Run, Run, Run Fest

I despise being cold.  The only thing worse is being hungry and cold.  Fortunately, I am always with food—almonds in the purse, dark chocolate hidden in obscure pockets, pork tenderloin slices tucked away.  So, I’ve found compensatory strategies for this perseverative hunger beast.  That still leaves me cold, and it is freakin’ December.  The only, only solitary time I embrace the Central Texas Tundra is when I am running.  This act brings me much joy.  One could assume that since I love running, I must do it all of the time. This is an erroneous assumption.  On average, I run once a week.

This running thing happened by accident in the 7^th grade.  I did not make the basketball team (only volleyball member who did not make the b-ball team—damn being 5’1” and uncoordinated with large, orange balls), was passed over for team manager (low-blow) and was stuck in the off-season.  Coach Hutchinson would blow the whistle, and a mass of girls in the midst of puberty would awkwardly start moving in some type of forward trajectory.  It was not pretty.  We were required to run for the entire athletics’ period through the streets of Wylie’s finest suburbia.  Now, as an academic, overachieving zealot, I kept running because I always did as I was told.  Girls took shortcuts.  Rumor had it (cue Adele) a few would just run home for part of the time, pat some cold water on their faces and got back to school when it was time to get dressed.  How timely and efficient of them.  This is where my tumultuous love-lust affair with running started.  It was 1992, and I was 12 years old.  Oh, how I ran. 

I love the way the soles of my shoes grip the pavement, the dirt, the grass, the track.  I love the juxtaposition of my cold face with my warmed-up torso and limbs.  I am in love with the mental-peace I always find.  This is my favorite part, and I get drunk from it.  When I think about all of my former residences, I think about my paths.  I ran around the Wylie Butane Mobile Home Park as a teen.  It was home, and mom did not want me to go far.  UT did not feel like home until I went on a run.  My first new friend on the 40 acres was Clark Field.  She  was there for me when I needed a break from studying, she was there for me when I broke off a six-year relationship, she was there for me when Kim called about mom's brain tumor.  Madison brought me some of my favorite runs. Lake Mendota pushed me to take longer, faster strides as my throat burned from the sharp , cold-ass air.  The hill on Hart Lane in North Austin challenged my quads and brings fond memories of my first home with Jeremy.  Now, my runs take place long after the sun slumbers.  The girls are in bed, and it’s my time.  I put on my reflector vest and knee brace.  I turn on my music.  Long-gone are the days of Run DMC, Ludacris and Trick Daddy.  Now, my ears and pace are more keen on the Avett Brothers, variations of Pachabel’s Canon in D and Iron and Wine. 

 

In 2006, I annihilated, schooled, simply finished my first 26.2.  I crossed the finish line 55 seconds under my goal.  When asked if I will ever do this again, I am reluctant.  For me, this whole running thing has nothing to do with the distance, the amount of time required or the need to consume goopy crap to provide nutrients during a run.  It is also the only and last time I wore a fanny pack.  Some called it a water carrier belt.  No.  Fanny pack incognito, folks. 

 

I am in awe of those who run long distances for their body and heart-needs.  For me, the six-months of training got me revved and giddy, and that was enough.  Most importantly,  I dedicated time to something I loved.   I need more of this. 

I enjoy my solitary time during my jaunts.  It is also an unexpected gift to share this time with fellow mates.  My recent run with Lisa in 28 degree weather was warmed by heart-conversations.  Cyndi and I surely conquered the parking garage stairs at the service center—it was the perfect way to wrap-up a work week and kick-off two days sans work-work-work-brain.  And, now, I have two of the best running partners.  Given, our treks are more like endless adventures, include various snack stops, and, at times, never involve running (more like corralling).  Notwithstanding, it is pure pleasure for this Mama. 

 

Bottom line, I keep running because I can.  I am still on this earth, and I want to stay connected to it.  I am able to wake up each morning, put on some shoes and move onward.  There are days  (most) when I am slow, and that’s okay.  There are times when I forget how it feels.  My days are wrapped up in hullabaloo, and, eventually and thankfully, I find my way back.  I feel my heart beating.  I feel my lungs working.  I feel my mind settling.  It feels right and too good. 

 

Let's go. 

People, Actually.

I must have been 8 or 9 years old.  Our already-flat noses were cold and pressed up against the kitchen window.  This would be the year he comes.  Nothing.  The sky was black.  Then, we heard a bell.  It’s him.  He’s coming.  Alas, it was only the horn of the train running right in front of the Wylie Butane Mobile Home Park.   Our two bedroom home had wheels but did not have a chimney.  We were confident he would find a way to come into our house.  Now, given, we also did not have a tree.  Instead, Dad permanently had an outdoor antenna placed on our kitchen bar.  I guess this sufficed.  The center pole was perfectly sandwiched between the cheaply-made counter and the ceiling.  The width was ideal for creating a focal point for everyone who entered our home and needed to look at something awkward and large.  Most importantly, instead of going to the roof of the house to make Bull on Night Court appear more clear on the television, we just had to stand up from any point in our living room or kitchen, reach out an arm and rotate the damn thing.  Not even a decade old, even I could sense the ridiculousness of my father’s stubborn need to do things his way.  But, hey, we had good TV viewing, enough metal to build our own Vicky robot and a place to hang a metal fruit basket and the gluey, glittered ornaments made in school.

Twas’ the night before Christmas

All through the mobile abode

3 kids were so hopeful

For just one gift bestowed

The movies said it would happen

The kids said it was all true

Bearded man cladded in red

Brings goodness just for being good-you

Alas the time came

After years of anticipation

Lies of gifts told to save face

Conjured and such fake elation

Perspective gained with time and age

You are better from harder falls!

When the cold settles each year,  

the heart slightly aches to recall.

