*kendraspondence*

I’ve been living a lie. I confess, I have not been portraying this life very honestly. And with all the hype about Mommy Lit, you’d think I’d be incented to speak the truth. But as I review recent posts about motherhood, about tending to the suck monkey’s needs in general, I realize there are a lot of posed pictures. There are a lot of opportunities where I don’t tell you that a lot of our days are spent staring at the stainless steel appliances, wondering if they’re going to move. I’m still having a blast, I still find Baby Girl to be a charming individual, but maybe I could afford to take the rose-colored curtains off the LCD monitor and give you a more savory slice of life here.

***

Like, sometimes? Her onesie doesn’t match her pinafore. And she drools a lot. And she has poor posture. And her legs are straight up stuffed sausages.

Other times, she’s pleased to be a reader. Upside down.

Yet, other times, she’s busy giving the book the stink eye.

At times, yes, she can be irritable.

Still other times, she’s just plain falling apart.

And let’s be honest, sometimes every woman is the Pissed Off Posterchild….

Lovey Loverpants sent me an article today, with a message that summarily said “This could have been me.” The article is essentially about the troubling disconnect between Vietnamese teenagers and their immigrant parents, and how rampant gang violence and drug use among the teens are forcing this population to take a long look at itself.

And Lovey Loverpants, the son of Asian immigrants who still work all night to get their work done, he could have pitched this article. Lovey Loverpants, a boy who grew up to become a therapist, a profession that his parents did not understand for so long — he could have written the article without interviewing another source.

This disconnect is important because no one talks about it. This disconnect is particularly endemic to Asian cultures. Yes, I said it. Because no one was saying it after the Virginia Tech shootings. No one asked if the parents of the shooter – who hailed from Korea – knew exactly how broken their son was before they sent him to college. I haven’t seen any books hit the shelves recently about how it’s damn hard to be an immigrant and to work tirelessly to give your children a better life, but how all that means nothing if you don’t make yourself accessible to your child.

I have tremendous respect for the culture of my in-laws, the culture that gave my husband his roots. I wouldn’t have attended a Korean church for six years if I did not. But I take issue – in a way that might make me sound entitled – with sacrifice that sacrifices too much. I object to working to get ahead when the hearts of your children are left behind. I get downright huffy when I hear about language barriers as viable excuses for not connecting with one’s kids.

I know I’ve been a parent for all of five minutes, and even if I wanted to connect with my kid, she doesn’t exactly possess the vocabulary to tell me how she’s feeling. But if I’m allowed to have a few tirades in this life, I think this is one of the ones I’ll pick. It may take a village to raise a child, but sometimes the villagers are scary. I really hope I have the wherewithall to keep mine close to my tent for as long as possible, and to know what she’s up to in her little cubby before she ventures out into the village….

If you aren’t already friends with Adrian and Sharon, you should try to be. They’re lovely people. Or perhaps consider petitioning them to adopt you. Because why just be their mates when you can be their dependents? I’m not eligible, since I already have a dependent myself – who, by the way, missed the memo today that IT’S NOT ALWAYS ABOUT HER – and so I’m just grateful for their friendship.

Sharon is one of John’s schoolmates from social work school, otherwise known as The Institution Where Do-Gooding is Degree-Granting, and she is a real hoot. It is clear to me why she is a social worker, because her heart is the size of a moonbounce. Adrian is her husband and he is very kind and this is important when he is granting you the seventeenth mulligan in croquet. They had us over for lunch today, and their hospitality was unmatched. It occurs to me that good friends call you over for lunch, but great friends say, Here, Here is my countertop, please, go change your small little suck monkey’s stinky rump on top of it. Need help?

We hope we see Sharon and Adrian again, soon. In the meantime, we will enjoy these pictures of them, one of which features Sharon and I have not yet received clearance from her lawyer to post it, so please understand if this picture is later removed. I think it’s adorable to boot.

Ladies Who Lunch

If you’re good, I’ll share with you the recipe for that delicious cheese appetizer.

Sharon:  “Adrian, you look like the baby.”

We had a scare this week that resulted in my scampering out to purchase the symbolic stick on which to pee and, for the first time ever, the resultant “Not Pregnant” verdict gave me such a sigh of relief. If my mother in Cleveland has made it past this sentence without fainting due to my oversharing, she should know that I would have welcomed another child. I just don’t know if my baby-bearing equipment has been fully recovered yet. I sort of feel like my whole body is still in the auto repair shop. It’s not exactly levitated on bricks or anything. I just feel like we’re still waiting for a few parts to come in yet. It’s not like I was in an accident, but, at the same time, I know my body will never feel or look the same. I’m doing about 300 crunches every night and I’m just hoping with the part of my brain that still hopes (the rest of it is used for worrying about whether or not Baby Girl will be one of those kids that only goes to the ER for stupid things, like crayons shoved irreversibly up nostrils) that by the end of summer, I won’t look so bloated in my jeans.

***

I turned in a first draft of an article I’ve been working on and my internship editor gave me what is possibly the most treasured criticism I have ever received. He said, “This needs more Kendra in it. I’m needing more Kendratheadverb all over, having fun with this.” I suppose that flies at my conceit, but when you’ve had the multiplicitous job history I’ve had in which nearly every supervisor has had to corner and me and, in so many words tell me, “Less is more, Kendra,” in which I’ve often had to sit on my hands so as not to type the wrong kind of workplace e-mails, in which I’ve spent whole weekends in a mounting panic as to whether or not I sent a FedEx correctly and did I remember to check the Saturday delivery box, in which I tried so hard to focus and focus and focus, it’s just extremely heartening, after all exhaustive attempts at conformity seemed to fail, to be told you don’t have to go back to your cubicle now and play with cookie cutters.

***

Have a splendid holiday weekend, fellow Americans. I’m looking forward to beaching myself on the couch for a few like my pug brother, Stubby:

If it took your employee four months to figure out how to turn on a piece of equipment, he or she would be fired.

At four months, Baby Girl figured out how to turn on the Fisher Price aquarium in her crib and I nearly wet myself with glee.