Shortbread binge

 I had been craving shortbread for at least a week. So after a very productive work from home day today, I took a little break around 3:30 to bake.

Confession: I don't follow recipes very well. 

I did look at some recipes online since I had never baked shortbread before. But in the end, I basically put the following into the ninja: 1.75 cups unbleached all-purpose flour, half cup cane sugar, 1 cup of cold unsalted butter (diced into small cubes), 1/4 tsp salt, 1 tsp real vanilla extract. Cookie dough setting, go! Followed by some pulsing and then just took it out and used my hands. Roll out, cookie cutter out, place spaced on cookie sheets then chill in fridge for about a half hour. Bake at 350 for 12-15 minutes depending on the sheet (I have two kinds and the darker one always bakes faster). Cool on sheets (another confession: I ate like 3 right out of the oven to test for poison and to see if I still have feeling on my lips or can I feel the burn??). Transfer to cooling rack after 10-15 minutes (polished off about a quarter of the batch in transfer and another quarter when placing in a container for storage at the end of the night).

The kids got a taste and I lack self restraint, so we don't have many cookies left for the morrow.  

Instagram story

Whilst chilling and baking, work work work. Me multi-tasking means I'm feeling much better after the chemo.

Food aesthetics is another thing I don't do well. I mean I basically cookie monstered half the batch while making. Does it matter that they didn't hold their flowery shape? In the end they ended up looking like twisted off bottle caps. Something to remember if I ever host an UP themed party... 

I occasionally have thoughts regarding my death these days, or perhaps it is really about death in general. I hope, whenever it happens, the people I leave behind will be OK. I hope we won't have regrets or love left unexpressed. I hope they'll move on, maybe miss me but not miss out.

I try not to dwell on it for too long though. So far I have discerned that I am to direct my efforts towards survival and living for a while longer. It entails suffering, but... that's life.

So... shortbread but not too often because they're really not healthy. 

Patience, Advent, and my new 40s adventure

F #adulting

I will blog like a 20-year-old!

No, I won't because I really don't have the kind of confusion and soul-bearing vulnerability that I did back then. But I recently read this article in The Atlantic and decided... I like to write. About myself. I haven't done it in a long time because #parenting #worklife #momlife and now a global pandemic and #cancer treatment. Well, too bad so sad I'm going to make time for myself and well-being and do it anyway.

The other day, my son--to prove his point that people don't end up fulfilling their dreams--asked me what I had wanted to be, as a little girl, when I grew up. Dangit! Kids are too smart these days. I told him I had wanted to be a writer, to which he gave me the look of "See?? You aren't a writer and dreams suck." Ugh, heartbreaking. I attempted to defend myself by saying, "I write a lot in my job... on behalf of the bishop and the Church and for people..." blah blah yeah, it was a sad moment and a little soul-crushing for both of us. Luckily, he does not dwell on the negatives for too long and was back to ninja slashing his sister shortly. And both his father and I have been restraining ourselves to be gentle with his dream of becoming... a ninja. For the past 3 years, that has been his dream, and I honestly don't know how to tell him that is not likely going to work out. Not as a career, anyway. Maybe as a hobby... if it doesn't land him in jail or something.

Anyway, back to writing about myself. 

Yesterday was the second Sunday of Advent, and I had another good cry in the shower. (The shower is a great place to ugly cry because no one can see or hear you.) Ever since we (ok, I--it was me ALL ME AND MY UTERUS OK??) miscarried the twins, December has been a bitter month. I try not to make a big deal out of it, because I remember when I used to work at Raph and would be walking on eggshells every December due to Fr. Mark (...not my grief story so no need for details here). I don't want people to feel bad about it. I have a little monologue I go through for myself (with or without crying depending on whether or not I'm in the shower) and then I am ready to move on. And I know it's not my fault despite my earlier parenthetical outburst (sorry). Grief is... sticky. Every December I seem to find another sticky spot that I need to run under some warm water to rub off. 

They would have been 2 years old this month.

