I speak Chinese at home with my daughter. She doesn't understand what I'm saying yet, but it exposes her to the language. My theory is that my parents were both fluent in reading, writing, and speaking. I got....about half of their ability overall, maybe even less. So if the trend continues, my daughter will only get half of MY Chinese ability. That's not a lot...
So we're starting early with my poor tones, incorrect grammar, and all. It'll get better. I hope. But this blog isn't about my baby.
It'll be nearing five whole years since I left China. I have to remind myself I actually lived in a completely different culture and lifestyle than I was used to for an entire year. A lot of it feels like a blur to be honest. I can't remember details of what happened, and it seems like a lifetime ago. The one memory I can actually vividly remember is from our very first night after arriving in the city we would call home for a year.
We had taken the train from Beijing to Harbin. It was about 8 hours if I remember correctly. Once we arrived in Harbin, it was around 10 o'clock at night or later. The city was mostly quiet and dark. A teacher from our school, who was also sometimes our translator over the course of the year, had gone to Beijing and traveled back to Harbin with us on the train. He got us two taxis, gave them our destination, and we were driving off in the night in a foreign city to a place we would come to know very well.
I remember sitting in the taxi and staring out the window at the brightly lit signs that were on so late in the evening. Most of the city was shut down for the night, but certain signs and buildings were lit. I remember being in awe of my new surroundings and thinking, "This is going to be my new home."
The taxis stopped in the middle of the road somewhere and the driver told the teacher this was where we had to get off. The teacher asked if he could get us any closer. The driver said no because there was a lot of construction happening outside the main gate of the school, so that was the closest he could get us. The teacher seemed disappointed with his answer and insisted he drive us to the opposite side of the school wall and drop us off there because it was closer. The driver did not seem convinced it was closer, but he drove to the other side anyway.
I didn't know it that night, but over time as the campus became more familiar to me, I realized the driver was right. We ended up getting dropped off on the other side of the school gate and walked basically the entire width of the school to get to the gate and go in. Had we gotten off at our first stop, we could have saved ourselves about half the walk. Of course, we simply did what we were told and didn't complain or say anything because we were at the mercy of this new country in a new language and culture, and it was nearing midnight. We each had our two smaller bags. Our larger bags were shipped to the school so we did not have to lug them with us through the train station and onto the crowded train with very little storage.
Sidenote: Yes, I am Chinese and grew up eating Asian food, hearing the language, and even shared some of the same cultural values. But being Chinese in America is nothing compared to actually being Chinese and living in China. I was still very much foreign, very clueless, and my accent could be called out for being an outsider in about 10 seconds.
When we got to our dormitory, we knocked on the door, and the auntie who monitors the building came down and let us in. She asked if we wanted the keys to all the rooms. We just got two - the two on the lowest level (2nd floor) - and crashed for the night. It had been a long day of travel, but the hard work was yet to come.
The rest of the year was spent learning how to shower with a shoilet and hide your toilet paper so it didn't get wet, cooking on a hot plate, balancing ourselves on icy ground for six months out of the year, pushing our way through the school cafeteria so we could get our order in and eat before our lunch break was over, and many other lifestyle differences. I moved into a total of two apartments, one having only a few hours notice to move and get everything down the second time around.
My writing is not stellar, award winning, Nobel Prize material. But I'm glad I was able to write down some of the more interesting stories into a book. I'm glad I have it to share with my daughter when she is older. And I hope she can read the few Chinese sentences and phrases I've inserted throughout. Maybe there were more than a few...(Pretty sure I wrote it so context clues could give you an idea of the meaning at least.)
Do I miss China, or specifically Harbin? Yes and no. I really can't imagine ever living there again, especially not raising a baby. I remember seeing the marshmallow-looking babies bundled up in snowsuits in their mothers' arms. I constantly asked myself - how does the mother know if her baby is warm enough? Not to mention the potential danger of slipping on ice while holding your child in the winter...carrying eggs home from the market was dangerous enough!
