Category Archives: Family

Thanksgiving

This Thanksgiving, it was all about this little guy:  my 2 year old nephew we call “Dandelion,” because of the chick fuzz on his head. We don’t get to see him very often as he lives far away, so we go into full-on frenzied paparazzi mode when he visits. All weekend long we openly, shamelessly vied for a word, a glance, or a wave of the hand with every kind of blandishment and bribe we could throw his way. Despite our exertions, he would only bestow his favor upon my daughter and the men in the family. It didn’t stop the rest of us from trying, though…

Here’s Dandelion with his dad, my little brother:

And here he is with his mother:

See the golden glow around her? She is truly as lovely inside as she is on the outside. Sometimes we jokingly ask my brother, “How did YOU, the Prince of Darkness, manage to convince the Sugar Plum Fairy to marry you?” (This may possibly be the reason why he refers to us, his loving sisters, as “the Harpies”). His wife comes from a family of life coaches and counselors who live to communicate and help people find fulfillment and reach their fullest potential. She herself is a life coach, as well as an amazing singer-songwriter. When my taciturn and somewhat misanthropic brother will break his silence to idly muse about, say, his desire to open a zoo, where humans, rather than animals are displayed behind bars, a pained expression will pass over his wife’s face. She’ll say, “Honey, I really think we need to process that.” Whereupon, he will amiably punch her delicate arm with his meaty fist and say, “OK, Dude.”

It was a typical Kim family holiday: sit, chat, eat, repeat. Sit, chat, eat, repeat. Sit, chat, eat, repeat…

My poor son had to work on his term paper outline all weekend long…

Every once in a while he would take a break to sprint around the block:


I found a reminder of our trip to San Francisco in my parents’ fridge. We had eaten smoked salmon for breakfast every morning in the Garden Court at the Palace Hotel. My mother proclaimed that she felt like she was eating a king’s feast, and so we started to call her the “Countess” for the rest of the time we were there. This weekend when I opened the fridge, I saw that my sister had bought some smoked salmon for her and had attached this note:

Today is my sister’s birthday. She is the sun around which our family revolves. She is extravagant in her love, lavish in her generosity. She is wickedly funny and witty. I think she may be the only person in the world, who reads so voraciously that she takes books into the shower. She is the world’s best storyteller. Honest to God, listening to her retell a movie plot is way better than actually seeing the movie. She can talk about the price of crude oil and somehow make it so enthralling that you hang on her every word. Beauty follows in her wake. I love you, Sissy. Happy Birthday, and may your every wish come true! xoxoxo

This Thanksgiving, I’m thankful for so many things, but most of all: for my family.

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Prayers

In Seoul I climbed mountains to stand in candle-lit Buddhist temples perched on the steep slopes. I’ve stood with the throng in St. Peter’s Square in the Vatican listening to the Pope give his Easter address from a balcony. I’ve sat in silence with Quakers in the exquisite simplicity of a wooden meeting room lit by sun streaming in through skylights. But the most sacred moment I’ve been privy to thus far took place in a slightly shabby hospital room at New-York Presbyterian Hospital in New York City.

It happened about six years ago, when I was there with my daughter, who was six months old at the time. She was scheduled to have surgery the following day, and a trio of phlebotomists had come in to her hospital room to draw blood for the requisite pre-operative blood work. It’s a one-person job, but I was not at all surprised to see several come in together. Already by six months, my baby was a veteran of hospital rooms and E.R.s, so I knew by then that even the most experienced phlebotomists hate “sticking” infants. In those first six months of my daughter’s life, more than once I’d watch the phlebotomist’s face fall when he or she would enter the cubicle to see me waiting with my baby in my arms. They would immediately excuse themselves to start hunting for a colleague upon whom to foist off the dirty deed. What made it worse was that my daughter was what they call a “hard stick,” and it often took multiple attempts before a tiny vein could be found. More than once a nurse or phlebotomist would try a couple times and would then refuse to try again. On one occasion, after the first phlebotomist failed to draw blood after two attempts, we had to wait for another one to come back from lunch, because no one else could be conscripted.

So there in the hospital, when three phlebotomists walked in to my baby’s room to draw her blood, I understood. Other doctors and nurses happened to be in the room when they came in, and together they formed a circle around the bed where I sat holding my baby. At the periphery, others watched with bowed heads.