I'm not able to speak cogently about abortion when I think about the twins. In the dangerous space of my head, it was a weird few days/weeks in the lead-up to the Dobbs case earlier this month. My inbox was flooding with action alerts, prayer alerts, notifications from the USCCB and other Catholic outlets. It was all over my social media from both sides. But in the dangerous space of my head, concepts like "choice" and "viability" just do not register in May/June, or December with respect to this issue. Sorry. 

My husband and I had discussed not long ago how the loss of the twins has been more painful than this cancer diagnosis. So far, this cancer has been presented to us as "treatable." Yes, I will have long-term side effects and have exposed myself to all kinds of risks that may blow up later. But it still feels somewhat reversible. The twins, on the other hand, are gone. Nothing will bring them back. Even if we can have more kids, which it sounds like we probably won't, no future children could replace the ones we lost. So... that sucks more.

Anyway, back to Advent. So much could be said about this liturgical season, but I will just say this for now... this year has been different. The holiday season as a cancer patient is... eye-opening. "What do you want for Christmas?" Seriously? I WANT TO BE CANCER-FREE FOREVER AND EVER AND EVER. I never want to smell the adhesive that keeps everything attached to me when I have the infusion bottle for 2 days every chemo cycle. I hate hospitals forever and ever and ever! I never want to taste a saline flush again. I want my tastebuds back. I WANT TO LIVE MY LIFE, not just exist.

Fr. Alex asked us how we are preparing for Christ Mass this year. I am staying alive and praying for patience. I am struggling to be a good patient. I HATE THIS. I can't even describe how frustrating it is to have to rest in bed. To feel nauseous and gassy and gross. To be lethargic and brain dead. To not be able to complete the NYT crossword! I never check my kids' homework. I can't start any new projects for work. I am just stuck like old silly putty... onto hospital chairs, needles, and toxic drugs that kill white blood cells. 

I'm not sure I've ever been terribly consumed by the material aspects of the holiday season (at least not in adulthood). Sure, I enjoy silly gift exchanges, shopping in a decorated mall, NSync's Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, and getting gold embossed cards from friends near and far (especially since many of us have had kids... so fun to see genetics at work!). I've been a good since-Kindergarten Catholic who has celebrated Advent with the proper liturgical colors and observances in remembrance of the 1st coming and preparation for the 2nd coming. I am faithfully passing this on to my kids as best as I can. 

But this year, I for sure am WAITING on a whole other level. ANTICIPATION has new meaning for me. And while yes, it is for the coming of Christ, it is also for me to be made whole again. Bodily whole. My flesh. I realize it won't happen for Christmas, but it will eventually, one way or the other. 

Last anyway, apologies for the feisty tone of this post and its length. It has been a hot minute since I've really done this in a dedicated posture. Also, I've been trying to stay in bed all day and have all this pent-up frustration but no energy to dispel it bodily or with higher level critical thinking. I will try to ungrit my teeth for the next post and keep things nice and concise. 

30 til 40

In 30 days, I celebrate a milestone. Unsurprisingly, I have been pensive these last few months as I approach my 40th birthday. I don't get a lot of time to pause and reflect, and the inhumane level of multi-tasking I was attempting during the pandemic does not help. Slowly I am weaning myself from that (although the brain damage has been done imho). Maybe putting words together like this, like I used to do so profusely in my 20s, will help.

The other day I was thinking back to the past decade, only to realize I was in fact thinking about two decades ago. Time is warped in my memory. If my 20s were a meandering in the desert, my 30s were a slightly too long sprint on an unevenly paved track, culminating in a run through a sick carnival fun house that I'm not sure we're actually out of yet. There were a lot of fun parts, and a lot of joy and blessing. After thirty years of feeling like a discombobulated entity, I was living that integrated life that I so longed for as a college student. It hasn't been all easy, but it has been relieving and at ease. Not sure if that makes sense, but there it is.

