Franklin Covey Mom

At bedtime, after I’ve bathed and moisturized Luca, after I’ve read him his current favorite book four times, after he’s downed his sippy of non-dairy milk (“night night,” as he calls his drink), I lie on his floor-bound twin mattress and pretend to sleep as he shakes off the energy of the day and settles in for the night.

He romps around the room a bit—some nights that means emptying his sock or diaper drawer and announcing, “Sock!” “Diaper!”—and then, as he gets sleepy, he starts to roll around the bed and chatter.

New favorite toys.

“Bye, bye leab,” he said tonight, referring to the fallen leaves covering our housing area.

“Vvvvvvvv! Vvvvv! Beep beep!”

“Mmmmmeh,” he mooed from his downward dog pose, imitating the Korean onomatopoeia for a cow’s noise, part of a favorite book.

“Boom!” he cried, code for plopping down on his bed.

The chatter began to fade, and he spoke once more about the leaves. “Oh, leab,” he said softly. “Oh, leab.”

I'm not kidding; he absolutely loves leaves.

As I kept pretending to sleep, one eye peaking in a vain effort to protect myself from the inevitable head-butt to the cheekbone, I realized he was simply processing his day.

You know how some people can simply shut off the day and fall asleep when their head hits the pillow (ahem, Joe)? I am not one of those people, and apparently neither is Luca.

When I close my eyes at night, things I’ve seen, said or done dance around my brain. Especially television shows. If I’ve watched a show that is disturbing on some level, I have to sift through the images and language, allowing it to run through—and hopefully out of—my mind before I can fall asleep.

This nighttime reflection has been nagging at me for a few months; I have a growing sense of dissatisfaction with how I use my time. No, not the time I spend with Luca—I don’t want to change that.

This little man is way too much fun.

I mean when he’s asleep. After I’ve spent hours pouring myself out emotionally and physically, which is the nature of life as the primary caretaker of a toddler.

I suspect no one would blame me for using that precious naptime and post-bedtime to sit around and zone out. No one would blame me if I use that time to catch up with household duties before plopping on the couch to watch a mediocre TV show for a little while, or to browse Facebook.

It’s gotten harder to do much of anything else in my “free” time these days, now that Luca walks and communicates his preferences more clearly. It’s hard to explain exactly why that is, but with the joy of watching him learn comes a brand of emotional exhaustion I wasn’t expecting.

I had hoped I would have more time to exercise, to read and—especially—to write as Luca grew. I had hoped staying home would provide me the creative space to let my imagination flourish.

But it turns out imagination takes a back seat to endless household chores that seem to fill every single spare moment. It turns out imagination takes a back seat to that comfy couch and easy access to Netflix and Hulu.

Mothering is a lot of work. Babyhood and toddlerhood are demanding phases. It’s OK if I don’t accomplish anything on a personal level outside of my familial responsibilities, which are accomplishments in their own right.

True.

But.

Even though I’m tired and easily bogged down at home, I want to write. I want to read. I want to exercise. I want the things that float through my mind before I drift off to sleep to be constructive. Creative. Exciting.

If I want those things, emotional exhaustion is a hurdle to overcome. Household chores must be put in their place as tasks. I need to limit my Internet time.

I have to plan ahead to make room for creativity.

When I’ve worked in an office of any sort, I've been all about systems and efficiency. Outlook’s color-coded to-do list and calendar were my best friends. In my personal life, though, I prefer spontaneity and less pressure. I prefer getting things done when I feel like getting them done. I prefer deciding what to make for dinner based on what happens to be in the fridge. I write my to-dos on a dry-erase board or a random sticky note.

Today, I realized I need to Franklin Covey my personal life.

I need to set goals. Schedule the “big rocks” I want to accomplish before the less-important daily tasks that now consume my time. Figure out a central calendar system. Prioritize so I know what to do when Luca falls asleep, rather than defaulting to the old reliable remote control.

Today, I filled out November’s calendar with a menu of Luca-friendly dinners. I decided which days I should go to the Commissary. I broke this week’s naptimes into blocks of food preparation, exercise, writing and reading. I planned at least a small task for each evening. I scheduled time to respond to email and watch Parenthood.

I’m not sure how this will go. I’m sure I’ll need to make adjustments and be flexible within my plan.

But tonight, at least, my thoughts can be empowered when my head hits that pillow. Hopeful.

The Changeover

It’s amazing how quickly a house looks soulless after its people leave.

The Foreign Service lifestyle is filled with farewells, and never is this more obvious than summer months here on our embassy housing compound in Seoul.

Friends pack up and leave, and almost immediately, the curtains come down. The furniture comes out. After a week or so, the family name on the sign out front is painted over—but not enough to completely hide it.

Workers go in and out over the next weeks, cleaning, updating, painting, replacing. Flipping for a new family. I’ve watched this happen to several friends’ houses over the last year and a half, and honestly, it is sad.

But quick change is how things work in the Foreign Service.

When we arrived in January 2012, several people told us they were “not worth getting to know” since they were leaving six months later. Funny enough, several of those people became our close friends.

One summer 2012 departee is someone I still consider one of the closest and best friends I made in Seoul: She was the friend I could call last minute to hang out; the one who talked me into watching the new Zac Efron movie and Titanic 4D with Korean subtitles. When she left shortly after Luca was born, I felt a little cheated.

But, you know what? She was worth getting to know. I’m so grateful our husbands’ assignments in Seoul overlapped, and I'm thrilled I'll get to see her again in D.C.