But when memories come to me in the evening and I share them with my husband, I can't help but think how brave and bold I was at one point in my life to move halfway across the world and embrace a newness most people would immediately reject. What was once my life and home is now my nostalgia.
Monday, June 11, 2018
Tuesday, May 8, 2018
Dear Mommy, ; Love, Mommy
My 7th grade English teacher gave me a journal and a locket when my mother died. She told me to write my memories of my mother so they could be remembered. I'm not sure I wrote down memories of her, but I ended up writing letters to her. I started each one with "Dear Mommy,". In the first ten years or so, they were frequent. I would write almost monthly. In a way, I felt forced to because I wanted to somehow keep her in my life and feel like she was still there. But then, the letters became less frequent. After getting married, I didn't write any letters to her until I got pregnant. I think in a way it's symbolic of the grieving process I experienced represented by the frequency of the letters. Life became more normal without her and slowly her presence faded. Doesn't mean she mattered any less to me, but it was a new normal.
She kept a diary in the last few years of her life. Most of it was written in Chinese. She would write down the happenings of the day, the progression of her prognoses, and include tidbits about what was happening in our lives as well. She never shared it with me or anything, and I didn't think much about it. After she died, my grandfather requested to have her diary. I never asked him about what was written in it and he never shared. Perhaps it was more sentimental just to keep the diary than actually reading through her logs. He died less than a year later and the diary moved along with my grandmother because she could not live alone. When I spent summers with my grandmother during the last few years of her life, I'd occasionally look for the diary, but I never found it. Even if I did, I doubt I would have been able to translate most of it.
I don't really have anything in writing left from my mother. That's something I wish I had more of. The most I have in writing from her is a newsletter journal from the first grade. Throughout the school year, about six times total, we would write letters to our parents about what we were learning or what events were happening at school. Then, we would take the journal home and our parents would read our letters and write one back to us. My reply letters were written by my mother.
About two months ago, I went out and bought a journal. If you've known me a while, you'll know that I've journaled and written diaries for years and years. But what you may not know is that I have always journaled in the cheap spiral notebooks you used to be able to find on sale for 10 cents each during the school supply sales. I wasn't into the fancy notebooks with designs or bound in leather because I felt like you couldn't neatly shelf them - it wouldn't be consistent. So I figured the simple spiral notebooks were easier to keep organized. Ironically, they're all boxed away sitting on a shelf somewhere. I don't know what I will do with them. Perhaps when my daughter goes through her teenage rebellious phase, I'll bring out the journals and let her read about my own teenage rebellious phase.
Anyway, the journal I bought is for her. I started writing letters in them before she was born, and whenever I get a chance or have something worth noting, I write it down in a letter to her. Jonathan writes in it occasionally, too. Every letter in there I write ends the same way: Love, Mommy.
I'll probably still write letters to my mother. Perhaps not as often or as frequent, but now, I am also Mommy.
She kept a diary in the last few years of her life. Most of it was written in Chinese. She would write down the happenings of the day, the progression of her prognoses, and include tidbits about what was happening in our lives as well. She never shared it with me or anything, and I didn't think much about it. After she died, my grandfather requested to have her diary. I never asked him about what was written in it and he never shared. Perhaps it was more sentimental just to keep the diary than actually reading through her logs. He died less than a year later and the diary moved along with my grandmother because she could not live alone. When I spent summers with my grandmother during the last few years of her life, I'd occasionally look for the diary, but I never found it. Even if I did, I doubt I would have been able to translate most of it.
I don't really have anything in writing left from my mother. That's something I wish I had more of. The most I have in writing from her is a newsletter journal from the first grade. Throughout the school year, about six times total, we would write letters to our parents about what we were learning or what events were happening at school. Then, we would take the journal home and our parents would read our letters and write one back to us. My reply letters were written by my mother.
