Caste

Reading Caste, and feeling my brain both expanding and exploding.  Isabel Wilkerson, thank you for spoon feeding us a breakdown of the most complicated social dilemma of this country (and the world). 

It was in the making of the New World that Europeans became white, Africans black, and everyone else yellow, red, or brown.  It was in the  making of the New World that humans were set apart on the basis of what they looked like, identified solely in contrast to one another,, and ranked to form a caste system based on a new concept called race.  It was in the process of ranking that we were all cast into assigned roles to meet the needs of the larger production.  

None of us are ourselves. 

p53

In 1994, when I stepped off that airplane, little did I know I would be cast into a caste system (the middle caste, as it were), a social construct that is singularly American.  I had spend my entire subsequent years to "fit in", but into what, I didn't know until now.  It was an innate "fight or flight" response I had to assimilate or fail.  In doing so, I had given up my unique identity and rooted more and more tightly to my assigned caste (for as it turns out, one cannot move from one caste into another).  It is not social, it is not racial, it is not cultural, it is all of these and more.  

I have not felt like myself since.  Now I know why.  And in that, there is clarity and relief.  

I have tried to explain my trips of homegoing, how nice it is to hear my native tongue, to look around and see similar complexions and features.  What accounts for that instant sense of arrival and belonging?  I have not understood it until now.  When I go "home", it is the ultimate reclaiming of self, just another human on her native land, no more and no less.  The opposite has always been an undercurrent of my life in this country.  Since the Pandemic, since the era of Trump, it has been imperative that I identify it, name it, and speak out against it.  Not to traverse castes, but fight to abolish it altogether. 

IXD

We knew we wanted a second baby.  Isla completed our family.

I found out I was pregnant with Isla in May, same month as O.  I was on a stretch of swing shifts and walked around the hospital in the evenings with expectant happiness.  We had just sold our first home and building a new one in my favorite part of town.  At the time, we rented a small apartment barely big enough for the three of us.  I had all kinds of plans to use the apt gym and get in shape.  But alas, I peed on a stick and two lines popped up.  I spent the next 10 months laying on the couch.

Olivia was two and the sweetest little toddler, deep into bubble guppies, nursery rhymes, and potty training.  I remember many hours of napping by her on the couch as nausea and fatigue hit.  I also binged all seven seasons of Gilmore Girls, dreaming of the little girl growing in my belly. 

We moved two more times between May 2017 and Feb 2018.  The little apt was in no way able to accommodate another human being (not to mention my mom would need to stay and help).  Right before Thanksgiving 2017, we moved into a condo in the same complex.  Then two weeks after Isla arrived, we moved into our newly built house.  

The only thing I wanted from my second (and last) delivery is that I wanted the baby to come on her own time.  No induction.  No rush.  A few days before my due date, around 3AM Feb 5, 2018, I woke up with odd twinge in my lower abd.  It wasn't pain, it wasn't contraction, but it came around every 10 min and kept me from going back to sleep.  Olivia and S are both sleeping soundly.  I remember waking S up and telling him to go back to sleep, I'll just drive myself to the hospital and see what's going on. Surely this cannot be contractions.  I was scheduled to work that day anyways.  If it turns out to be nothing, I'll just get an early start to my work day.  S groggily agreed.  I emphasized that we do not want to wake up O and drag her to a hospital at 3AM. 

I remember driving myself in the dark.  Our rental was very close to the hospital and an easy 15 min drive.  The weird sensation kept coming back, getting stronger and stronger.  By the time I parked in the Women's Center, I had to wait for one to pass before getting out of the car with my bag.  I checked myself in, got hooked up to the monitor, and was told that indeed, I was in labor!

I will always remember that morning as a mixture of happiness, expectance, and peacefulness.  I remember S dropping O off at daycare at 6:30 AM before coming to the hospital.  By then I had already gotten my epidural.  There was an brief episode of bp issues but mostly it was just waiting.  At close to noon, my water broke, my epidural ran out, I was fully dilated, and my OB came to check on me all at the same time.  He asked me to try giving it a little push and out came Isla!  She was ready!  She was soft and warm, small but mighty, and she had a loud baby cry that I can still hear.  I vowed to note every moment of this last delivery, my last baby, and I did. 

Isla was not a good sleeper in the beginning, I remember waking up with her every hour that first night.  But if anything parenthood has taught me, it is to just go with the flow.  We brought her home the next day as well, with much less anxiety.  I was determined to not stress about breast feeding, didn't even open my pump those first few months.  Isla was a good eater and soon became a good sleeper.  She wore all of jie jie's hand me downs and spend many nights in little sleeper (that has since been recalled) by my bed. 