To be sure, there is a lot more wisdom and experience to be gained as I look forward. My thoughts are still much like that slightly contrary teen of my youth, but I hold my tongue and listen more. I look forward to a later time when I will know how best to put forth what I perceive and process. It's nice to have one's frontal lobes and prefrontal cortex more fully developed though. My gosh what a difference it makes! But the thought that my brain has peaked or is peaking and it's all downhill from soon... that is pretty dreadful.

Ten years ago, I was apparently reading Anthony de Mello's Awareness. "I'm an Ass, You're an Ass. That’s the most liberating, wonderful thing in the world, when you openly admit you’re an ass. It’s wonderful." This is a humorously sobering reminder as I attempt to raise children now. There is nothing so humiliating as learning about the heart of God as I parent. It is horrifying and the most splendid thing at the same time. Exasperation mixed with awe. 

I still trust in that higher power. Our relationship has evolved greatly over the past decade. I struggle to feel the intimacy moreso than before, but I know we're still together. The signs are different. Probably I am different.

I am different. I am now JI. HAHA

Between the Ascension and Pentecost

Last year, just before the Feast of the Ascension, we learned that something was not quite right about our pregnancy. We also learned that there were two little ones! It was a horrible combination of joy and terror. We were told to wait another two weeks for another ultrasound that would reveal to us more.

In my discombobulation amid not knowing what was going on in my own body, Deacon G reminded me of the uncertainty of the disciples during the time between Jesus' Ascension and the coming of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost, the very period of the liturgical year we were observing at the time. What a bizarre time it must have been for the disciples as they awaited... what exactly? Could they really know what the coming of the Holy Spirit would be? All they knew is that Jesus, whom they had devotedly followed for three years, to whom they had committed themselves, whom they believed was the long awaited Messiah, was gone. Again. 

The agony of not knowing about my babies was excruciating for me. I cannot say I was relieved to learn later that they had died, but at least there were concrete expectations at that point that I could grasp. I lived as a walking tomb for another week before my body took care of things biologically.

I won't go into the particular aftermath and the long, perhaps still continuing, journey of my recovery from the miscarriage. Not at this moment.

This moment is for the uncertainty between Ascension and Pentecost. It is the uncertainty that we have been thrown into due to COVID-19 this year that reminded me of my experience last liturgical year. For this uncertainty, while not crushing my soul in the same way as the loss of my children did, is definitely taking its toll on my mind. The irony that I oversee mental health ministry for a diocese while the current state of my mental health balances on a very thin string does not escape me. I am flailing. The planner in me is crying out!

Underneath the terror and mayhem in my mind is a tremendous (albeit constantly attacked) hope. Something amazing is coming. I can't even begin to wrap my head around what it is or what it looks like. But I know in my heart that this is a game changer. I just hope we don't let it pass us by.

We can't see it right now, but things will never be the same. Sure, we are constantly changing and evolving. But this is cataclysmic. 

I am excited to be witness to the saints who will arise during this time. Saints capital S and saints lowercase s. 

This is a make or break moment that I get to be a part of just by being alive. And let's hope to stay alive. Things are reopening, and I don't want to become a statistic of the second wave. (What wave? I feel like the toll in this county has just been going up up up.)

Yes, I am freaking out right now. Yes, I don't know what this means exactly. Yes, it is very very uncertain in these times. And yes, I don't even know when the coming is coming. I pray for conversion like nothing else this world has seen. I hope I get to see it.

The old that is strong does not wither

Ten years ago this month, the #1 song on the Billboard Charts was "Promiscuous" by Nelly Furtado featuring Timbaland.

It was really my first time back at Raphael. Although M had brought me over occasionally for retreats and events during the couple years before that and I had chaperoned WYD in 2005, summer 2006 was the beginning of the return.

I was annoyed that an obsequious Korean nun had conned me into directing elementary summer Bible camp. I was internally conflicted and angry. Earlier that year, during Holy Week of 2006, my mother had been diagnosed with colon cancer. It was a scary and stressful time for my family. My sister had just graduated from high school. I was transitioning degree programs from a more academic theology degree to the more pastoral MDiv. But I really didn't know what I was doing with my life.

