baby bump-ish

It's spring outside! Buoyed by the beautiful weather, I decide to wear a dress instead of jeans. This is pretty momentous, at least in my own mind. I shimmy my way into a dress I bought a couple years ago -- nothing fancy, just something that seemed comfortable and cute at the time. I don't remember it being quite so stretchy ... or so snug. Hmmmm. I adjust a few things and survey myself in the mirror. Actually, the rear view is better than usual. When did all that junk get in my trunk? I rotate to profile and -- yikes! Silhouetted in this Spandex-laden dress, there is no disputing it: I have a baby bump. Well, I sure look like I have a baby bump, but I guess it's just a bump ... or is it?

My mind is racing, counting the days of the month ... could I be "with child?" I have been extremely tired lately. Yes, the bags under my eyes confirm that. And, I've been eating a lot. All day long. And my back has been hurting, and I've been getting these headaches. But I had assumed I was just tired, sore and having headaches. Come to think of it, I have also had this urge to bake cookies and clean the house. Oh my gosh, I think I might be nesting! (Gasp!)

As I pull on a pair of jeans and suck in my baby bump in order to button and zip them up, I think back over a decade to my first pregnancy and try to make a checklist of symptoms. Check, check, check. Oh, wow. I decide to keep this to myself, rather than alarm my husband.

During my swing through Target, I waddle along to the "feminine products" aisle and buy the cheapest pregnancy test available. I need to just take a test and get it over with. If I'm pregnant, I can eat whatever I want! I can wear a Spandex dress and show off my baby bump, while shamelessly eating a Black and Tan sundae at Fenton's! I won't have to worry about my weight for a good eight months! Oh, how liberating it would be!

By the time I get home, the delirium has worn off and I have forgotten about the pregnancy test. I remember it several hours later, and proceed with the test. It is a generic brand that I have never used before, but I figure I don't need the instructions. Peeing on a stick is pretty self-explanatory. Now, for the results. When I was trying to get pregnant, it seemed to take an agonizingly long time for the results to appear in the little windows on the pee stick. This time, however, the results were almost instantaneous. BAM. There it was. But what did it mean? I realize that since I have never used this brand before, I don't know how to read the test. Now I wished I had paid the extra money for the name-brand pregnancy test that clearly says, "PREGNANT" or "NOT PREGNANT," instead of making you decipher these random lines. I retrieve the box from the trash and find the legend to decode the test.

One line. Negative. Not pregnant.

Just fat.

Next time I go shopping, I think I'll go buy some Spanx.

happy eating on mother's day

It's Mother's Day! My day to celebrate myself! I woke up to my husband making coffee and trying to figure out how to turn on the oven to make chocolate croissants. His coffee always tastes better than mine, so the coffee-making part was not unusual; apparently, the oven-turning-on part was a bit of a stretch. I helped him out with this, then waited for one of the kids to wake up so they could put the croissants in the oven. After we ate them, my husband and the kids made blueberry pancakes and bacon. Yum. More coffee, more food. I am happy.

I am still working on my pancakes when my daughter pipes up: "Would you like some cheese?"
"Well, I'm pretty full right now. Maybe later," I say with a motherly smile.
"Okay. How about some cheese for lunch? Or maybe some Arizmendi pizza? Because it's Mother's Day!!!"

Cheese is my daughter's favorite food, and she knows I like it, and Arizmendi pizza, too. It is an expression of daughterly sweetness that makes my heart melt ... and spasm with guilt. Apparently, my Pavlovian behavior around food has not gone unnoticed. Am I really that obvious? I fear I have permanently damaged both of my children's relationships with food. For the rest of their lives.

Sigh (again). I will have to deal with that later. For now, I will just happily eat my way through mother's day.

Is it time for Mocha Frappuccinos yet?

For a moment, I'm June Cleaver

It was time to pick up my son from school after jazz band. My son was waiting with his buddy, Gabe, and I loaded up my little car with bass, amp, guitar and two boys.  Just as we were almost ready to go, my son's teacher rode up on his bicycle and started to chat with me. While we were talking, another boy who looked like he knew my son started hovering about. He looked familiar. As Mr. Scherman rode off, the boy peered into the car window ... not saying anything, but still ... hovering. My it-takes-a-village maternal instinct kicked in, and I could not leave him standing there, cold-heartedly driving off as he gazed at us driving off into the distance.