O meeting Isla for the first time in the hospital.  I had hoped they would get along, but had no idea they would be best friends (literally what Isla calls O).

Baby Isla, wearing the same sweater going home as O.

Isla, age 3, little beauty.

 

OMD

Have I ever written down the story of O's birth?  Maybe I have.  I'm in a reflective mood these days, so why not.  Someday little O may appreciate knowing all the details of her birth that only a mom could tell.

I still have a teeny weeny bit of regret that we rushed O into this world.  Sometimes I wonder if that's why she didn't nurse well, was such a bad sleeper for so long (two long years of tumultuous nights), and still so very small.

Olivia was induced at 39 weeks and 4 days (plus or minus a few).  We induced her for many reasons, one of which was her little belly showed slowed growth on the US.  But also, I got tired of waiting and my OB was on call on the night we selected.  

I was scheduled to check into the hospital at 7pm.  S and I ate dinner at a little Canton restaurant.  We knew vaguely this would be the last dinner we would have as a family of two (I had a spinach salad), but didn't dwell too much on the fact our life was about to change forever.  

We arrived at my little hospital and settled in.  From the first moment until my epidural twelve hours later, induction was PAINFUL.  I had agonizing contractions but was not dilated enough for an epidural.  When I finally did get an epidural around 7AM the next day, I promptly fell asleep.  Epidural is magical, period the end.  My water broke shortly after and Olivia was born at noon.  If I could sum it all up, it would be induction, do not recommend.  Epidural, highly recommend. 

First impression of this baby - so dainty.  Little ladylike features, little face, little lips, and translucent skin.  She slept very soundly those first 48 hours.  So much so that I somehow thought - we got this.  We took her home after only one day in the hospital (a decision I would come to regret for years).  By 2pm next day, we packaged her up and headed home.  Her going home outfit consisted of a strawberry onesie and a purple cardigan.  I remember S driving very slowly home.  

Once we got home... how do I put this... all hell broke loose.  Six years later, I still remember these first few hours, days, weeks, with a lot of PTSD.  Olivia would not sleep unless held.  This means I somehow cannot tend to the tedious OCD order of my life that I need in place in order to function.  Simple things like laundry (between spit up and poop, we went through ALL of her clothes in the first 24 hours), figure out how to use a breast pump (I was obsessed with bf from the get go), and unpack the hospital bag (I have always been someone who needed to do the unpacking as soon as I get home.  It's almost like a ritual) loomed over me, slowly driving my post partum mind crazy.  

Breast feeding was a hurdle that I could not get over (actually I never did with this first baby).  When would my milk come in, would I make enough, is Olivia hungry and therefore not sleeping?  We had brought home little bottles of infant formula from the hospital that I was convinced we wouldn't need.  Around 7pm on our first day home, S popped one open, and O downed the 2oz bottle like she was starving.  This sounded off a loud panic button in my brain.  MY BABY IS STARVING.  I have been "nursing" her with my empty boobs every three hours all day.  I immediately tore open my breast pump set (I needed to see what was coming out) and found, to my horror, that one of the funnels was broke.  I cry not for the first time that day.  I call the hospital in panic.  I tell them I am Dr. so and so (used in this context o persuade influence and attention) and I was sent home from the hospital with my new baby and a broken pump.  How did they expect me to keep her alive?!  I spoke to the charge nurse who calmly told me that she would get a new set ready for me.  I then sent Steve to the hospital (by this time it was around 10pm) to get this new set. 

A working pump did not end my anguish.  At some point S held O in football position and said "look at her, she is fine.  You need to calm down".  O's eyes open and stared at me the whole time.  Steve's mom was there that night too, I can't even begin to guess (or care at the time) what she thought of me. 

O would not sleep well for the first two years.  S and I decided early that he would sleep in the bedroom down the hall.  It was the only way he could get some rest and I see no point in having two zombies around the house.  One of us had to carry on.  Now, two babies in and six years later, he is still int he bedroom down the hall.  No regrets in that decision.  We make it work. 

O turned six years old a month ago.  She could win a contest in sleeping through the night and loves her room (she was four and half when she slept on her own).  I will never look back onto those early days with anything other than desperation and anxiety.  I did the best I could, that I know for sure. 

Ready to head home!  The purple sweater is one of my favorites. 