Not soon after that year, with urging from her three children, Mom convinced Dad to buy our first tree.  It was the 24^th of December, and Dad was going into the Allsup’s gas station in Sachse to buy his weekly lottery tickets.  “I feel lucky.  This is going to be the night.”  We definitely rode the wave of our father's fleeting generous spirit.  The tacky front window display, apparently, was the perfect backdrop for selling holiday trees.  With only a mere day left to sell their goods, the price was reduced.  We could afford the $10 or so purchase.  And, ladies and gents, we had our first tree.  Kmart provided the rest of the discounted holiday paraphernalia.  I swear we were the happiest children to ever exist throwing silver tinsel on a dried, ill-shaped, patchy Christmas tree. Even better, Kim, Dan and I were ecstatic to open up presents that we made in front of one another.  There was no surprise element, but there was something more obtained from those few gifts under the tree.  The feelings were just as real when we played our maracas made of toilet paper rolls, Scotch tape and  uncooked jasmine rice.

Fast-forward about 30 years, and I am sitting in my 4 bedroom, 2-living room home.  Our symmetrical tree holds ornaments that cost 7 times the value of my first tree.  Holiday cards are hung by a contraption made just for the purpose of displaying the said item.  Perfectly spaced lights line the edge of our roof, and a revolving, blow-up carousel guards our front yard.  Not to worry, we have an eight-foot wooden snowman to protect the carousel animals in case the evil winds knock over the prized-possession.


In case we forget which stalking belongs to whom, our names are already embroidered onto our individualized sock made of fine fabrics and lined with batting.  Boxes and boxes of wrapped gifts are hidden away and anticipating their reveal the evening Santa arrives and the creepy, rambunctious elf leaves.

Each year, I am overwhelmed by this season.  The expectation, the hustle and the happiness of it all is all-too-jarring and surely foreign to my inner-and-former-self.  I admit that guilt horribly resides in all this madness, as well.  Why do my girls get to have all of this when there are little-me's that keeping waiting for just one solitary gift to come her way?  And then, there is a part of me that knows that my former hardships molded me.  I am a good person because it was so hard, right?  Bennet and Ruby, in some ways, have it so easy.  Of course, why would any parent want things to be hard for her child?  That would be absurd, and there are days when that is exactly what I feel they need.  It’s horrible, and it’s true. 

And, then, there is my Jeremy.  He is a light.  Add some holiday music and barely a whisper of the word “Christmas” after July 4th, and he is surely the North Star.  He relishes in his warm and loving memories of his wintry family festivities.  I am a quiet participant next to him come one day post-Thanksgiving.  I am supportive because I have learned to not say, “No.”  This is how we mutually move through the holiday season.  I love him because he loves the spirit of it all.  And, even with all he received as a child, he is the least-entitled, kindest, heart-happy soul I know.  And, this thought brings me comfort as I make multiple trips from our secret present-hiding location to our tree this evening. 

Deep, deep down, I know all of this does not matter.  I know my ego gets in the way.  The stuff and, even more importantly, the lack-of-stuff is insignificant.  I am working on letting it go. It is the people, actually. And, we have great people in our lives.  We have passionate, giving, extremely-good-looking (!) , smart, tenacious, honest, kind, kind folks in our circles.  It is always the beating hearts sitting next to you, throughout the day or the first of Christmas morning, that brings the meaning.  And, in this regard, I know Jeremy and I had identical, heart-full upbringings.  

Xmas and Y of It All

You know, I am the first one to sing along to Wham's Last Christmas (ever listen to the awesomely horrid and sad words of that song?), and I love me some quality, scrumptious turkey stuffing and pumpkin-everything. The season de holiday surely brings warm fuzzies to the soul; nonetheless, the last quarter of the year has chunks of quiet and gray for me and (I assume) lots of folks. When time is federally given off from the work day to supposedly spend time with loved ones (and to be constantly filled with merriment and the smell of fabricated pine) it makes the not-so-obvious crap, more apparent. Walls are lowered, personal-guards take a hiatus and sensitivities are high. For me, my mind wanders more frequently to a mama who is no longer with me, my heart tightens not-so-slightly and I get a chill (to the bone) that I cannot shake.  Trust me, I have tried everything -- Motown, masks, heating pads, goldschlager.  Nothing and still so cold. 

I am slowly approaching Year 9.  That’s like a fourth grader. That’s how long (+ 365 days) Love Actually has been out.  Here’s an algebraic equation for you:

(Bennet + 5 Years) and (Ruby + 7 Years) = 9 Freakin’ Years

 

 and

The following is for those of you who are better at geometry.  I am not one of you; however, I strive to be sensitive to all mathematical needs.

I guess what I am trying to say is that my numbers, slopes, angles and midpoints don’t lie.  When it comes to losing someone, the time part of it (that part that ticks and tocks constantly in my head and heart) really does not make sense.  Whether it is year one or year 57 (I am sure of this), it feels the same each year.  I miss her.  I turned 35.  I still miss her.  It’s a pretty simple formula, really. 

As the twelfth month of the year approaches us in a jarring wave of commercials and bells and peppermint smells, I cannot help but think of my fellow brothers and sisters who may be hanging onto the coattails of loss.  I cannot assume your heart-thoughts.  Just know that someone has walked a (different) path alongside you and, in essence, cares.  I care a lot, and I think of you often.

Much too hard to find my heart

Far beyond raw to mend this hole

She closed her eyes.  She made a choice.

Lost my footing, dimmed my soul

 

Pages turned and steps were made

Skies, slow and cautious, changed to bright

Held out my hand.  Find it, friend.

You traipsed my path, unyielding fight.

 

Brand new day and lessons owned

Fort of friendship against alone

My eyes see clearly.  I see it well. 

Solace found in hearts I've known.

