woman at that, it was completely forbidden.  That day, that cigarette and all those women dancing and playing and laughing represented a rebelliousness and carefree-ness that was liberating.  For a moment, I felt like I was peeking into a secret and exclusive club that didn’t need anything other than the pleasure of each other’s company and joy in that moment.  And in the centre of the room, performing a Korean folk dance with all the other ladies boisterously laughing and clapping along, was my grandmother, giggling and smiling.

 

 

 

All those ladies have long since passed away, including my grandmother.  And many of those grandmothers probably passed on their humble heirlooms or jewels or some tidbits of wisdom to their offspring.  When my grandmother passed away, she left her resounding laugh to my sister.  And to me, I have inherited her love of that laughter and happiness.  Every time, I hear that laughter out loud and feel a ridiculous joy regardless of what is happening around me, I think of my grandmother’s eggs.

Wake Up Call

I’m not sure when, as a parent or daughter or wife, you suddenly acquire this fear of “the dreaded phone call” but I always remember my parents saying that whenever the phone rings in the middle of the night or any ungodly hour of the night, there is a strange and fearful dread as you pick up the phone, even more so if someone you love is not at home. 

 

My sister and I have this crazy ritual that drives our spouses insane.  We call each other almost every single morning.  And then as the day progresses, we call each other throughout the day as new information breaks or as we remember something that we forgot to tell each other that morning.  And then again, we call each other in the evening before bed to recap and repeat the days’ events. 

 

One morning, the phone rings.  Big surprise!  It is my sister. 

 

She starts speaking in a hushed tone, “The surgeon from the hospital called me late last night to say they’re rushing [her husband] into an emergency surgery.  He said to get to the hospital in 20 minutes, say your good-byes because it looks like he’s not going to make it through the surgery. ”

 

My heart suddenly feels tight and I feel like I can’t breathe.  And everything she hasn’t said to me over the phone explodes through my brain: 

 

He’s passed away and my sister didn’t want to call me in the middle of the night to alarm me.

 

She went to watch him die without me there to hold her hand.

 

She didn’t give me a chance to say good bye to him.

 

Her voice interrupts me as I start to feel my eyes burn and she tells me that he made it through the surgery, but he is still not stable and at any moment his condition could turn.  This was the beginning of a 2+ years journey of hospital stays and hospital visits; infections, wounds and scars; sedation and unconsciousness; breathing assisted, breathing unassisted; tears and anger and relief. 

 

That dreaded phone call became the wake up call for me.  Tell those that are precious in our lives how much they are valued and loved.  Take care of those you love, including yourself, for those loved ones depend on you.  Find joy in the moments you share with them. 

We are the Champions!

My son finally got his baseball tournament championship trophy this week. He’s allowed to keep it for two weeks before he needs to pass it onto his team mate who will also get to keep it for two weeks before passing it on.  That means two weeks for him to show his buddies, brag to his grandparents, take pictures with it and show his classmates for show and tell.  To him, this trophy represents victory.  It is an accumulation of all the runs he made home, the batters he struck out and all the MVP medals bestowed on him. While kudos goes out to his team for winning out 5 other teams; this trophy represents something more.

I see a team made up of the players, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and friends who come out to practices and games.  I see a team who sits through the rain or huddles under sleeping bags as the sun and temperature goes down to cheer the kids on.  I see a team clambering under tents to shade themselves from the scorching sun, toting barbecues to make hotdogs to feed the kids.  I see a team of parents coming straight from work or getting ready to go to work while they fit in a two-hour long practice on the weekends for their kids.  I see a team of dedicated parents, and in turn, disciplined kids. 

I see a boy tripping and scraping his knees during practice.  I see a concussion from a baseball accidentally flying into a dugout and landing right on the cheek of a player.  I see another boy get a line drive right into his chest and fall over trying to catch his breath.  I see my son pitching and getting a strange ball bounce right on his forehead; holding myself back from running out like a frantic, concerned mother while he is bent over.  I see his head swell up, the ball's stitch marks imprinted on his head and his eyes water.  And when he gets up, I see members of both teams clap and cheer encouragement. I see these kids return to the field or get right back up to home plate to bat, sometimes with trepidation and a little nervousness.  In turn, I see a team of courageous and resilient kids. 

Even though this team has tasted victory for this tournament, I also see the losses of the entire season. Sometimes, it is close and the stress and excitement is overwhelming.  Sometimes, they lose by so much that it is crushing and a ‘mercy rule’ is there to save any semblance of dignity left for the team.  I see tears when a batter strikes out.  I see embarrassment when an outfielder misses that perfect pop fly.  I see self defeat when a pitcher lets too many players get onto the bases.  But I also see players chanting and cheering each other on.  I see boys asking an injured player if he is alright.  I see kids still coming back to play the next game.  I see kids coming to practice wanting to do better.  In turn, I see kids building comradery and exemplifying sportsmanship. 