This is 6!  Thriving in Kindergarten.

And then... shit happened.

 Two rules of adulthood.  Life isn't fair and shit happens. 

Well, I have had a shitty week, 10 days to be exact.

After a year of careful existence, Olivia gets COVID.  We have kept her home from in-person Kindergarten (one of only three kids in her class to pick virtual learning).  We have limited her playdate to ONE girl (whom we haven't seen since before Christmas).  We drove around town looking for semi-empty playgrounds and parks.  There have been no extracurricular activity of any kind.  Swim, art, dance, all put on hold.  

For O's birthday on 2/11, we planned to stop by her cousin/birthday twin's house to drop off presents.  However last minute they decided to come here instead.  The two previous times they dropped by were on Thanksgiving and Christmas, and then only to drop off food/presents, fully masked, and out in a hurry.  In fact, for Christmas, I bursted into tears before they took off.  So many sacrifices in 2020.  We haven't really been around our closest family since the cousin/birthday twin started back to school sometime in September.  So on 2/11, instead of a driveway gift exchange, I texted the birthday twin and her mom to come inside with masks on.  The grandparents were here and they had a birthday cake for their other grandchild.  Everyone was masked, except for Olivia and Isla.  

2/13, O's aunt texts us she has COVID.  We panic.  We send my parents home (they came here for O's birthday, drove 6 hours, only to be sent home less than 24 hours later).  We count our fingers and toes to calculate the risks.  We knew the girls would be at highest risks, since they were unmasked (I actually had a mask for O in hand, but put it down when they took longer to arrive.  This decision I will replay in my mind a hundred times in the next ten days).  The cousin/birthday twin did take off her masks to eat cake and Isla was on her lap at one point!

The mind grapples for hope.  We tell ourselves that the aunt wore a mask pretty much the whole evening.  S and I didn't go very close to her (I might have compromised the six feet distance but I'm vaccinated).  S stayed far away from his family (bless him).  Then another sigh of relief when we found out the cousin/birthday twin tested negative!  I call the pediatrician office and we decide the risks are still low.  I talk to my friends and hear stories of intermingling with infected people without transmission.  I try to put it all behind me and go on with life.  Please please let this be another close call (for there have certainly been other close calls before).  

2/19.  S and I decide to take the girls in to get tested even though they have had no symptoms.  Just to be sure, our pediatrician recommended, given some delayed complications from COVID.  At 3:30 PM, both girls get swabbed.  It was a Friday and we had taco night planned from our favorite Mexican place, Ceviche.  Steve took off in his car to get the food while I drove home with the girls.  The result would take 15 min, I knew.  I expected a call from the office.  When the phone ring, I jumped up, ready to celebrate the good news.  When she said, do you have a minute, my mind fumbles for why I need a minute.   She informs me that Isla has tested negative, but Olivia has tested positive.  I remember thinking - I need to sit down.  My mind spins and I think how is this possible.  I tell my pediatrician that no, she has no symptoms.  Did I gasp?  Cry?  Try to hold it together?  Before I even hang up the phone, I see Olivia laying like a puddle on the floor.  I tell her to stand up and she tells me she is tired.  Shit.  I take her temp and it read 102.  Shit Shit.  I text my pediatrician about the fever (I love her) and she calls me back.  I definitely cried now.  I remember my hands shook as she told me to write down the various supplements I should get, how I needed to alternate Tylenol and Ibuprofen, how I need to separate O from Isla and S.  I remember watching Isla run circles around Olivia and wonder how I will keep them apart for 10 days.  

I called a close friend who gave me a pep talk and ideas on what to do.  She reminds me this is what we have been telling our patients to do for a whole year, surely I can follow my own instructions!  This gets me moving.  I gather up Olivia and put her in the upstairs Jack and Jill, which is her room and her study/school room.  I shut all communal toys that Olivia and Isla have shared into a closet that Isla can't open.  I pack a bag of toiletries and clothes for me to stay with O.  I don't think neither O nor I took a moment to say bye to Isla.  When S got home, he took her behind closed doors until O and I could get settled.  We haven't seen her face in ten days (we also almost haven't seen S in ten days except for one time when Olivia opened the door before S could get downstairs.  We waved to each other.  I cried).  Taco that night was on a tray left outside of our quarantine rooms.  Steve has managed to bring up punctually three meals a day for the following ten days.  Isla called for us outside our door the next morning.  I sobbed while Olivia looked at me wide eyed.  How confusing it must be for her to hear us, but not to see us (as the days progressed she would yell "yei yei are you ok?  mama are you ok?"  We would yell back "we love you Isla").  I kept telling myself to be strong for O, which I have been, to the best of my ability.

