JulieLeung.com: a life told in tidepools

The night has disappeared. What did I do with it? Among other things, I responded to Darren Barefoot’s observations in his post Canada’s Men Aren’t Getting Enough Daylight. Darren often starts intense conversations on family choices and lifestyles… and this time I decided to toss in my two cents – even though I don’t know much about Canadian Men or their lack of daylight…:-) (are the guys all getting rickets up north – the biochemist in me just has to ask..or maybe that’s why they are are giving up Coke…; -)?!) Anyway, what Darren noted is true across the border too…I’ll post my comment here, as my writing of the night, and also as an invitation for others to join the conversation on parenting at Darren’s blog.

Okay, I can’t resist tossing in my two cents and sharing my perspective…

Before Ted and I married, we agreed that we wanted to homeschool our children (or at least try it). From where each of our lives were back then, it made more sense for me to plan to stay at home. I have been happy to do it. I haven’t been employed since my first daughter was born almost seven years ago. It’s a choice we’ve made as a family, a choice that has made other decisions for us.

In terms of trying to quantify what it is like to take care of children, here’s what I can say from my experience. I worked in two fields before I became a mother. I did medical research and I also worked at a charity which helped homeless people. Motherhood requires the intensity of my medical research work in both mental and physical energy. Motherhood also requires at least as much emotional energy as the counseling I did at the charity. I am nonstop from 8 am to 9 pm with the kids (hence my late night weblog posts) and I am on call 24 hours a day.

Even if I wanted to pay someone to care for my kids I don’t know if I could afford it, especially now that I have three. For us it makes more financial sense for me to stay at home.

My husband works from home so he sees the kids more than he would if he commuted. Many dads on the island where we live don’t see their kids during the week due to the ferry ride combined with the long work day. Ted is able to have lunch and dinner with his daughters, and from time to time he comes out of the office to help me. However he has not take them outside during the weekday. 🙂 Although I spend more time with the girls during the day, Ted and I share the responsibility, spending time each night talking about our family together.

Comparing now to the fifties, I’m not sure it is easier now than then. I have three kids which is the same size of both my mom’s and my dad’s families, so perhaps I’m not having half the children. So maybe I’m disqualified from commenting. 🙂 I’m not sure though that cell phones and appliances make it easier (ah but the stain free carpet has been wonderful!). Standards for parenting have changed. For example, there are issues that my children have had, that probably wouldn’t have been noticed in the fifties but I have had to monitor carefully and work with my children in their development in these areas. We are probably much more aware and concerned of the implications of every aspect of childhood development and the role parents play in their children’s growth. Although I try to evaluate and sift through the expectations I feel, from Martha Stewartsainthood to SuperMommy’s cape, and we as a family are trying to take a different path, yet parenting still takes all I’ve got to give in a day, more than any job I had.

What drew me into this post originally were your observations, Darren, of whom you see outside during the day. I too have been concerned. I try to take my kids outside and play soccer or help them ride bikes every day in the late morning. However I rarely even see other moms playing sports with their kids, or anyone else at all outside. On the weekends I do see some dads going around the block or supervising at the playground. But I wonder whether part of the problem is that people don’t often go outside to play with their children any more.

Annie will be happy to hear that I now have two U2 tickets to the Seattle show on Monday April 25th. I’ve never before battled Ticketmaster or attended a concert in such a large venue. I don’t often go to concerts, and when I do, it is in a more intimate setting. I guess I’ve never considered it was worth the money and effort to try to go see a high profile performer, or that going to see U2 was a possibility at this stage of life, but the Key Arena location works well for the ferry (better than Tacoma!). Plus I figure the opportunities to see U2 in concert are finite and I’d like to see them at least once before they stop touring. I learned a lot from the ticket buying experience this morning; for example when the first show sold out, suddenly tickets for a new unannounced show (the following night) became available. I’m glad I didn’t quit and walk away from the computer when I didn’t get into the first show. My tickets aren’t ideal but I’m grateful I got two. Let’s just say that it’s difficult to play the Ticketmaster game while caring for sick kids. I should feel guilty for the price but I don’t. Perhaps the thought of seeing U2 in concert is already helping me prepare for the upcoming week which I will spend home alone with three sick kids while Ted travels to San Francisco. Or perhaps I’m justifying the expenditure, as a birthday present. Whatever happens on April 25, I’m sure it will be fun. Hey, I’ll be happy to get out of the house, even if I need binoculars to see Bono.

(Speaking of Bono, interesting commentary on the star at Davos emerged earlier this week in this post, including Grant’s discovery: …we have uncovered a cultural principle: attack Bono and ye shall be attacked in turn. Bono is a sacred figure with special rights and privileges…)

Anyone else going to be there?

Halley Suitt wrote this week on love and bravery (can’t get the permalink to work to the specific post):

Making the decision to love, pushing forward, or yielding to the allure of loving someone, laying back in affirmation, means you are going for broke. You are not hedging your bets. You lay it on the line.