It was silent in the room as the phlebotomist prepared her needles and tubes, but as soon as she began a gentle whispering filled the room. It rose up all around me like the rustle of autumn leaves being blown by the wind. It took me a moment to realize what it was: the sound of people in that room, from all over the world, offering up prayers in their own languages for my little baby, for the phlebotomist to draw her blood easily, and on the first try.

She was able to do it. My daughter cried for just a few seconds and then smiled up at the phlebotomist when the needle was withdrawn. The woman turned to look at me with tears in her own eyes and marveled in her softly accented English, “What kind of baby is this? She’s smiling at me, after I just poked her with a needle!”

There are very few moments in life like this: moments so rare and precious when you know that you are in the presence of something holy and you feel sanctified for having witnessed it. I will remember this moment and the goodness and decency of strangers, who all prayed to some higher being that my baby would be spared pain, with wonder and deep gratitude for the rest of my life.

Home from the hospital

Working it out…

I love the moments when my boys are like this:

But let’s get real. There are plenty of days when they’re like this:

This afternoon they left in high spirits to play tennis at the courts in our neighborhood. I’m still not sure what happened at the tennis courts, but they returned home separately, both filled with fury and absolutely certain that the other had been grievously, outrageously, unforgivably in the wrong. Venomous words and death stares were exchanged. Bitter tears were shed. They retreated to opposite ends of the house to marinate in their own bile.

I wondered if I should dispense a few bromides, make them hug it out, or exact insincere apologies from both aggrieved parties. Being the exceedingly lazy person that I am, I decided to do the easiest thing: nothing at all.

I was reminded of how my mother dealt with us when we quarreled as children…

One day my older sisters were bickering with each other. My mother frogmarched them into the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee, drew up a chair, and in a brisk, business-like tone instructed them to punch each other.

My sisters looked at her and then each other with intense embarrassment and discomfiture.

“Well?! You wanted to fight. So fight. Go on!” she said, drumming her fingers on the kitchen table.

They stood there looking miserable.

“Amie, you punch Annabelle,” she urged. Weeping now, my sister declined.

“You wanted to fight, so fight, I said! Go on! Punch Annabelle as hard as you can!”

Seeing that my mother would not be deterred, Amie weakly nudged Annabelle with a closed fist. Now my mother was really enjoying herself. She took another long swig of her coffee and said, “OK, Annabelle. Now you punch her back. Go on!”

When Annabelle, who was also sobbing by now, returned the nudge, they were both finally released from the horror show.

Years later my brother and I were squabbling about something or other when my mother remembered the diabolically clever penal scheme that had sprung like a miracle from her brain: the perfectly formed child of her fertile imagination. She couldn’t wait to relive the glory of the moment.

“You want to fight?! OK! Go on, fight! Adrienne, you punch Teddy.”

I can only imagine the satisfaction she felt as she watched the scene of her past triumph repeat itself.

“But I — don’t want — to hit him!” I blubbered and spluttered and managed to gasp out.

“I said, HIT him! You want to fight so badly, here’s your chance. I’m not stopping you! PUNCH him as HARD as you can!”

It was clear to me that we were mere puppets in this twisted demonstration of my mother’s disciplinary ingenuity and that the show would only end when we did as we were told. I delivered the first symbolic “punch,” a mere brush with my knuckles.

My mother pounced, practially spitting in glee, “Teddy! It’s your turn. Now you punch Adrienne!”

She didn’t need to tell him twice. He turned and punched me so hard I landed on my beleaguered ass clear across the room. That was the last time she ever tried that. But hey, it all worked out in the end…My brother and I love each other, and I even named my own son after him.

This afternoon I heard a lot of sniffling and muttering that went on for hours. Nicholas eventually started to do his homework in the dining room. Teddy took up his ukulele in the living room next door and started strumming it softly.

“Who’s playing the ukulele?” I heard from the dining room. I braced myself for the brouhaha that was sure to ensue and tried to head it off.

“Teddy,” I said, “Nicholas is trying to study. Why don’t you go up to your room and play?”

“No, I like it.” Nicholas said from the other room. “Teddy, you sound really good.”

And that was that. Peace in the valley once again.

Brotherly love

I just took my boys to get their flu vaccine. Whenever we’ve gone in the past, they’ve always had to get a shot. Their younger sister, who goes to another practice, has always been able to get the coveted FluMist. Every year the boys have railed against the injustice of it all.