About two months ago, I went out and bought a journal. If you've known me a while, you'll know that I've journaled and written diaries for years and years. But what you may not know is that I have always journaled in the cheap spiral notebooks you used to be able to find on sale for 10 cents each during the school supply sales. I wasn't into the fancy notebooks with designs or bound in leather because I felt like you couldn't neatly shelf them - it wouldn't be consistent. So I figured the simple spiral notebooks were easier to keep organized. Ironically, they're all boxed away sitting on a shelf somewhere. I don't know what I will do with them. Perhaps when my daughter goes through her teenage rebellious phase, I'll bring out the journals and let her read about my own teenage rebellious phase.
Anyway, the journal I bought is for her. I started writing letters in them before she was born, and whenever I get a chance or have something worth noting, I write it down in a letter to her. Jonathan writes in it occasionally, too. Every letter in there I write ends the same way: Love, Mommy.
I'll probably still write letters to my mother. Perhaps not as often or as frequent, but now, I am also Mommy.
Monday, April 23, 2018
Raising a Baby is like Picking Produce
When I was little, my mother would take me grocery shopping with her. I remember sitting in the cart as she pushed it through the store, and if she ever walked away a little too far for comfort because it was easier just to walk over and grab something than it was to push the whole cart over, I would start to get antsy. I still remember passing the bakery section of the supermarket, and if there were cookies out on the display case, she would get me one. I think subconsciously, I've had memories of that supermarket ingrained in my head because it has reappeared in my dreams and I can still remember the layout of the store almost to the tee. It's now a Home Depot. Bonus points to anyone who knows which supermarket I'm referring to. But now I digress.
I distinctly remember watching my mother pick produce at the grocery store. She'd pick up an apple, examine it, and either put it back down, or put it in the bag to purchase. I'd watch her do this for tomatoes, oranges, lettuce, and just about all the fruits and vegetables. In my mind, it was magical. My mother had the magical touch and knew exactly which ones to buy and which ones to put back. I wondered when I would develop this magical touch and be able to do the same.
Fast forward about 15 years to my junior/senior year of college. I was living in an apartment for the first time in my life, and I was doing my own grocery shopping. Sure, I'd driven to the grocery store before ever since I had gotten my driver's license, but that was to pick up the occasional teenage want: snacks, drinks, or one specific item. This was trying to meal prep for a week, shop on a budget, and be wise in my spending.
My roommate and I would go grocery shopping together since she didn't have a car and our schedules were similar enough that we could carve out this time on most Saturday mornings together. As I found myself pushing my own cart through the produce aisles of the grocery store, I ran through what I knew in my head: look at the produce, feel the produce, smell the produce, and make a decision. I carefully picked up and examined apples, oranges, broccoli, tomatoes, etc. Some I put in my bag to purchase. Some I placed back. But it felt different. I didn't feel the magical touch I saw in my mother as a young child. There was no magical touch. She simply looked at the produce, felt the produce, smelled the produce, and made a decision.
In my year living the apartment life in Austin, I bought some bad apples, I bought some vegetables with bugs in them, I threw out some rotten tomatoes, and life went on. I may not distinctly remember my mother throwing out any bad fruit or vegetables, but I can almost guarantee that she picked more than a few bad ones in her numerous grocery trips as well.
I feel the same way now about my daughter. Watching all my friends and other mothers who have children, they made it look so easy and effortless. Crying? Needs a diaper changed. Different cry? It's time to eat. How much milk should I make the bottle for? 4 ounces. How long should she sleep? She'll be awake in about 3 hours. It always seemed like they knew exactly what to do and how to do it.
Me? I feel like a complete mess right now. Crying? I think it's the diaper. Or maybe not. She's still crying. Darn, it wasn't the diaper. It's time to eat. How much milk should I make the bottle for? Let's try 2 ounces. Oh she wants more. Give her another ounce. Wait this time she didn't finish her 2 ounces. Why didn't she finish? How long should she sleep? I think I have about 3 hours. Why is she waking up after 1.5? She's supposed to be sleeping still!
Of course, I never spent a complete 24 hours with any of my friends and their babies, and I'm positive that only the cute pictures and sweet moments make it on social media. (Okay, some of the unglamorous truth might make it onto social media as well, but only if it elicits a laugh.) And it's only been 3 weeks so I should really cut myself some slack.