If you’re in, you’re in all the way, to the hilt, no turning back to find an easy way home. In love you lose your bearings. The path back is covered in an instant. Beach sand footprints, blown away in an instance. Look back over your shoulder to see … nothing. You don’t even remember where your were before or WHO you were. You are changed.

Passion and love and sex make a mess of everything, but make everything perfect too. Loving someone does not require a permission slip, like a field trip to the museum.

Last night I read a parenting newsletter featuring a mom who said that she had learned to hide her joy. Hide joy?! As if it can be hidden. I began to wonder what kind of joy this mother thought she had.

Joy, like the love Halley described, can’t be bound in a box or kept on the couch. It wants to act. It must act. It bubbles and bursts. It is brave and bold. It can’t be hidden. It changes faces. It changes lives.

Passion is an overused word. I know I’ve used it and I read it in other’s writings. It has become ubiquitious. What everyone desires. But what does it mean? Words that are employed too often seem cheap syllables without significance, letters stuck together but devoid of life.

Besides, passion is a word better lived than said. The letters have less meaning than the expression and experience. Should I tell my husband I have passion for him? Or would he prefer that I show him?

Passion is what we do when we love someone or something beyond our fears. Is it crazy? Contagious? Certainly. As Bob V. commented earlier this week …passion can look a whole lot like a virus-induced insanity. Like a virus, others will catch what we have, when we are passionate.

Passion is joy we cannot hide. It drives our dreams and promotes our plans but it also motivates us to move in ways we had never imagined. To borrow Halley’s words, passion does not require a permission slip. It doesn’t even need to be mentioned; it is lived.

Scheherazade began a scrumptious post on Eggs and Bananas with the sentence:

If you ever decide to make me breakfast in bed, you should know that my favorite thing is eggs over easy, with maybe some toast or, even better, some spicy black beans and a couple of warm corn tortillas.

She fried a banana alongside her eggs. I’ve never tried that.

My favorite breakfast is pancakes. Plain or oatmeal. With maple syrup or raspberry jam. No butter. I think I like buttermilk or oatmeal pancakes plain rather than stuffed with MnMs or blueberries even.

On the weekends we kids stayed with our dad, he often made us pancakes. Perhaps he cooked them when he still lived at home but I don’t remember. My father’s creativity in the kitchen emerged as a result of the divorce, also creating a number of now-legendary stories around his original recipes, our own culture for our times at his places. One of my siblings refused to eat pancakes so Dad would top them with chocolate syrup from the Hershey’s can in the fridge or mixed from hot chocolate powder, to make them easier to swallow.

Mom made pancakes too, ones she called German pancakes, the size of the electric skillet, spread with butter, then applesauce or powdered sugar, and rolled. Usually she served them for supper. I liked them too, but I liked the idea of the heritage that came with the family recipe more than the taste which seemed too strong on the eggs.

If I make pancakes, I make them with a pinch here and there, off the cuff, improvising on a Saturday morning when we have some time to spare. We also have a waffle iron with heart shapes but I don’t know when I last used it. Ted isn’t a morning man so a simple breakfast is what I most often choose for the girls and me, such as cereal or scones.

My other favorite breakfast though would be cinnamon rolls, hot from the oven and homemade. The girls and I made some Christmas morning, refrigerating the dough overnight. They don’t taste the same the next morning but at the time they are fresh, they are delicious. Bakery rolls with their preservatives can’t compare As I pull apart the concentric circles to taste the cinnamon flavor, wrapped with raisins and bits of crust from baking, I know fresh yeast breads are the best.

While discussing breakfasts, I must confess a certain weakness for Dunkin’ Donuts oat bran blueberry muffins. When I was a college student and during the years we lived in Providence, I’d indulge in a stop at that coffee shop from time to time. I like muffins, and the oat bran blueberry had the pretense of health. The Dunkin’ Donuts near campus was the site of many a morning meeting with friends.

Eggs. I do like eggs although my cholesterol level (inherited?) would warn me otherwise. So I try not to eat them often. I like eggs scrambled. When I was younger I used to like eggs fried sunny side up or I’d even eat them raw. Now I like them mixed together to a fluffy yellow and tossed in the pan until nearly dry. I’m amazed at how fast I can eat them. My girls make them disappear too. We can eat a dozen in a morning.

Breakfast is my favorite meal. I was delighted when two of my babies were born in time for breakfast (the third one arrived in time for dinner). I was born in the morning myself and it is my favorite time of day. Since I married a nocturnal creature, and especially since I started staying at home, I haven’t fared so well with my early routines. But on an ideal day I wake early with time for reading and meditation, perhaps a little planning. Then a time of walking and running around the neighborhood in the cool air is followed by a warm shower with scented soaps. Maybe I’ll scramble some eggs, find time to knead scones, or bake a pan of oatmeal while the girls get up. We sit down together at the dining table and greet the day. A warm breakfast eaten with those you love makes the morning. It makes memories.