This year, for the first time ever, the nurse offered the boys the choice of the shot or the FluMist. Twelve year old Nicholas played it cool. He explained to the nurse that while he would be totally o.k. with getting a shot, it might be interesting just this once to see what the FluMist would be like. He even offered to go first.

When the nurse shot the mist up his nose, I could tell the sensation was an unpleasant surprise to him. I’ve never had the FluMist myself, but the nurse explained that it could sting and make your eyes tear up. Outwardly, Nicholas acted as if it had been no big deal as he hopped off the exam table. But as the nurse prepared Teddy’s dose, he wordlessly came back to his little brother’s side and held his hand.

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The dream

My son has loved and lost many fish over the years…A couple years ago he had a dream so beautiful and sad that he reported it to me the next morning through tears. In his dream he witnessed all the beloved fish he ever had swimming up to heaven. I wish I were an artist so I could paint the picture he described to me so vividly. I wrote this poem for him instead.

It happened only once, and never again
A vision so beauty laden
As to bring a young boy to his knees
A silvered ripple of gold, orange, red, and ebony:
Comets, black moors, celestials, veiltails,
Shubunkins, telescope eyes, ryukins, and pearl scales,
Swimming upstream through the cold night air
Their spellbinding, unrehearsed synchronicity
Shimmering and incandescent as they made their way
To some promised piscatorial paradise
Where the neglected and the overly loved
Find blessed peace and rest.

For my son
1/10.

Junks I Collect No. 4: Miniature Chairs

Miniature Chairs

My favorite!

Some of these have a slot in the back so they can be used as place card holders. I, being the true “junks” collector that I am, have never used them for so practical a purpose.

My little niece who came with her family from Wales to spend this past Christmas with us was completely enamored with the little chairs. She carried them around everywhere in a little plastic tub. I’m going to mail some of them to her, because I love a girl who can appreciate my “junks”!

Cousins

Dear Tooth Fairy,

For some reason everyone is focusing on the presidential elections. I have far bigger fish to fry.

Tooth Fairy, we’ve noticed a precipitous decline in the level of service we’ve received from you over the years. When our oldest son began losing his teeth, we could count on you to unfailingly fulfill your duty in a prompt and efficient manner. With our second child, while you did not have a perfect track record, we could generally trust that you would complete the required tooth for dollar transaction in a timely fashion. With our third child, you have repeatedly exhibited gross negligence in regard to your one duty.

You have been delinquent almost every single time our daughter has lost a tooth. Again and again, the shameful scene repeats itself. My daughter trudges downstairs the morning after losing a tooth and reports, without any surprise at all, that you have forgotten to come yet again. Even when she tapes a reminder note to her bedroom door, you still manage to drop the ball.

Enter a caption

I understand that you have many clients in your purview. I’m sure you’re overworked, underpaid, blah blah blah.  Yes, you eventually come through:

But I’m writing to let you know that we are putting you on notice. Could President Obama have kept his job had he abrogated his responsibilities in this reckless and irresponsible fashion? I think not! This dereliction of duty cannot continue without consequence. You’ve been warned.

Sincerely,

Adrienne

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A wonderful day

My best friend and her family came to visit us today!

I wrote earlier that meeting Janel was a “crossroads” moment when life took a turn for the better. She and I met when we were both graduate students, and I was at one of the lowest points in my life. I was sad, lonely, and living in a roach and rat infested welfare hotel that Columbia University had bought to gradually convert into graduate student housing. When Janel and I became friends, everything changed. We sublet a beautiful pre-war one bedroom apartment on Riverside Drive from a classmate who was spending the year in the Czech Republic. We would stay up all night yakking and chortling into the early hours of the morning. We would throw parties for any occasion or for no occasion at all. We started a singing group together. Among the people whom we auditioned and accepted into the group were…

…our future husbands!

Janel and I now each have two boys and a girl. They call us “Auntie Adrienne” and “Auntie Janel.” When my sisters and I envision our old age, we always assume that my “beloved Janel” (as my sisters like to refer to her) will be sitting in a rocking chair right next to ours. Her friendship has made the best times in my life more joyful, and has sustained me in the worst times of my life. It’s always a beautiful day when I get to see my friend, but today two out of my three kids had the day off from school, I had taken the day off from work to be with them, the sun was shining, and…

We started the day with a walk along the Saunders-Monticello Trail, an easy 2 mile stretch along the south side of the Thomas Jefferson Parkway, which begins at the base of Monticello.