As Fr. Mark delighted in reminding me, I hated myself but hated others more. So much angst and hardness. And frustration. So much frustration.

It was still the era before I knew the truth. TAMF. And I wouldn't know for sure for another 4-5 years.

It recently dawned on me that all this was ten years ago this month. Being the responsible person that I am (a little self-aggrandizement here haha), I threw myself into Bible camp planning and directing wholeheartedly, or at least tried to. I was trying my best, but at the same time, I was really bitter about it. I didn't know any of the staff very well except for my sister. Thankfully, they were all better people than me. The camp went very well, by the grace of God.

Fr. Mark was also gone that summer, in Korea, and had me do the Gospel reflection in place of the homily during the English Sunday masses since the visiting priest did not speak English. I want to say they were mostly awful reflections. I distinctly remember one Sunday I barely got to mass on time, stamps from the Vegas club the night before still on my hand with my reflection notes scribbled on napkins from Caesar's Palace. (It was the weekend of my college Pi reunion, which was held in Las Vegas. Now, those were some FUN times!)

In my postpartum depression stupor earlier this summer, I had lamented all that I had lost from my pre-married/pre-parenting life. The things I could do, places I could go, yummies I could eat. But as I reflect on that summer ten years ago, I know there is a lot I don't ever want to be/go through/do again.

I don't know why it took me such a long time to renegotiate my relationship with the Raphael community. It all seems so stupid in retrospect. I missed out on so much because of my stupidity. I acted and behaved like a really horrible and ugly person, and I was still blessed. Imagine all that could have been had I been even fractionally more open hearted? It wasn't really until after Fr. Mark left in 2012 that I started acting like a more lovable person at Raphael.

A couple days ago, I went to the funeral of a longtime Raphael community member. He was just a year younger than me. We had been in youth group together way back in the warehouse days. I was probably closer to his older brother, but we saw each other at the gatherings and major life events of our peers. I was really blessed at his funeral. I was just amazed and comforted at the fact that people from way back, 20 years ago, were drawn to attend and pray and be present at his funeral even though they hadn't otherwise been to Raphael in decades. That is the power of the community and a testament to what a wonderful person he is and his family is. And it is an affirmation of how firm our community is, how deeply we are still connected in some way.

All this to say... I am grateful I came back. I am grateful for the people who welcomed me and who had patience with me as I struggled. I am grateful that I was accepted as I was but encouraged to be all that I could be. I'm still working on it.

I always come back to this email from 2004:

Linda,

I hope you are well.  I hope the times find you in the
peaceful embrace of Hope and Faith.  Isn't it such a
paradoxical time for you?  So much shifting certainty
in an endless short period of time.  Though the
mountains may fall and the hills turn to dust the love
of the Lord will never fail.  I believe in you.  I
believe in you.  Whatever you choose, I believe you
will come out with a greater heart.  Isn't that what
it's all about? I've always wondered what was real.
It is a very difficult question to ask.  Answering it
will require even more of yourself.  So many collorary
factors, so much conflicting alliances.  It is the
process which will define us in the end.

Life Interrupted

I have not written much, blog or journal-wise, in a very long time.

That is the 아줌마 life.

Even as I write this, my second child (yes, now there is a #2) is sleeping rather unpeacefully in her crib. Did you know babies can hiccup in their sleep? I just learned that now as I went to check in on the funny noises I heard from her--but no, she is not awake, just hiccupping in her sleep.

It is mind-boggling to me how much my life has changed in a few short years. I am almost a different person. Almost.