If it's one thing I know for sure, raising a baby is like picking produce: there's no magical touch. You simply look at her facial expression, feel for body temperature (and then actually use a thermometer), smell the diaper, and make a decision. And of course, the only thing being tossed out are foul-smelling diapers.
I distinctly remember watching my mother pick produce at the grocery store. She'd pick up an apple, examine it, and either put it back down, or put it in the bag to purchase. I'd watch her do this for tomatoes, oranges, lettuce, and just about all the fruits and vegetables. In my mind, it was magical. My mother had the magical touch and knew exactly which ones to buy and which ones to put back. I wondered when I would develop this magical touch and be able to do the same.
Fast forward about 15 years to my junior/senior year of college. I was living in an apartment for the first time in my life, and I was doing my own grocery shopping. Sure, I'd driven to the grocery store before ever since I had gotten my driver's license, but that was to pick up the occasional teenage want: snacks, drinks, or one specific item. This was trying to meal prep for a week, shop on a budget, and be wise in my spending.
My roommate and I would go grocery shopping together since she didn't have a car and our schedules were similar enough that we could carve out this time on most Saturday mornings together. As I found myself pushing my own cart through the produce aisles of the grocery store, I ran through what I knew in my head: look at the produce, feel the produce, smell the produce, and make a decision. I carefully picked up and examined apples, oranges, broccoli, tomatoes, etc. Some I put in my bag to purchase. Some I placed back. But it felt different. I didn't feel the magical touch I saw in my mother as a young child. There was no magical touch. She simply looked at the produce, felt the produce, smelled the produce, and made a decision.
In my year living the apartment life in Austin, I bought some bad apples, I bought some vegetables with bugs in them, I threw out some rotten tomatoes, and life went on. I may not distinctly remember my mother throwing out any bad fruit or vegetables, but I can almost guarantee that she picked more than a few bad ones in her numerous grocery trips as well.
I feel the same way now about my daughter. Watching all my friends and other mothers who have children, they made it look so easy and effortless. Crying? Needs a diaper changed. Different cry? It's time to eat. How much milk should I make the bottle for? 4 ounces. How long should she sleep? She'll be awake in about 3 hours. It always seemed like they knew exactly what to do and how to do it.
Me? I feel like a complete mess right now. Crying? I think it's the diaper. Or maybe not. She's still crying. Darn, it wasn't the diaper. It's time to eat. How much milk should I make the bottle for? Let's try 2 ounces. Oh she wants more. Give her another ounce. Wait this time she didn't finish her 2 ounces. Why didn't she finish? How long should she sleep? I think I have about 3 hours. Why is she waking up after 1.5? She's supposed to be sleeping still!
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| Is this a cry? Or a yawn? |
Of course, I never spent a complete 24 hours with any of my friends and their babies, and I'm positive that only the cute pictures and sweet moments make it on social media. (Okay, some of the unglamorous truth might make it onto social media as well, but only if it elicits a laugh.) And it's only been 3 weeks so I should really cut myself some slack.
If it's one thing I know for sure, raising a baby is like picking produce: there's no magical touch. You simply look at her facial expression, feel for body temperature (and then actually use a thermometer), smell the diaper, and make a decision. And of course, the only thing being tossed out are foul-smelling diapers.
Wednesday, April 18, 2018
The Blue Bathrobe
I grew up being told "no" to a lot of the things I wanted. I still remember the fiasco at Walmart over a pair of shoes when I was a child - I didn't get them in the end because I simply just wanted my parents to stop arguing in the store. I remember the numerous Barbie toys I never received because I was told I didn't need them - I really didn't. But the ones I received, I kept very well: no ripped stickers, all pieces intact, and let me tell you, there are some very small pieces to keep track of. They will be passed on to my daughter if she cares to play with them. I'll make sure she takes good care of them as well. But there was one thing I somehow managed to convince my mother to buy me - a blue bathrobe.