Tick Tock, Around the Clock

This week was tough.  Both girls had double ear infections.  Benny one-upped her sister by also having bronchitis.  Jeremy made it through the past five days by hacking, fevering and sounding like a manish Joan Rivers. This was Monday-Wednesday.

Pre-Thursday:  Jeremy summoned me to come into our back room.  My initial thought was that he was feeling better (and a tad randy) and wanted to sneak a kiss.  Upon stepping through the folding doors, I see that the room is steadily filling with water.  The add-on room was flooding.  Shit, shit, shit.  Come game time, fortunately, he and I make a pretty decent team. 

We kid that we would make a great pairing for The Amazing Race.  Due to both of our non-competitive natures, we would likely not, what’s that word (?), win.  We would have a blast losing-big-time and likely make some life-long friends in random, non-descript huts around the world.  I digress.

We put all damageable items up high, rolled up the rug and pulled out towels.  I was grateful for our towel-hoarding-tendencies.  Water levies were quickly created.  Overall, we lucked out.  Luckily, we have tile.  Luckily, Mama and Daddy Palafox gave us a wet-vac last winter.  Luckily, we no longer honor the sanctity of nightly slumber.  So, I opened up the vacuum box, assembled the thing MacGyver-style in, like, 13 minutes, and started sucking up the water.  I took the early shift.  Jeremy took the crappy shift (it involved earthworms and slugs), and I was grateful to sleep (although there were four-year-old feet in my neck) until Thursday morn.

Thursday:  Even with everything that happened the early part of this week, the 5^th day threw the biggest punch.  You see, Dad moved in with us in August.  The only house my parents owned was finally sold, and a courier from the title company was coming to complete paperwork.  I was not excited about the closing.  Number crunching, to me, is on the same level as having food envy at a restaurant (e.g., regretting your order and drooling on your husband’s New York Strip).  To me, this is death.  Dad, on the other hand, had pages and pages of calculations completed to ensure the buyers would not swindle him out of funds.  These kinds of (paranoid) tasks are his modus operandi.  I felt anxious, and I was tired.  All went okay until I found the wrong date of Mom’s death.  Ugh.  Of all the things that needed to be changed, this had to be the thing.  Ironic, eh?  So, the woman told dad that he needed to cross out the wrong date (12.26.2006), write the correct date (12-23-2004) and initial. 

I interpreted for him. He crossed out the incorrect date, started to write “December” and stopped. “It’s the 23rd, Dad.” I said. He looked at me. “Dad, it’s the 23rd!” “No,” he replied and started to reach for the death certificate. At this point, I was impatiently confused. Did he really not remember? Was it too much for him to write the damn (I mean, really, damn that day) date? I interrupted his reach for the document. “Ma mất ngày 23 tháng 12. She died on the 23rd of December, Dad. Write it.” I sounded like a demanding child, and I was. He did what I said, and we got everything wrapped-up in 20 minutes.

On the way to work, I cried.  When I got to work, I was still crying.  I hid in a conference room to get my stuff done without having to engage and to let my eyes de-puff.  Part of me cannot pinpoint why this is so hard. I should be getting better at this stuff.  Another part of me is all-too-aware of everything.  At times, it’s just too much.  Mom’s not here.  Dad is here.  The girls are here.  And now, Dad is really here. 

That evening, I picked up the girls from school, and we headed home. “What is Popeye making us for dinner?” Bennet asked. “What Popeye making, Mama?” Ruby said, always repeating. As I lugged all of the stuff into the house, Ruby was already running ahead and yelling, “Hi, Popeye! Hi, Popeye!”. He is always in the kitchen. I must say my days have changed drastically since Dad moved in. Each day, Monday through Friday, dinner is waiting for us on the table. This is the ultimate gift. He is here with us. With me. The girls are beyond-excited to see him each evening, and he is able to enjoy their continual antics. I see joy in his eyes. This is something he missed out on with my brother, sister and I. Working two full-time jobs can surely dampen your daily engagement with your children. 

As we sat there around the dinner table eating, music started playing from Dad’s room. “Dad, the clock is going off,” I informed him. For the second time that day, he looked at me with a blank stare. “Dad, mom’s clock is playing.” 
 
Years ago, during the last trip Mom and I took to California to visit her family, she got a clock. Two things about Mom: She was always prepared and always on time (usually half an hour early).  This clock, on every hour, would play a tune, and she loved it.  After mom passed away, it stopped working. It still hung on the wall by the kitchen in Mom and Dad’s house. Coincidentally, when I would go home to visit Dad with Jeremy (and eventually the girls) in Wylie, it would randomly play. We always felt it was not coicidence.  When Dad moved in with us, it was the first box we opened, and the clock was hung in his new room. Jeremy replaced the batteries for kicks, and the clock stood still as it usually does -- Until this early evening, almost six weeks after being placed on the wall, it decided to make its presence known. It was an emotional day for me. It was a big day for Dad. He let go of the home he last shared with his wife. For the first time since he moved in, Dad and I had the same thought. Mom, in typical fashion, was perfect on timing and wanted to be a part of our big Thursday. We were surely grateful for the moment.  And, I am glad he is with us.

Word from my Mother

You could say that words mean a lot to me. Couple this with my overly sensitive tendencies, and I am pretty deliberate about the verbage that comes out of my mouth. This consequently means that I am also purposeful about the use of silence, as well. Two sides of the same life-coin.

Mom was an expert in the use of silence. Muteness, to her, was a tool to control and passively punish. Her anger towards Dad, at one time, culminated into weeks without saying a word to him. This aforementioned fact has surely made my word-motives much more thoughtful. As a speech-language pathologist, I use words to develop self-advocacy skills. I have learned to argue kindly and fairly with Jeremy, and silence (not to be confused with needing space) is not an option. Words are used with the intent of contributing to the pool of conversation (book Crucial Conversations) and move towards something better. I work at using my words to convey to those around me the meaning, awesomeness and intent they contribute to this world. That is important to me.