We didn’t get too far, because the kids found a little pond and spent a good 20 minutes skipping stones.

It gave us more time to catch up!

We drove up the mountain to the Thomas Jefferson Visitor’s Center at Monticello to have an al fresco lunch at the cafe there, before going back down the road just a little ways to find the entrance to the road leading up to Carter Mountain Orchard. We picked far too many Pink Ladies and ate some sinfully scrumptious apple cider donuts. The views up there are stunning. All day I kept thinking how lucky I was to live in beautiful Charlottesville.

Janel asked my daughter to put the apple she had just picked into the bag “in a dramatic way” for a picture. She readily complied. (Look at how that little silly’s hand is emoting in the second photo)!

We posed for our own picture…

…and then went to pick up Nicholas at his school. While we were waiting for him, the kids played on the swings,

and then our youngest four played an epic two on two soccer game on a full-size field. My daughter was literally weeping with exhaustion by the end of it.

We drove our matching minivans (!) to Peter Chang’s for dinner.

Finally, we said our goodbyes, made plans to see each other again soon, and headed back to our own homes with so many happy new memories. Here are three that I’m going to store up to remember on days that are less wonderful than this one: 1) the feeling of the warm sun on our backs as we stood between the rows of apple trees waiting for the children to come fill our open bags, 2) how we laughed and laughed as we watched the kids playing their two-on-two soccer game with funny strategies like perfectly executed throw-ins (to themselves!), and 3) our little daughters chatting comfortably and companiably with each other at the other end of the dinner table.

It was “wonderful, wonderful, most wonderful wonderful, and yet again wonderful and after that, out of all whooping!”*

*From Shakespeare’s As You Like It, Act III, Scene 2

Mummy/Mommy

This is what happens when your kid cannot figure out what he wants to be for Halloween. A very frazzled mommy has to come up with something in the fifteen minutes between getting home from work and leaving for trick-or-treating. Let me tell you, it’s not pretty…and I’m not talking about that crazy ‘do my husband was sporting, although I did keep having to quickly avert my gaze every time my eyes inadvertently lit upon him.

Before:

During:

I followed my son around with an extra roll of toilet paper & tape. My pockets were bulging with the bits of t.p he kept shedding with every step he took…

And after:

He hit four or five houses and was D.O.N.E., and frankly: so was I.

He’s going to have a detailed costume proposal with specs, sketches, statistical data, and a breakdown of costs for Halloween 2013 on my desk by the end of next week.

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Ghosts of Halloween Past

Yikes! It’s Halloween Eve and only one out of my three children knows exactly what she’s going to wear tomorrow! (Abby Wambach).

Nicholas, my twelve year who’s probably going trick-or-treating for the last time, wants to wear something “ironic.” Teddy, the premature old man, says trick-or-treating is too tiring. He can’t be bothered to come up with a costume. If I twist his arm, he may be persuaded to wear a paper bag over his head.

Oh for the good old days, when I could exercise complete control over the kids’ costumes!

Here are some of my favorites from years past…

First baby, first Halloween…I maybe went just a teensy bit overboard. Nicholas had no fewer than three costumes, because as I always say: “It’s aaaaaaall about the pictures!”

Pubert:

Julius Caesar:

Lion:

For his first Halloween, Teddy rocked a bespangled Baby Elvis jumpsuit unsnapped to his belly button. We went trick-or-treating on the Lawn at UVa, and people kept stopping us so they could have their picture taken with him:

He was a rock star!Check out the sideburns:

A couple years later Nicholas and Teddy were dressed as little Scottish lads in honor of their dad’s country of birth. Strangely enough, I’ve never been able to get them to don a skirt again!

Tintin, Queen Bee, and skeleton. This was before Tintin hit it big in America with Steven Spielberg’s movie version. People kept looking at Teddy in puzzlement. One woman asked, “Are you dressed as…a little boy?”

Pumpkin, Spy…and skeleton! I loved those Gymboree skeleton costumes. The kids wore them as pjs for years!

Ladybug with recycled Queen Bee tiara:

A sheikh & sailors

Last year’s panda:

This picture makes me laugh…This is what the kids look like by the end of an “It’s aaaaaaall about the pictures” session!Last year Tallis’ cow costume was udderly too small for him:

Chloe’s bee costume fit a little better, but put her in a foul mood:

Happy Halloween to all, and to all a spooktacular night!

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