I don't remember how we got this catalog mailed to us advertising women's apparel. My mother didn't care to buy clothes at all and I had just entered the double digits. I loved flipping through magazines and advertisements to see the photographs and pictures though. I flipped through this one and a blue bathrobe caught my eye. It was the perfect shade of blue that spoke to me, a luscious, rich shade of baby blue. The robe was placed on a satin hanger of similar hue, which to an emerging teenager, sealed the deal of luxurious. Clearly their advertising was working perfectly on me.
I asked my mother for this bathrobe and showed her the item in the catalog. She didn't nix my request immediately, but she was extremely hesitant to purchase the item. I somehow managed to convince her that the robe would be ideal for me to have in the winter months because of how cold it was, and I could wear it around the house at night and stay warm until I went to sleep. The robe was $20. I'm assuming shipping was free with a minimum purchase. I can't imagine her buying it with added shipping charges.
Once the robe arrived, I was slightly disappointed. The color did not match the one from the catalog. It was more of an aqua or robin's egg blue - still a nice color, but not the one that spoke to me from the magazine image. And there was no satin hanger included. The luxury factor suddenly dropped immensely, and it was simply a bathrobe.
As I told my mother in my original reasoning, I did wear it around the house for a while in the winter during the evenings. It was nice and warm. However, the sleeves got in the way of everything I did because I was a tiny little pre-teen wearing a women's bathrobe. After a short-lived use, it was relegated to my closet on a regular plastic hanger.
When I got married, I moved the blue bathrobe with me to our apartment. I can't remember how many times I actually wore it, but it came with me. And when we moved into our house, it moved with me again as well. Nearly 15 years later, this bathrobe has come full circle again and served the most purpose it has ever in my years of ownership in the last 6 months. As last winter slowly came upon us, I realized none of my bath towels were big enough to dry off quickly during pregnancy to avoid the after-shower-chills. And of course, being bulky meant moving slower and more carefully.
Enter blue bathrobe. It was large enough to cover the majority of my body to stay warm (because I'm still a tiny grown person) and doubled up as a towel to dry off faster. Who knew an impulsive buy with somewhat silly reasoning approximately 15 years ago would be one of the best pregnancy must-haves in my opinion which I didn't even plan for?
I don't think I could have nearly justified those pair of shoes I never received or all the Barbie toys I missed out on growing up. But I'm glad this was one purchase my mother decided to buy for me.
I don't remember how we got this catalog mailed to us advertising women's apparel. My mother didn't care to buy clothes at all and I had just entered the double digits. I loved flipping through magazines and advertisements to see the photographs and pictures though. I flipped through this one and a blue bathrobe caught my eye. It was the perfect shade of blue that spoke to me, a luscious, rich shade of baby blue. The robe was placed on a satin hanger of similar hue, which to an emerging teenager, sealed the deal of luxurious. Clearly their advertising was working perfectly on me.
I asked my mother for this bathrobe and showed her the item in the catalog. She didn't nix my request immediately, but she was extremely hesitant to purchase the item. I somehow managed to convince her that the robe would be ideal for me to have in the winter months because of how cold it was, and I could wear it around the house at night and stay warm until I went to sleep. The robe was $20. I'm assuming shipping was free with a minimum purchase. I can't imagine her buying it with added shipping charges.
Once the robe arrived, I was slightly disappointed. The color did not match the one from the catalog. It was more of an aqua or robin's egg blue - still a nice color, but not the one that spoke to me from the magazine image. And there was no satin hanger included. The luxury factor suddenly dropped immensely, and it was simply a bathrobe.
As I told my mother in my original reasoning, I did wear it around the house for a while in the winter during the evenings. It was nice and warm. However, the sleeves got in the way of everything I did because I was a tiny little pre-teen wearing a women's bathrobe. After a short-lived use, it was relegated to my closet on a regular plastic hanger.
