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.   





Soul Brothers, Soul Sisters

Today is Mother's Day, and, on this day, I will say I am ever-so-blessed to be called a Mama myself.  Though a tough day, I am grateful for my "motherfull" life, two cherubs and kind Jeremy. 

On this day, I also take the time to join hands, in thought and spirit, with me fellow Soul Brothers and Soul Sisters.  Those who have also lost a Mama.  Those who can empathize.  On Friday, I was sitting with fellow co-workers.  One woman was speaking about her 90 year-old mother.  The other woman was speaking about her own mother who passed a few years ago.  I sat between both women, and I felt at home.  They spoke of how it feels to "parent" your parent, how to give an ailing parent perceived autonomy, how hard it is to care for a parent while juggling your own life and children.  I quietly sat and listened.  From experience, it was not the time to share my own Mama story.  Then, it happened.  "Phuong, do you have both your parents?"  My eyes teared up, "Mom passsed away eight years ago.  I understand."  Our working relationship catapulted into another echelon.  We had both experienced the loss of a mother.  She understood me, and the value of that is immeasurable. 

Friends have reached out to me recently with consoling words, offers of "let's talk", suggestions of going to therapy, texts, hugs.  I know there is much love around me, and I appreciate it.  I really, really do.  I will acknowledge that the most comfortable conversations have taken place with those who have walked the path of loss.  With my Brothers and Sisters, not much verbage needs to be exchanged.  Tears lay the foundation for common understanding, and we walk away a bit lighter.  She understands.  He understands.  I find comfort in that.

So, today, dear Brothers and Sisters, I am sending so much love to you.  Regardless of age, gender, ethnicity, we are part of this family, and I am thankful for you.  Thank you for walking alongside me as I live my everydays sans Mama.  I wish us fond memories, humor, self-patience and inner-peace.