On this evening, I am thinking about the words that were important to Mom.

khó khăn - hard, challenging

Mom always spoke about how hard life was.  It was not that she was a pessimist. Rather, she always spoke of Hardness as something to overcome. "Figure it out. There's always an answer." I figure it out. And, as I have swallowed some life experience, I get out of the hard-gunk by just doing something. Anything. (Almost) gone are the days of asking permission to do something worthwhile. I just take a small step forward, and I keep going.

hiếu - fondness

During the last year with Mom, we would go on little adventures. We walked arm-in-arm, talked about nothing and dialogued about everything. We laughed often. One day, a man approached us. "Có hiếu," he said.  Mom explained that the man could see the fondness and care that I had for My mother.  This word, hiếu, brought me much solace following Mom's death. Being a good daughter is something I own. It is my face value, and I work at it everyday.

ăn - eat

This is the most important part of our days in the Lien household. Eating is serious. We talk about what we want to eat. As we eat, we talk about the flavors, the crispiness, the burn, the freshness. We relish in our bites as we anticipate the next meal. Dad moved in with us this week, and when the girls and I come home each evening, the culinary gifts are cooking and almost ready to be consumed. Our new home smelled like our two bedroom mobile home, my childhood home.  The only thing missing was hearing mom's house shoes slapping against the linoleum as she scurried back and forth between the stove and sink.

nhạc - music

VHS videos of Vietnamese and Chinese musicians singing cover songs filled our cabinets. I am not sure Cyndi Lauper, The Pet Shop Boys or Lionel Richie got their cut of the profit, but we sure as heck got our fill. We would watch them over and over. At times, we would get up and dance. Other times, we would let our eyelids hold back tears as the ballads played.

Mom passed away two days before Christmas.  So, I guess I am thankful for the two weeks off I had from work.   Family kept the house busy.  And, then, it went silent.  The last car drove away, and it was just me and Dad.  We both walked inside and went to our rooms.  The only solution for "and then there were two" was wallowing in your own misery within the walls of your pitifilled bedroom santuary.  A week or so passed, and I woke up that morning to go back to work.  As I was getting ready in the bathroom, music started playing from the bedroom next to mine.  Strange, since I was the only one at home.  Dad worked nights, and he did not come home until after I left.  It wasn't quiet, the music.  It was audible.  It was a Chinese version of Time After Time, and it played for about 30 seconds.  Obviously, the CD player in the room had a glitch of some sort and started playing.  I purposefully finished putting on my makeup.  Then, I opened the door to the spare bedroom to see if an alarm was accidently set on the player.  Nope.  Then, I opened up the CD system to find the black market version of Ms. Lauper's music.  Again, nothing.  I am sure there is a logical reason for what happened.  I am choosing, however, to believe that Mom was just saying hi through some nhạc.  It wasn't until some time later I listened to the lyrics of that song:

If you're lost, you can look and you will find me
Time after time
If you fall I will catch you, I'll be waiting
Time after time

On this evening, I am also thinking about the words that are important to me as a mama and human.

kindness

Before the girls existed, I told Jeremy that I could handle many aspects of our future offspring. I already had partial dialogues formulated for non-compliance, the sex talk ("Okay, so if you happen to be unclothed and accidently trip and fall on each other.."), the drug talk, religion (or lack thereof), puberty (this would surely involve handing my future daughter or son a copy of Judy Blume's Are you there God? It's me Margaret) and the importance of flossing (worthwhile to splurge on the waxed version). The one thing that would crush my world is if my children are maliciously unkind. I could not take that.

I hold kindness in the highest regard. Kindness is attractive, and it fills me up.  This does not mean that I do the best at this. I am continually working on it, but I try to stuff my daily thinking and actions with plain ole nice.

gumption

A slice of gumption pie can never go wrong. It's the innate fire within you that defies inner-dailogue (don't you wish you could tell yourself to shutup sometimes!), structure, expectations and status quo. Gumption moves you forward. And, whether the goal is reached or not, you are utterly satisfied with the kick in the rear you gave yourself. I give full credit to Gumption for the following: telling Jeremy I liked-liked him, college pranks that went horribly awry, conquering 26.2 miles, professional goodness, taking a double shot of 151 and writing a book (okay, so I haven't done this yet, but now I have put this forever-idea into this awesome world).

work

Dad worked two-full time jobs most of my life. He would start his first shift from 3pm-11pm. Then, he would come home to eat a quick meal and head to B.E. & H. to work until about 8am. This is all he knew, and this is my measuring stick for work ethic. I do not recommend this. There were surely pitfalls to this lifestyle; nonetheless, I cannot discount his desire to provide and provide and provide.

The ability to work is a gift. And, I need the girls to know this. I need them to know that many worked before them so that they could have careers and professions that will likely suite their occupational fancies and heart-needs. I need them to value each person's effort in their workplace. I need them to know that hard work feels uncomfortable, and that's okay.

Finally, I need them to understand that hard work goes hand-in-hand with unyielding play time.

gratitude

Damn it, people, you should just be thankful. It's easy to be thankful for the good stuff (e.g., salary raise, roof over your silly heads, pair of perfect cognac-colored boots). It's also important to be grateful for the small stuff (e.g., friend who shares her fries, morning light, crushed ice).

Gratitude should also be given to the life-crap. I know, I know. Some feel this is where happy people start to blow fluerescent streamers, glitter and rainbows rays out of their arses into the dismal faces of real people with really-real problems. This is where I think (some) folks get it completely wrong. Some of the happiest folks I know have crawled through the darkest crevices of life. And, you know what, they got over themselves. So, shut your mouth and stop complaining. Unless, it's to thank someone. It is a mutually beneficial act that is a security desposit for more goodness for all involved. And, please, only do it if you really mean it. Fake gratitude is worse than squeaking during your clarinet chair test.