When I got married, I moved the blue bathrobe with me to our apartment. I can't remember how many times I actually wore it, but it came with me. And when we moved into our house, it moved with me again as well. Nearly 15 years later, this bathrobe has come full circle again and served the most purpose it has ever in my years of ownership in the last 6 months. As last winter slowly came upon us, I realized none of my bath towels were big enough to dry off quickly during pregnancy to avoid the after-shower-chills. And of course, being bulky meant moving slower and more carefully.
Enter blue bathrobe. It was large enough to cover the majority of my body to stay warm (because I'm still a tiny grown person) and doubled up as a towel to dry off faster. Who knew an impulsive buy with somewhat silly reasoning approximately 15 years ago would be one of the best pregnancy must-haves in my opinion which I didn't even plan for?
I don't think I could have nearly justified those pair of shoes I never received or all the Barbie toys I missed out on growing up. But I'm glad this was one purchase my mother decided to buy for me.
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| My blue bathrobe. Still on a plastic hanger. |
Tuesday, April 10, 2018
"Beautiful Girl, You Can Do Amazing Things"
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| She likes to bend her legs. This 0-3 footie is also too large for her. Oops. |
We wanted a spring birthday baby because most of our special occasions are celebrated in the fall. Lump that with all the holidays that the fall and winter bring, it's a pretty loaded season of celebrating already. But her birthday is slightly bittersweet for me. She was born on the day my grandfather died. I didn't plan it to be that way, but that's kind of how everything lined up. Her actual due date was a Wednesday. I wanted to give her as much time as possible to come naturally without having to induce. However, my doctor's on-call day is Tuesday, so I figured I'd schedule for the Tuesday after her due date to induce if she wasn't ready on her own. It just happened to be April 3rd. My doctor didn't even end up delivering her because she got caught up in a C-section at a different hospital, but that's another story.
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| She's goofy like her daddy. She also has his appetite. |
My grandfather spoiled me growing up. My mother didn't let him buy me the moon and the stars, but he spoiled me with his attention. It was kind of inevitable. I was his youngest daughter's daughter and his only granddaughter. But even more important than being spoiled, my grandfather saw something special in me.
On one occasion after school as an 11 or 12-year-old when I was eating a snack, he walked over and asked my grandmother, “Which do you think has more nutritional value, cooked carrots or raw carrots?”
My grandmother responded, “Well, of course raw carrots. What kind of a question is that? It’s common sense.” My grandfather looked over to me and posed the same question.
“What do you think?”
“Well, since you’re asking this question, I think it’s cooked carrots, otherwise you wouldn’t ask such a question if the answer was so obvious.” After hearing my response, my grandfather smiled and nodded.
“This girl is smart. She really knows something.”
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| This was at 39 weeks. (We'll just say 40 for the record because I didn't get much bigger after this photo was taken.) I could still get away with larger non-maternity tops in my existing wardrobe. Please excuse the mess. |
Starting at my 28 week pregnancy visit, my doctor had me go in for extra ultrasounds because I always measured small. Okay, to be fair, I looked really small my entire pregnancy.
At my last few doctor's appointments, she kept telling me I was measuring small but that was normal for my size and I was just making a small baby. Well, she came out just ounces shy of 8 pounds. She was a week late...but she would have been perfectly sized still if she came on time. It's too bad my doctor wasn't the one who delivered her. I would have really wanted to see her reaction when the nurse read her birth weight off the scale after delivery.
We tried to stay as minimal as possible with her nursery decor and preparations, but as with all things "first," we still went above and beyond in small ways. I've never been one to buy wall art as decoration just to have, but her nursery wall is one where we actually did purchase a few pieces.
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| We purchased three pieces for her wall and I made the other two, not specifically intending to put them on a nursery wall, but it just happened to work out that way. |
The frame in the middle says "beautiful girl, you can do amazing things." I believe she will. She already has. I'm really blessed to be able to call her my daughter, and I can't wait to watch her grow up and do the amazing things she will.
Friday, March 2, 2018
Designed to Slow Down
Life is going by really fast right now. Between prepping my kids for substitute lessons and planning ahead to buy the books they'll need for the next two months, creating practicing "schedules" for the students who want to take two months off from piano (which I never recommend if you don't plan on straight up quitting,) buying last minute baby things to prepare for her arrival, meal prepping and freezing food for the months to come, life is busy.