The differences are a result of my finitude as a human being. I am limited. I cannot keep track of professional sports teams and players or watch all their games while tracking poopy diapers and meal compositions and the ever-changing taste preferences of a toddler. I cannot go check out every new restaurant or follow emerging chefs in the Los Angeles area while cooking or preparing or shopping for three meals a day for those under my care. I cannot go wherever I want whenever I want without first finding childcare and coordinating with three families and scheduling around bedtimes. My weekends are taken over by in-laws and grandparents. If I have a moment, I pay bills or catch some sleep or clean that thing I've been meaning to get to for weeks. There is not much reading or binge-watching television shows--or any television shows--or spontaneously going to the cinema anymore. Travel? Ha, the last time I was on a plane was in 2013 before our son was born. Between growing family, job changes, and the house purchase, blocking off time to travel has been impossible, or in the least, too much of a hassle.

But there is a lot of toddler silliness. Much wonder at "where did he learn how to do that?" Screaming demands and sweet "Thank you"s. Precious baby smiles and coos and gurgles. Snuggles and bedtime stories. Children's programming on PBS like the ones I used to watch as a kid, cartoons and puppets learning simple moral-of-the-stories. There is not much me time but plenty of we time. And I am blessed with a wonderful partner and a lot of help from family and friends.

The interior life has been a challenge. At least in my new job (relatively new... I've been there for over a year now), I can easily go to mass for staff at noon every day. It is sometimes the only time I pray. Sunday mass is overtaken by attending to the toddler and trying to patiently teach him how to behave in church. And at the moment I am on maternity leave and so don't have access to daily mass at work. Plus I'm in that Korean postpartum house arrest and so am told not to even go outside. I haven't been to mass in nearly 5 weeks. Once I am allowed out, we'll probably have to go into the dreadful crying room for Sunday masses again, because of infant #2. Sigh. And I will have to give up daily mass so I can pump breastmilk at work once I return to work.

Not that mass is requisite for prayer. It helps me a lot, but it is certainly not the only way to pray. I should challenge myself.

I am reading a book of essays collected for the Year of Mercy. Each essay expounds on one of the spiritual and corporal works of mercy. There is one essay on forgiving injuries willingly that I really liked.

There are brief moments when I get to pay attention to the interior life I guess.

Now I must go do laundry for my son. A small task that I can do with great love... if I remember to do so.

How I Wash Cloth Diapers

Despite what other moms may claim, I find cloth diapering to be laborious. I'm not going to lie. It isn't easy. But I do believe it is totally worth it.

When changing JFJ, we drop the prefold diaper into the diaper pail (which always has a liner in it), wipe the diaper cover, and hang the diaper cover to dry/air out until its next use or wash. Poopy diapers require a little shaking or scraping into the toilet (I just use some toilet paper to "scrape"). If it's a wetter poop, I run the diaper under cold water to get some of the stickier parts off then drop it into the diaper pail. (Please see this previous post for more information on our set-up.)

We own a Samsung front-loading HE washer/dryer set. After some experimentation, this is how I wash JFJ's diapers:
1. I throw the diapers, cloth wipes, diaper pail liner, and diaper covers into the washer all together. First a Quick Wash Cold with Charlie's Soap (and the occasional Booster), with Medium or High Spin at Heavy Soil Level. Takes about 32 minutes.
2. Then a Heavy Duty Wash Hot with Charlie's Soap (and the occasional Booster), with Extra High Spin at Heavy Soil Level. I also add a Pre-Wash cycle, an Extra Rinse, and an Extra Spin. Takes 2 hours and 8 minutes.
3. I pull out the diaper pail liner and the diaper covers to hang dry. The prefolds and cloth wipes I toss into the dryer. I read somewhere not to use the Sanitize setting on HE machines for diapers. But I use our Sanitize setting (Very Dry Dry Level, High Temp) to dry the diapers only. Takes 1 hour 2 minutes.
4. I hang the diapers after the dry cycle. Usually the dryer will do its job, but I like to hang them out in the sun for a bit to make sure they are completely dry before folding and stowing them.

We have 2 dozen diapers for JFJ at 9.5 months. We wash every 2-3 days. If we ever have baby #2, I will most likely buy at least 3 dozen of the Infant size/Size 1 (we use Osocozy prefolds).

Here's a link to the Osocozy Care and Use webpage for some more tips from the maker of our cloth diapers.

And that's it! Easy. Not really.