Earlier this week, while reading a story to Bennet, she interrupted me and said, "Mama, I love you because you are beautiful and a gooded Mama." She is surely learning about gratitude. And, her mama is ever-so-grateful.

What are your words? What verbage defines you?

**The title of this post was borrowed from dear, creative Betsy's self-designed stationary.**

Big Feelings

I don't remember how old I was, but I was too old to be crying.  Dad just left to go to work, and I was sitting in a bubbling blood-bath of paper, eraser markings and some semblance of grade-school math.  As early as memory could take hold in a human, I understood that Dad was a smart man.  It wasn't that I was an intuitive child.  Rather, he just blatantly told me, "I am a smart.  Will you be smart enough for the world? Can you make it?"  On that day, I was not.  The tears already wetting the work he showed me.  Mom took the chance to, once again, remind me not to be so hypersensitive.  "The world is cruel and hard, khó, and you will have a hard time. Dừng khóc nữa. Stop crying." So, I set on my mission.  Smart and Stoic I became.  For the next decade and a half, I did just that.  Crying was replaced by a hollow lump in my throat, and I graduated Summa Cum Laude.  Done and done.  

Once my Texas education was completed, I ventured into the world (it was actually the lowlands of Wisconsin) and unloaded my parental expectations.  I steadily settled into my goofy, energized, quiet, passionate, tearful self.  The Feelings started to resurface and exponentially increased with age.  Of course, there were moments that have propelled Feelings to Big Feelings.  Mom's death and the girls' births were surely catalysts.  It appears the life cycle contributes to such matters, eh?

I now relish in the full glory of all my emotional states.  I try my darndest to not apologize for tears.  Rather, I directly tell people, "Tears mean that something is important to me."  Then, I just cry in their faces.  So, take it.  Mascara smears, nose boogidigunk, occasional sobs, all of the nastiness and beauty of it.  In my previous job, I think I cried to at least one member of every team.  And, don't think I overlooked the executive director.  I am thorough.  There we sat on the 3rd floor in front of a wall of windows.  It was awkward for him and really okay with me.  

I feel that my Big Feelings exist for everyone who crosses my peculiar path.  Family and friends know this side of me.   It's odd, to me, that now this also applies to those I see for 40+ hours during the work week.  My professional peers, oh my.  From my experience, once I see a coworker as a human (first) with successes, challenging life crap, quirky personalities and grumpies, it makes it easier/better/more transparent to work alongside him.  I get her, so I am more forgiving.  I find myself having meaningful life conversations with co-workers, and I whole-heartedly believe that this helps us work better.  Trust is earned somewhere along the way.  There's a lot to be said for vulnerability, and I wonder if it could add some goodness to our occupational lives?  For someone who, at one time, kept a padlock on my personal life, I find myself saying more.  I am not sure if it's because I have lived more life.  Is it because I am searching for meaningful connections?  Maybe I don't care as much what others think? (Mom would like this.) Is it because I now understand that everyone's (the happy, bubbly sunshines of the world and those who are always consider themselves "less than") life is hard at any given time, and I want to validate all feelings and life paths?  I don't know, really.  I just wonder if we could all use a little more heart-work?  You know, delving out the not-so-pleasant feelings and happy flutters that regularly impact our emotional states in a setting that may not be so comfortable and ready for such revealing whims.  We already put so much hard work out there.  Maybe a little more heart-work?
 

I am not sure if mom realized it, but my Big Feelings brought me my profession.  It kicks me in the arse often, and I love it so much.  After a year of not seeing students, I was able to drown myself in a big ole vat of speech-language therapy this past week. Oh, how I missed it so! One mere therapy session launched me into a euphoric tizzy.  With stoicism long gone, Big Feelings taking over like badass zombies and some decent brain power, I am Doing Something, and it feels good. 

 

5 Steps to the Perfect Job

I spent approximatley 1,920+ hours of this past year being at my job, and I have put oodles of thought into my daily speech and language shenanigans.  For 8.5333 years, I did my thing working in the schools.  I learned about writing reports (does not fare well to have 3 different names in one document) , doing some decent therapy (I never lost a kid)  and learning to work alongside actual adults (this was much harder than working with the kiddos).  I loved it mostly.  Then, came Opportunity.  She tapped on my door.  I kindly ignored.  She banged, and I accepted.   So, I changed jobs.  Now, I am a speech pathologist with a wee-bit of street cred with webinars, online courses and presentation oobligunk-skills.  Exactly a year-to-the-day, I changed jobs again.  Who am I, and what the hey am I doing?!  Evidence that I have worked and adult braces:

I'll let you in on a lame secret.  I love emotional regulation.  I need, yearn, desire it.  On an emotional scale, if something is a 3 or below, I cry.  If it's a 7 or above, I cry.  Mean people make me cry.  Nice people make me cry.  Apathetic people make me cry.  At times, I have no idea how I have functioned all these years and still have eyeballs.  So, with all this change, I am off kilter.  Chris Martin beautifully sings about being swallowed by the sea.  In my version (minus the alternative rock vibe and more of an off-key xylophone-feel), I am continually being swallowed by my own big feelings.  Big gulp.

So, here I am, again, working in a new place.  Here's the other thing I have realized in the last few days, I have loved, loved, loved each professional setting that has sauntered my way.  Really, I have a passionate, tumultuous, fulfilling affair with my profession.  I geek out on it, I am entertained by it, and I relish in the possibilities.   I have also learned that once I make a job my own, it has given me back a million-fold.  Who would have thought that I could be a hip-hop lovin', poverty-advocating, literacy-driven speech-language pathologist with an appreciation for a well-used curse word, punny riddles and a strong desire to keep succulents alive.