And life is moving fast.
It really feels like a day or two ago when it was Monday afternoon and I was getting ready for my weekly lineup of kids to teach. Well, that was about four days ago. Before we know it, these last four weeks will be gone and our baby girl will not be so safely, well-contained and easily transported anymore, and she will be a part of the outside world we already know so well.
Our friends just had a baby recently, and his first month of life seemed to fly by to the rest of us. Of course, for them, such was not the case. I'm sure nights when the baby wouldn't sleep for more than a few hours at a time felt like an eternity. There are probably more moments than one as a parent when you wonder why it takes so long to eat "one meal" as an infant. And the amount of attention and needs they have for being such simple human beings at that age is quite unfathomable in the dire moments. (Simple being their job and role in life at the moment. They are very complex when it comes to their human body and what they are capable of which adults are not.)
I woke up this morning with the thought that perhaps we were designed this way to slow down time so some of these moments would be captured a little longer. We pay attention more when the needs are greater. And although stressful and hard, we slow down to notice things. The way her hair has grown longer. The shape of her eyes. The shape of her nose. The lines in her lips. Because let's all be honest. If our babies slept through the night in the first six months, we'd probably never truly stop to look at them enough to notice what was different or how fast they were growing. We might notice something everyday and be like "wow you look different today" but we probably wouldn't be able to instantly attribute it to a specific feature. Everything would just flow on by.
It's definitely easier to say and think through this when I'm not sleep deprived or overworked. Someone please remind me in about two months when all of this becomes my reality and I may be questioning at moments if I enjoy parenting and motherhood due to lack of sleep and foggy thinking.
There was purpose to this design: to allow us inadvertently to "slow time down" so we notice the subtle nuances.
And life is moving fast.
It really feels like a day or two ago when it was Monday afternoon and I was getting ready for my weekly lineup of kids to teach. Well, that was about four days ago. Before we know it, these last four weeks will be gone and our baby girl will not be so safely, well-contained and easily transported anymore, and she will be a part of the outside world we already know so well.
Our friends just had a baby recently, and his first month of life seemed to fly by to the rest of us. Of course, for them, such was not the case. I'm sure nights when the baby wouldn't sleep for more than a few hours at a time felt like an eternity. There are probably more moments than one as a parent when you wonder why it takes so long to eat "one meal" as an infant. And the amount of attention and needs they have for being such simple human beings at that age is quite unfathomable in the dire moments. (Simple being their job and role in life at the moment. They are very complex when it comes to their human body and what they are capable of which adults are not.)
I woke up this morning with the thought that perhaps we were designed this way to slow down time so some of these moments would be captured a little longer. We pay attention more when the needs are greater. And although stressful and hard, we slow down to notice things. The way her hair has grown longer. The shape of her eyes. The shape of her nose. The lines in her lips. Because let's all be honest. If our babies slept through the night in the first six months, we'd probably never truly stop to look at them enough to notice what was different or how fast they were growing. We might notice something everyday and be like "wow you look different today" but we probably wouldn't be able to instantly attribute it to a specific feature. Everything would just flow on by.
It's definitely easier to say and think through this when I'm not sleep deprived or overworked. Someone please remind me in about two months when all of this becomes my reality and I may be questioning at moments if I enjoy parenting and motherhood due to lack of sleep and foggy thinking.
There was purpose to this design: to allow us inadvertently to "slow time down" so we notice the subtle nuances.
Wednesday, February 14, 2018
A Taste of Our Wedding
Our wedding cake was simple, but really good. I went to the bakery with my friend and wedding coordinator that summer to sample cake flavors and choose out a design. Jonathan was working so he didn't go with us. I ended up picking a simple cake flavor combination. Wedding cake flavored cake (which is essentially an almond white cake) with a raspberry cream filling and vanilla buttercream on top. It was a really nice combination.
At our wedding, we ate about one bite a piece - just enough to capture a photo for the memories.