I waved to the boy and asked, "Do you need me to call somebody?"
Boy whose name I didn't know: "No, I don't need to call anybody."
"Are you waiting for somebody?"
"No."
"Do you want a ride?"
"Oh, okay, sure, if it wouldn't be too much trouble," he said, lugging his baritone sax into the car.
"Is it okay for you to get a ride? Do you need to call somebody?"
"Oh, no, it's fine if I get a ride. I don't need to call anybody. Thank you."
The boy was very polite, and he knew my son, and he looked familiar, and he didn't live too far, so everything seemed fine. It took me a while to realize that I had never met this kid before -- I had mistaken him for his twin brother, who was my son's classmate.
Of course, I didn't realize this until we were half way to his house, and my son blurts out, "Okay, so, like, are you Max or are you Charlie?" Apparently, my son didn't know who he was, either.
"I'm Max ... no, just kidding, I'm Charlie."
Now that we had that settled, we continued on our way only to drive past a boy who looked a lot like Charlie, carrying a large instrument as he walked down the street.

"HEY, MAX! SEE YA LATER!!! Ha ha ha ha ha!" yells Charlie, as we drive past his brother.
"Oh -- that's Max? I might as well stop and ..."
"NO!!! Noooo!!!! Don't stop the car! No, please, please ..." Charlie seemed to physically deflate as I slowed down the car and pulled over to the side.
"... give him a ride home, too." I could see Max running over, going pretty quickly for somebody carrying a big instrument case.
"Would you like a ride home, too?"
"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Oyama. Thank you." Max climbed in and my little car was just about at maximum capacity with all the instruments, amps, backpacks and boys.
Fortunately, we were only a short ride away from the twins' house.

I parked the car and got out to help dislodge the boys and their gear from the car. As we are unloading, one of the twins -- not sure which one -- remarks, "I wasn't sure who was driving the car -- I thought you might be Miles's sister. You look young for your age!"

Well, it wasn't the most artfully stated compliment, but I will take a compliment wherever I can get one. "Oh, thank you!" I happily reply. "Thank you for the ride!" the twins call back, smiling widely.

As I drive away, I am still enjoying the compliment, but suddenly I start to feel a sense of de ja vu. Well, not quite de ja vu ... it's more like ... nostalgia. And it takes a while to sink in, but I suddenly realize that I feel like June Cleaver.  

I've been Haskellized.  And, actually, I think I like it!  Maybe I'll go put on some pearls and bake some cookies now.

[Note: I wrote this last year but apparently never clicked "publish post"; I saw one of the twins today during my library duty.  I can't tell you which one, but he was very polite.]

like father, like son

For Valentine's Day, I just had to share this story of father-son bonding. I'll call the dad "Big Daddy." The story goes that Big Daddy's sixth grade son recently started showing an interest in girls. Big Daddy is extremely happy about this, in the way that moms get excited when their daughters start showing an interest in shopping.

One day, the boy wanders into the media room to find his father watching the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show. Instead of changing the channel or shooing his son out of the room, Big Daddy tells his son to come on over and watch the show.

Son: "What is this?"
Big Daddy: "It's a fashion show."
His son sits down and his eyes become transfixed on the television set.
Big Daddy is enjoying this special time with his son -- their first Victoria's Secret Fashion Show viewing together. Scantily clad women with really big wings parade before them. Father and son, spending some quality time together.

After a few minutes, the son says to his dad: "I can't believe anybody would actually buy those wings."

Some things just cannot be rushed. In due time, Big Daddy, in due time.

NOTE: My husband requested that I clarify that "Big Daddy" in this story is not him.  If it were my husband, I would have called him Big Poppa, not Big Daddy.  

Oyama Mama Lawn Sign Drama - continued

The lawn sign drama update -- part 1 and part 2.

big buttons

My friend Joe looks down at me as I am buttoning my Woo Stassia coat, and comments,
"Whoa, those are some big buttons you've got there."
"Joe, I love it when you talk about my big buttons," I quip, knowing that he will find this amusing. He is, after all, always ready with a one-liner -- and I know this because we have known each other for over two decades now.