Let the records show that O is an above average toddler in terms of lovability.  Being closed within confined space with her for ten straight days confirmed this.  She whined only a little, complained only a little, and amazed me with her adaptability in every way.  

Tomorrow Olivia will fly out of here and be reunited with S and Isla.  I will probably cry more tears.  I doubt I'll ever look back at this time with anything other than terror and relief (that everyone ended up ok).  There are many lesson to be gleaned.  For now, I will continue to keep all my fingers and toes crossed and pray for the end of this pandemic.  In case anyone is wondering, the aunt isn't sure how she got COVID.  The gym, maybe.  I blame no one except myself.  

My Babies

So much is happening in the world, some certain, some uncertain.  The cuteness of Olivia and Isla is my only constant.  

My two winter babies both with approaching birthdays.  One almost SIX, one almost THREE. 

Olivia's first year of Kindergarten is almost coming to an end (yes it's only the beginning of the second semester but I know how time flies now... so may as well ben the end).  It has been virtual this whole year, despite my forever optimism that this Pandemic will be under control, and I will see my baby bouncing into the school grounds once again.  That hope is getting slimmer but not completely gone.  She is THRIVING even at home!  Such a good little reader (favorite books - Piggie and Gerald and The Dragon books) and so very diligent with her numbers.  She is careless though, and its hard to make a five year old check over her work.  Olivia asks about "when will the virus end" and "it wasn't there when I was little, how did it get here"?  Parenting is all about reassuring kids about things we are not even sure about, right?  

Isla has had one leisure year.  For a baby who got sick every two weeks at daycare, this has been the healthiest year of her life (how ironic and also knock on wood).  She loves her Jie Jie and loves her snacks.  We finally got her to stop sucking her thumb (in anticipation of eventually returning to school) and semi trying to potty train her.  Isla loves pretty much all the toys O loves (scooter, barbie dream house, her piggie).  She loves the Llama llama books.  

We drive around looking for empty playground for them to play on and see grandma/grandpa whenever we can.  My parents have stayed for a few week stretches and that has made Olivia's year.  Hoping 2021 brings more play dates!

What do you like about yourself...

In the spirits of this blog post - 

https://cupofjo.com/2021/01/what-do-you-like-about-you/#more-234121

I like that I have a set of rituals that define who I am.  I read and therefore I am a reader.  I am always on time and therefore I am punctual.  I scrapbook and make photobooks and therefore  I am nostalgic.  I am compulsive about cleaningness and therefore I am tidy.  I put on nice clothes to go out and therefore I am put together.  

These things help me not waste time on feelings of guilt.  For example, when I yell at my kids to clean up in the middle of Saturday morning, I tell myself that's just who I am.  When I put on makeup to put gas in car, that's just who I am.  When I fold laundry in the middle of the night AND put them away, that's just who I am.

2021

 2021...

May you not crumble upon the weight of gazillion expectations...

I have been knee deep in reading.  Among them, This is the Story of A Happy Marriage, by Ann Patchett.   I have officially declared her to be my favorite author.  I have not had a favorite author since R. L. Stein in fifth grade.  Back then I wrote a letter to him.  Maybe I'll write a letter to Ann.  Yes, we are on first name bases.  After reading her book of personal essays, I have seen her soul and we are soul sisters.  It is that simple.  

I am listening to Becoming by Michelle Obama.  I am curious how to raise little Michelle Obamas.  I was listening along, semi-engaged, doing dishes and folding laundry.  Then, out of the blue, she says "kids know at a very young age when they are being de-valued, when adults aren't invested enough to help them learn.  Their anger over it can manifest itself as unruliness.  It's hardly their fault.  They aren't bad kids.  They are just trying to survive bad circumstances."  De-valued.  Is that what that feeling was all those decades ago growing up in a cut throat academic environment?  It's hard for anyone to imagine me as unruly, but back then, I was definitely not "good".  Once a teacher told me to my face that I will never amount to nothing.  Till this day, ask my parents, they will tell you through clinched teeth who that teacher was.  Clearly, as I sobbed in the kitchen today, I still carry that burden with me, all these years later.  It is why I stay on top of Olivia's school.  She is five.  It's not because I want her to be top of her Kindergarten class.  I'm trying to spare her the feelings of inadequacy, of devalued.