I had left very detailed instructions regarding every aspect of the wedding I could think about and where each piece was going. The one aspect I forgot to leave detailed instructions for? The cake. For having over 200 people at the reception dinner, we had a lot of cake leftover, which I didn't imagine would happen. And nobody had any idea where the leftover cake went. Oh well.
I've often thought about our cake and how nice the flavors complemented each other and how nice it would be to be able to have a taste of our wedding cake again. I decided Valentine's Day would be a nice time to surprise my husband and make this happen.
I called the bakery where our wedding cake was from to see how much they charged for custom cupcakes. Although not terribly priced for custom cupcakes, the minimum order was a dozen and I wasn't interested in spending that much money for so many more than I really needed. I contemplated just buying some nice cupcakes or a cake from another bakery, but that wasn't quite the surprise I wanted. So in the end, I looked up some recipes and made my own.
Now here's where I probably broke an important rule of baking - I didn't make a test batch first. My trial run....was also my final run.
I don't consider myself amateur in the kitchen, but I am definitely not an iron chef who can whip together surprise ingredients and know it will taste marvelous.
After tasting the raspberry frosting I made intended for the filling, I deemed it on the sweet side already and decided not to make extra vanilla frosting for the top and just to decorate the top with the raspberry frosting.
I've also never decorated anything before with piped icing, so this was quite an adventure for me as well. I bought the tip and watched one Youtube video on how to pipe roses. It...isn't gourmet bakery worthy, but I'll say for having zero experience and zero practice, they turned out exceptionally well.
I'm glad we were able to taste a glimpse of our wedding cake today, literally. To be honest neither of us really actually remember what our wedding cake tastes like, so it was just a nice sweet treat with sentimental value. I think I'll make it again.
At our wedding, we ate about one bite a piece - just enough to capture a photo for the memories.
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| What a great picture, our one bite each of cake. We've both put on some weight since then.... |
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| Our cake. |
I had left very detailed instructions regarding every aspect of the wedding I could think about and where each piece was going. The one aspect I forgot to leave detailed instructions for? The cake. For having over 200 people at the reception dinner, we had a lot of cake leftover, which I didn't imagine would happen. And nobody had any idea where the leftover cake went. Oh well.
I've often thought about our cake and how nice the flavors complemented each other and how nice it would be to be able to have a taste of our wedding cake again. I decided Valentine's Day would be a nice time to surprise my husband and make this happen.
I called the bakery where our wedding cake was from to see how much they charged for custom cupcakes. Although not terribly priced for custom cupcakes, the minimum order was a dozen and I wasn't interested in spending that much money for so many more than I really needed. I contemplated just buying some nice cupcakes or a cake from another bakery, but that wasn't quite the surprise I wanted. So in the end, I looked up some recipes and made my own.
Now here's where I probably broke an important rule of baking - I didn't make a test batch first. My trial run....was also my final run.
I don't consider myself amateur in the kitchen, but I am definitely not an iron chef who can whip together surprise ingredients and know it will taste marvelous.
After tasting the raspberry frosting I made intended for the filling, I deemed it on the sweet side already and decided not to make extra vanilla frosting for the top and just to decorate the top with the raspberry frosting.
I've also never decorated anything before with piped icing, so this was quite an adventure for me as well. I bought the tip and watched one Youtube video on how to pipe roses. It...isn't gourmet bakery worthy, but I'll say for having zero experience and zero practice, they turned out exceptionally well.
 |
| My version of our wedding cake flavored cupcakes. Some of them actually look like roses! |
I'm glad we were able to taste a glimpse of our wedding cake today, literally. To be honest neither of us really actually remember what our wedding cake tastes like, so it was just a nice sweet treat with sentimental value. I think I'll make it again.
But I actually get a taste of our wedding everyday when we laugh at each other's goofiness, when we hold hands, and when we just stare at each other and soak in all the little nuances of freckles and features and remember why we wanted to spend forever together. What we have is more than just a taste of a wedding. It's a taste of joy.
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