They all see the trophy, but I see champions.  They have hit it out of the park. 

The First Date

I see a lot of dates where I work:  handsome young couples on first dates; sloppily-dressed young couples on their 365^th date; old couples still holding hands after 40 years on their dates. But the ones that always make me smile are the dates between a father and his daughter.  These dates manifest itself in many ways:  sometimes it ends up looking like a food fight; sometimes they are frantically doing the puzzles in our colouring books; sometimes he is wadding up huge amounts of napkins to wipe the tears from her eyes.

One day, an older well-dressed gentleman in his sixties walks in to our restaurant and says that he needs a table for 2.  Great, I seat him and tell him that when his date gets there, I will send her down.  After about 15 minutes, a woman of 40 walks in and says that she is meeting her father.  I send her down, he stands up to greet her and gives her a hug. 

She says, “Aww, dad, you got all dressed up for me?”

“Of course, always.” He replies, sheepishly.

They sit down and for an hour, he sits enraptured by her stories of her work and how she is not sure about what she wants to do with her life, about her daughter and how fantastic she is doing in school, and about her husband and how he’s looking for a new job.  I see in his eyes, regardless of the fact that she is a middle-aged woman who has her own family and husband and life, that she is his little girl.

As a child, my father and I rarely had alone time, let alone “dates”.  He was always working, but as a little girl he was a superhero to me.  His hands could always fix anything.  His imagination could create anything. His music and stories could always make me smile.  He was always my safe place.  And now as a grown woman I start to see that his hands are old from working; he has all these dreams and ideas that he is racing against time to fulfill; and sometimes his guitar is out of tune when he sings.  But he is still my safe place.  And no matter how old I get, I will see him as my superhero. 

I think it’s my turn to take my father out on a date.

 

 

It's a Charmed Life

Look at the beautiful bracelet I got for my birthday!

For the longest time, there was part of me that would shudder at the idea of owning these ubiquitous bracelets, the little bracelets with plenty of room to continue to add to the collection of little charms and trinkets. There are endless choices and endless combinations and endless amounts of dollars that can be invested into them.  A practical side of me refused to buy into these charms because to me, they symbolized the next hot item that we all needed to have.  Like standing in line to get the newest toy or edition of an electronic gadget, I said no to being herded like blind consumer lambs to the corporate slaughter. 

 

On another level, I was noticing these on the wrists of every mother or grandmother.  Rather than viewing each charm as badges of honour, representing the characteristics and skills of the children they gave birth to and created, I saw them as a resignation to  motherhood whether we liked it or not.  I had refused to purchase a mini-van and further, the stick men families on the back windows of the mini-van based on this same principle. 

Yesterday, my kids and their cousins spent hours colouring and drawing elaborate versions of “Happy Birthday” on little home made cards folded from plain white 8.5” x 11” paper.  Then all in a line, they encircled me like a little bracelet, made me sit down and presented me with the single strand bracelet.  I was ambushed. Each child, one at a time, each presented me with their beautiful little card and then handed me a little white bag.  My 10 year old decided it was appropriate to give a charm with hockey sticks and a puck.  He says it was so hard for him to choose between that or a baseball since I love to watch him play both.  My 5 year old niece presented me with a stud called the “Rock Star” as she is the singer of our family. My 8 year daughter chose a little figure skate because we have finally found something that she loves; it was that or a “BFF” charm she claims.  My 7 year old niece says because she is my lover, there are 4 hearts on her charm.

 

 

So here I am gushing.  I get the brilliance of these charms, because to me, they are a representation of these special little people who have thought, contemplated and combed through thousands of different pieces to pick one that was perfect for them for me. They, at one point in their life, even if is just for this little moment, are my “lovers” or “best friends forever”, or my little musicians or my athletes. They are completely and utterly charming. 

Happy New Year

 

With the beginning of a new year, everyone decides it is time to purge their old habits and start anew.  We all feel like we have to get rid of unwanted pounds or old clothes or things we deem unnecessary in our lives.  This January, as I was watching my children and husband kneel down on their knees, lay their hands on the ground and bow their heads to the floor in front of my parents, what came over me was not the desire to get rid of everything last year or to forget any hardships that we may have encountered in the past; but rather, the need to savour the meaning in the things that have happened.  What I saw in that moment was my son and daughter learning to honour their awaiting grandparents, wishing them good health and prosperity in the coming year. I saw my husband adopt a cultural tradition not his, to respect his wife’s parents for a happy new year. And I saw a nostalgic ritual that I used to perform every January 1^st for my own grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles.  No matter how old we get, no matter how old our parents get and no matter how old our children get, this moment bound all these relationships together with a thread of respect and love and honour.  As we step into the new year with hopes and dreams and wishes, let us also remember, honour and hold onto the old.  새해 복 많이 받으세요