As I think about my profession, it brings me melancholy joy to think about how proud Mom was of my career path.  She worked hard on saying all of the syllables of my job title, "Bia is a speeCH LanguaGe path-o-lo-GiST."  When I was young, I told her I wanted to be a teacher.  Her response was not too kind or well.  Alas, I ended up working in the one setting that she thought would eat me alive.  "Not so much money, con, child.  And, you too sensitive for that."  Other kids rebeled by drinking beer and having sex.  I lashed out by working in a school.   I am too edgy even for myself. 

The fall before she passed away, Mom was doing so well.  The cancer was gone, and we were having a grand time.  I was going to have my own class for kiddos working on speech and language.  She came up to the school with me, laborously cleaned the tables (they were new and already sanitized) and unpacked a fine assortment of therapy toys I found at garage sales that summer.  I also developed some short videos for the students.  To give her something to do during the day, I taught her how to color the pictures on the PowerPoint videos.  When I got home from work, she would have dinner ready and show me her work.  She was so proud she could help.

After she passed away the following December, I was cleaning out some of her things.  I found a bag of fabric under her bed.  Mom was a seamstress for years, and fabric was clutch and always hidden in nooks.  In my classroom, I worked with Vicky, also a lover of making things from cloth.  With no desire to sew, I gave her the fabric.  One morning, she came to school and handed me a jar.  Inside were many cloth hearts of various sizes.  She took the fabric and hand-sewed each heart.  This jar has been in every one of my speech rooms.  It represents my choice to work in the field of education and communication, all the awesome, badass, kind folks I have worked with and my mama. 

                                          

Oh, yeah, here are 5 Ways to Find the Perfect Job:

1.  Don't let someone, even Mama, tell you what to do.

2.  Find your work family.  You may not like everyone, but you will love some.  Feed on their light and let them guide you to shine your own path.  Okay, I may cry (9 on the emotional scale) right now.  I am so grateful for my work families.  You know who you are. 

3.  Figure out what YOU have to offer the world.  You may be the only one in the entire universe who can do this thing.  Remember, what you have to offer is what you love to do on your own time. Work just happens to be your medium. 

4.  A job requires hard work.  Hard work is awesome.  So, get over it and do something hard and meaningful.

5.  There is no such thing as a perfect job, and that's okay.  Finding a pretty-darn-good-job is grand.  Perfection is a first-world problem and creation. 

Now, let's get to work. 



Mimi Remembers

I write frequently about Bennet and Ruby when it comes to this not-having-a-Mama-thing. When it comes to my human offspring, my mouth cannot consume the salty tears coming down my face quickly enough when I think about Mom. Tonight, I realized that I have another set of overwhelming emotions when it comes to my eldest, four-legged daughter.

It was December of 2003, and I quit my doctoral program. Lamenting the woes of trying to find a job and giving control to those who judged me for quitting, I was in my self-involved world. Then, I found out Mom's cancer had come back. The big, stupid C. While I was gone to Madison for graduate school for two years, all was well. I came back to Austin to pursue a life of research and academia, decided to quit after one semester and the cancer was back. Life is strange, and life is timely.

It was easy to make the choice to move back to Wylie. I was with Mom. It was, after all, where I grew up. My minutes, my hours were filled with work, reveling in Mom's stories and commentary about life, radiation appointments, chemotherapy and late night phone calls with Jeremy. My heart felt good. My lungs, on the other hand, were stifled. My world was downsized, and I was pissed-off. Friends were going to happy-hours, dates, music festivals. I remember hating Fridays. People would jovially talk about weekend plans. I would cry the entire hour driving home from work. The tears would always culminate into sobbs by the time I reached the drive-way. I remember calling Jennifer and sobbing and crying and sobbing. It was our weekly Friday date. Once the tears ran out, I would clean my face, enter the house with a smile and have dinner with Mom. Each bite of food was hard to swallow.

This was my life for months. Then, everything became brighter. The stars aligned, and I was going to meet my pug. My entire life, I wanted a pug. My friend Danny says I look like one. Maybe that's why? I aesthetically align with them. Regardless, it was love and love and love at first sight. She was the runt of the litter, and they named her Anasthasia. This did not work for me. She was renamed My-Lan, the name of the little girl in a Chinese lullaby mom used to sing to me. Over time, she became our Mimi Pug.

Mimi is nine years old now. Her face is so white now, and her eyes tell me that remembers that last year with mom. Mimi was my comfort and my solace. She was also Mom's. Her antics brought chortles to Mom's days. Instead of sitting on the couch all day while I was at work, Mom would spend her days with her squished-face companion.   While other dogs consumed dog food, our Mimi would get jasmin rice with the brown sauce from fatty pork. Even though I asked Mom not to, she would sneak in little pieces of the meat.  Still a wee-puppy, Mimi's energy was plentiful, and it surely put a little spunk in Mom's step. Until Mom couldn't do it anymore.

By the time Thanksgiving came around, the jaundice had returned. Everything had gone to shit. Mom's liver, pancreas, everything was shot. A Po, grandma, was living with us by this time. Mom couldn't be alone while I worked. By the time I got home each day, everyone was always spinning around Mom. She would just sit. My loquacious mother became a mute. You know, the only person that I think gave her peace was Mimi. I remember coming home, and the sweet pug would just sit right at her feet. She would just stay there. If mom had to go the bathroom, Mimi would sit and wait until she returned to her seat. Spunky, spry Mimi knew that Mom needed something else. She was less than a year old, and Mimi knew Mom was dying.