When I first met him, he was on a basketball court, even though it sometimes seemed that he was playing football. Off the court, he was usually wearing his Doc Martens, jeans, a t-shirt and a leather jacket. He wore his hair shaved around the back and sides, longer and slicked back on top -- clearly the inspiration for Gavin Newsom's current hairstyle. When we went out to a club, he wouldn't (or couldn't) do the Cabbage Patch. "Do your own dance!" he would say with a smile, as he busted some unique move that he must have created himself or learned during his days as a Valley Guy. He is one of the few people I know who is skinnier and in better shape than he was twenty years ago, but aside from his trimmed down physique, he is the same Joe to me. We used to bond over things like how to cut and roll a room, back in the day when we used to paint our own houses -- before we had kids.

The occasion for seeing Joe (and Nancy, Bill, Debbie, Tim, Ada, Jin, Peter, Steve, Onilda, Jackie and "the kids") tonight was a Happy Super Chinese New Year's Bowl Party, complete with chips & guacamole, calamari, roast duck, pressed duck, chicken, ribs, crab, shrimp, fish, chow mein, two different seafood & veggie dishes, fried rice, sticky rice, duck & organic greens salad, seven-layer jell-o, and a berry trifle made with Chinese sponge cake for dessert. Orchestrated by Debbie and Bill, we somehow managed to find a date when all of us and most of our kids were available to spend a few hours together. As we sat around the dinner table, we talked about how we all knew one another, and it was interesting to see that all of my relationships in that room were somehow tied to my summer clerkship for the Asian Law Caucus in 1987, when Bill took me with him to play basketball. It was great to just have some time together, talking about the old and the new; potty-training puppies and college applications; affirmative action and domestic violence; lumpia and egg rolls; Top Chef and CNN; the Cardinals and the Steelers. Real conversations in real time. Friendships that started out with being connected by something other than a Facebook link. Wow. What a concept.

Thanks for a great evening, and a toast to all the pre-Facebook friendships out there. And, yes, Joe -- I do have some really big buttons. I look forward to showing them to you again sometime soon.

happy holidays

The holidays are an emotional time -- for our kids, I'd say it's mostly good emotions, except for having to listen to me say that Santa can still change his mind and leave a lump of coal in their stockings if they don't clean their rooms. For me, it is mostly good, too, but the holidays have become more melancholy as the years, and loved ones, have passed. The Christmas holiday was a special favorite of my late mother-in-law's, and I know that my husband's annual desire to buy a fresh-cut tree stems in large part from his childhood memories of their house -- Laila's house -- decked out it all its holiday glory. The family was never very religious, so theirs was a Christmas celebration in the American pop-culture sense, where it is okay to be happy and joyful, even if the "true meaning" of the holiday is heavily filtered, at best. She used to say that "Christmas is for the kids," so it is always bittersweet to watch our kids -- two of the four grandchildren she never met -- enjoying her favorite holiday.

It is sad, but fitting, that her birthday and the day she passed are bookends to Christmas. I always think of her on her birthday in mid-December, and immediately feel inadequate as I look around at my barely-decorated house and think about my yet-to-be-written Christmas shopping list. After the mad scramble of Christmas and New Year's, I am always reminded of her on the anniversary of the day she passed, remembering the sadness that filled the house, Laila's house, on that day.

And, inevitably, when I think of her passing, I think about her last Christmas with us, and all the Christmases she gave to her family over the years, and how she managed to make the holiday special. Happier times. I suppose this is one of the intangibles of the holidays: the imprint left by these occasions are somehow magnified over time. As the number of people we lose grows, the positive memories of these special times seem to expand to fill that void. Lai's Christmas day festivities, topped off by Christmas dinner on fine china. Memories of "Dad," my father-in-law, making his special signature Christmas morning dish -- the appropriately named, "Special" -- and the family calendars he would distribute, each child's, grandchild's, aunt's, uncle's, cousin's, son-in-law's, daughter-in-law's, and grandparent's birthday written in by hand. Memories of my father, always happiest in his element, surrounded by his brothers and their families, holidays filled with card games, mah jong and plenty of kids running around. Falling asleep in his lap after having too much fun with my cousins, and being carried off and tucked into bed.

If we are lucky, it is these happier holiday memories that endure -- and, hopefully, we manage to create some of these for our kids, too. Happy holidays, everybody.