As I am typing this, Mimi is quietly sleeping next to me in the bed. When I look at her, I always, always think about that last year we had together with Mom. After the funeral, sleeping was hard. Dad worked nights, so, I was alone in the house. I was scared to sleep, and, to be honest, I was scared to live life without a mother. In the middle of one night, I remember walking over to Mimi's crate and opened the door. She looked confused. Once I patted the bed, she happily jumped up, nestled against the bend behind my knee and quickly fell asleep. So did I.

On days when things are more-than-a-bit hard, and I am missing Mom with every cell in my body.  I look at Mimi, and she understands.  More importantly, she remembers.  She was there when I needed her most, and she is here now for us and the girls.  And for that, I am so pug-grateful. 

 



A Story

This is one of my favorite childhood stories.

"Mẹ, Mama, I think I hear Thief.  His digging is getting faster!" said Little Girl.  Mẹ shuffled to the corner of the modest, and appreciated, mud house to pull out the four shoes.  "Con, child, put on the shoes.  Quickly."  Mama and Little Girl put a different shoe on each foot. Toes were curled to keep the much-too-large shoes on their feet.  "Now, move your feet."  Little Girl and her mama danced and stomped, hustled and hopped, treaded and trampled.  As the cadence and beats of four different shoes slammed against the dried muck floors, the digging subsided.  "Thief stupid," Mẹ always says.  "So many people in this scanty house." his ears would tell him.  Thief stopped trying to dig a hole into the mud house to steal. 

The plan worked.  It always did.  Thief would hear the gait of a strong, unyielding man.  Or, maybe it was the pace of a spouse keen on maiming an intruder?   Little Girl always knew Mama had a plan. 

Not long ago, Mẹ had a decisive plan.  She took Little Girl and left home.  Father took another lady, and Mẹ felt it was not right.  Mama looks for opportunity.  She always looks for a better way.  We found a mud home amidst the forest.  We have shelter.  We have food.  We have each other.  We also have shoes ready for when Thief visits.   

Mom often told this story.  It was meaningful to her.  Mẹ was her Bà ngoại (grandma), and Little Girl was her mother.  These women are a part of my story.  They are Strength and Gumption and Audacity. Có chí thì nên.  Will finds its way. 

Will has already found its way to Bennet and Ruby.  I see it in their eyes.  I hear it in their voices.  Really, it is the cumulative voices of many before them.

Because of Him

A few weeks ago, as I was driving down IH-35, I was thinking about a conversation I had with a friend.  We were lamenting the challenges of motherhood, workhood, familyhood and the interplays of each aforementioned arena of life.  It was a pitifully cathartic, and much needed, lunch date.  As she divulged, I listened and empathized.  Then, the conversation became foreign.  She spoke of the explicit directions she needed to convey to her husband to interact with the family.  It became apparent to me that my feelings could only be sympathic toward my friend; I did not understand her relationship with her partner. 

 

While driving, in that moment, I understood why I am still a glass-full/tenacious/content/blessed being.  I give much thought to being a person without a mother.  At times, it consumes 100% of me.  This fact in my life gnaws and, at times, devours every ounce of inner warmth, self-comfort I have.  Somehow, I always find a way back to me.  Since the age of 26, I have been denied a mother.  Notwithstanding, the world has given me a partner whose love for me can fill 100 strong relationships.  I am positive of it.  He gives me light when I do not deserve it.  He comforts gently.  He leads unknowingly. 

 

Most importantly, as the mother of dear Bennet and Ruby, he is raising the girls with her spirit and heart in full force.  He speaks Vietnamese to the girls each time he has an opportunity to incorporate a single digit number (at times, incorrectly) or food item (cơm, mì, thịt). He plans trips to visit Mom's family in California.  When surrounded by my large extended family, I will look over and see him, a head taller than everyone, laughing right along with Uncle's antics.  He has kindly badgered the local elementary school to ask about the dual-language Vietnamese program and the possibility of transferring into the school.  When Dad had his stroke almost four years ago, Jeremy brought up moving him down to Austin.  To be honest, I was overwhelmed with what we needed to do. I remember crying with relief knowing that my husband took the initiative to plan for and care for my father.  For the next few months, Jeremy would come home from work, bathe my father, eat a quick dinner, give me a kiss and take turns puting our six-month old to bed.  He did what Mom would have done.  In this next month, Dad will be moving in with us, and I am grateful for the efforts Jeremy has put in to finding a larger home to accommodate all of our needs. 

 

                                                   

The smartest words I have spoken in life was to tell Jeremy Palafox, "I like you more than a friend.  Don't say anything.  Just walk into the library to study."  Of course, being the man he is, he listened to my explicit directions.   However, before taking a step towards the building, he said, "Thank you." 

 

We were friends.  We dated, and on our seven-year anniversary, we married.  He labored right alongside me those two phenomenal spring days.  He is now the father to my children. 

 

This world gave me a partner who is there when I falter.  And, while picking me up, he always finds a way to bring small and big joys.  Life is still hard.  And, life is so,so good.  It's because of him. 

 

Too Much Noise

I am exhausted today.  My current state, I'm sure, contributed to my fast and furious trip to the minutes, hours and days following Mom's passing.  I was at work today.  In the midst of cutting and copying a picture for a PowerPoint Presentation, I could not take it.   Tears were already wetting my keyboard, and I quickly paced to the final bathroom stall of the closest restroom.  There I stood, heaving and trying my best to squelch the horrible weeping that seeped out.  I finally regained some composure, and attempted to casually walk back to my cubicle.  I took the long route to ensure the least number of run-ins with co-workers.  I ended up not making it back to my work space.  Rather, I shamelessly cried to the first person who spoke to me. 

Sometimes, I know exactly what causes this reaction in me.  Other times, it can be the smallest of things.  Either way, the response is always strong and deep.  When I think of those early days, I want to cry and throw up.  It was too much.  I remember the cold December air outside.  I remember the feeling of my braces.  I had them put on two days before.  Honestly, the pain I felt in my mouth was welcomed.  It brought me solace to feel some physical pain.  I needed something to take the edge off of the emotional rage.

I also remember everyone around me.  People tried to help.  I know they did.  But, it did not help.  Minutes after Mom's passing, I remember sitting next to her bed in the hospital.  Dad had gone to find the monk, and I was left alone with her.  My uncle came in and stood at the door.  Maybe he was afraid he was going to catch her death?  I am not sure.  From a distance, he told me to uncurl her hands.  That way, they would look nice for the wake.  I yelled at him.  Then, my aunt walked in mumbling about the willow tree in our backyard bringing bad luck.  I yelled at her, too.  This was just the beginning.  People would proceed to say the insignificant words to me.  Silly words. 

In retrospect, I know they all meant well.  In the moment, I heard empty words that were desparate to appease their personal discomfort.  It was their noise, and they brought me into it. 

"Why didn't you tell me she was sick?"
"Why didn't you call and tell me she was dying?"
"My parents are going to send you a check."

There were those that knew exactly what to do.  I remember our dear family friend, Trudy.  She would come to the hospital.  She would talk to Mom and wash her body with a warm towel.  Those were the only moments I remembered Mom allowing herself to sleep for a bit. For days, she was contstantly awake. I think she was afraid to sleep.  She was afraid to die.  I remember our dear friend Bertha coming in and just talking.  Her voice brought so much warmth and love to the room.  Her booming laugh made things feel okay.  They just were.  They did not bring their own noise to fill the space.  They simply accepted the facts and showed us that they loved all of us. 

Then, there were those who understood.  Those who had already felt the pain of losing a parent.  I hung on to their words.  It showed me that someone understood.  My mother-in-law sent a card a month after Mom's passing to say she was still thinking of me when the cards and calls had stopped coming.  I recall an evening years after Mom's passing.  I was sitting at a bar with friends.  As the other 20-somethings were chatting about jobs, alcohol and whatever, Matt and I started to talk about our parents.  He had lost his dad.  As the noise moved around us, I recall feeling safe. I could be honest and talk about Mom with someone who understood. 

Then, there were those who just listened.  Those who just said, "I am so sorry," and meant it with every cell in their body.  I could see that they just wanted to take away my pain with their hugs and kind eyes.  I appreciated that.  I appreciated those who were okay with quietly sitting next to me.  They had not walked in my shoes, but they were okay with just holding me up.  I am grateful for them.  I am so grateful for Jeremy continually holding me up.  It is a hard job, and he does it everyday. 

So, today felt like December 23, 2004.  I am pretty sure tomorrow will be different.  It usually is.  When the day comes back around, I will not be ready.  I'm okay with that.  Even years later, when I have lived those moments a million times, I will take them on without armour, without calloused hands, without stoicism.  It feels the same each time because a daughter can never really be okay with losing her mother. 

I See You

I still see you, Mom. 

I see you when I look in the mirror.  My nose is yours.  And, sweet Ruby has the same nose.  Your brothers and grandma, A Pò,  were so excited to meet her over a year ago, "She looks so much like her, huh?" they chimed as their broad noses widened with excitement. 

 

 

I see you in Bennet.  At times, when her will and independence reigns, I know it's you.  You always used to say, "We can figure it out, con. Bìa, we can find a way."  Whether it's putting on her own shoes, pulling up a chair to reach an item tucked away or eating self-peppered strawberries to prove to me they're good, she surely has your pride.  At times, to a fault. 

 

I see you when I see the girls together.  They do love each other so much.  I see you because you raised, Kim, Dan and I to love one another.  To depend on one another.  We do, and I am grateful for that. 

 

 

 

I see you when the girls' little hands reach for pistachios.  They cannot get enough.  So, my hands move as fast as yours to remove the shells.  I always manage to sneak a few for myself. 

 



 

I see you when the girls are eating.  They love cá, salmon .  Bennet loves phở.  Jeremy and I just bought them their first pairs of chopsticks.  Benny is so proud when she uses them.

 

I see you when I see a beautiful sunset or sunrise. I remember that last year we were together.  We would go to the high school track.  I would get in a run, and you would walk.  You wore your child-sized New Balances and soft denim capris.  When you tired, you would sit on the bench and wait for me.  Each time I turned the final corner of the lap, I would see you swinging your legs.  Your feet could not reach the ground.  I saw the most beautiful sunsets that year.

 

 

I hear you when the girls shout out the artist's name when the first few notes of a song comes on the radio.  "Neers (Lumineers)!  Mraz (Jason)! Five (Maroon Five)!  One Public (One Republic)!  Madonna!"  They love all kinds of music.  Guess what, they love Cyndi Lauper.  I hear you singing along with them. 

 

I hear you when I sing to the girls.  The words are different.  The song is different.  But, I hear you singing along with me. 

 

I smell jasmin, and I know you are close.  Right now, our archway is in full bloom.  You loved jasmine so much.  You would put on your flip flops each evening when the blooms opened.  You would pick them off the bush and put them in a clear bowl.  "Bia, con, smell this.  So good."  You would do this every evening.  New blooms would come back the next day, waiting for you to carefully pick them.   

 

I hear you when life gets hard.  When the work is overwhelming.  "Figure it out, con. Bìa, you can find a way."  And, I always do. 

 

I smell home when I cook.  The smell of fresh lettuce, mint leaves, fish sauce, soy sauce and fish.  I love it.

 

I feel you each time Jeremy holds me.  The last time you spoke to him, you asked him to take care of me, "Take care, Bìa."  The night he proposed, he reiterated your words, and he has kept his word.  Everyday.  He is a gentle and kind husband, and he keeps your spirit and words alive with the girls.  And, one day, he will teach them to dance in the same way you taught him to dance. 

 

I see you, Mom.  And, one day, I'll see you again.