I don’t pass her house that often and I don’t know the family inside, so I still think of her and her husband when I see it. To me, it is still their house.

And I’m not alone in feeling this way about friends’ places. We stay attached for a while. One departing couple’s next-door neighbor (half-jokingly) swore to “hate the newcomers,” but just for a little bit.

“Oh, you moved into JBK’s house,” we would say to the new friendly young couple. “Big shoes to fill.”

Then, we became friends with the new couple. The house became their house.

Other houses—ones now filled with families in different life stages; people I haven’t met or connected with—are still, in my mind, the houses of friends who left. Across the street, it’s still Stephanie’s house.

Because Stephanie left a legacy of friendship with me. We took a million walks to the park with her little girls, and with Luca strapped on me. She joined in my excitement over Luca’s birth. She cried with me in the hospital—two different hospitals—when Luca was suffering. We celebrated Thanksgiving together.

But, unlike in most living situations, that legacy of friendship won’t stay in this place. It will travel with me to our next post. Any personal legacy left behind here lasts only as long as others stay. A “legend” is the person who used to cook amazing meat at Fleishfest a whole two years ago.

This week, we said goodbye to more good friends. The wife brought me meals after Luca’s birth and helped me during one of our hospital stays last winter. She was a friend who shared my joy in Luca’s milestones and then, more recently, her joy in her new baby girl. We commiserated over lack of sleep.

Her house is empty now; the curtains are gone. The sign awaits the light paint job that will halfway erase their last name.

Of course, with all the Foreign Service friends we’ve made, there is always the anticipation of reconnecting at some future post, or in D.C. We become a worldwide network of friends that is constantly changing, growing, moving.

After a few weeks, the sign in front of our friends’ place will be thoroughly painted a near-glowing bright white with a new name stenciled in black.

And that’s when things start to feel exciting: All the fresh signs with unfamiliar names. Potential friends.

We are sponsoring a family this year—making sure they have groceries, being friendly when they arrive—and when I checked to make sure their house was prepared, I felt a twinge of excitement. They will arrive in a few days, and for the first time, they will look around at each room, at the setting of what will be their life for the next couple years.

I think back to entering our own home for the first time that frozen January night, and I think ahead to entering new homes at future posts.

The excitement of new beginnings.

In about six months, our neighbors will see our house emptied, our sign painted. They will wonder who will move into the Kims’ place. Maybe our next-door neighbors will resent the newcomers, just for a minute.

Later, Joe, Luca and I will move into someone else’s place in some other city. And then again, I assume, a few years later. And so on. To me, the wonder of the unknown and ever-changing future sounds like fun. An adventure.

I guess the hellos—to new people and places—are why this lifestyle suits me, despite so many sad goodbyes.

Becoming Food Allergy Mom: A Coconut Milk Experiment

Luca’s increased mobility and insatiable desire to explore his world have brought new stresses. In addition to the normal first-time-mom worries—that he’ll fall on something sharp or bonk his head—I’m obsessing about food.

Will someone leave a plate of veggies with Ranch dressing on a low coffee table at a party? Will a child drop cookie crumbs or Goldfish crackers at a playgroup? Will a parent or child offer to share a Gerber puff at the playground?

Now, I don’t have it nearly as bad as many mothers: Luca’s food allergies have shown no indication of causing anaphylaxis. Of course I watch for it when I introduce new foods, and I’m not going to give him peanuts to test it out at this point. The memory of Luca’s hospitalizations is still poignant; I remember well how horribly his skin can react.

Of course I hope he’ll grow out of his allergies. Of course I hope he can savor a real cookie someday. Drink real milk, even. Eat eggs.

But for now, I’m joining the hoards of Food Allergy Moms who seem more and more prevalent as the years pass. Who are hesitant about or avoid daycare or church nurseries. Who compulsively (and—I’m sure—awkwardly) pick up crumbs friends’ children have dropped.

Who search and search for substitutions to make sure their child gets enough vitamins while avoiding basic ingredients.

Since Luca turned one year old a few weeks ago, I’ve gotten more aggressive with trying new foods to be sure he gets the nutrition he needs. It’s a challenge. Luca gets rashy when he catches a cold, or when he sweats too much in the carseat (which is likely when it’s 90 degrees with 72% humidity), among the myriad reasons we don’t know. Food was clearly the trigger for his severe eczema breakouts last winter, but at this point, it’s hard to know whether his (mild) itchy rash comes from an addition to his diet or from a cold. Twice now I’ve suspected a food (chicken, then quinoa) only to find out Luca caught a cold. But, still, I tuck the food away for a later trial. Just in case.

Since cow’s milk is such an essential part of most toddlers’ diet, finding a suitable substitution is my current mission. As I google and read blogs and research products and talk about food trials with all my friends (who graciously listen), I realize I’m becoming that mom.

The Food Allergy Mom.

I can’t help it. And here’s where I’ve really crossed over: I made my own coconut milk.

Luca started with rice milk since he’d eaten rice with no problem, but it’s my goal to give him a combination of coconut milk and flax milk, since both are far more nutritious than just rice. We tried coconut and, success!! No issues.

Except for the fact that it is not easy to get good coconut milk here on a military base in Seoul. The Commissary only sells the canned (BPA-filled) kind you wouldn’t drink straight and a shelf-stable box of very sweetened vanilla So Delicious coconut.

And, honestly, I have concerns about some of the ingredients in the boxed coconut milk. While I research vendors who will ship shelf-stable milks to Diplomatic Post Office boxes, I figured I’d better at least try making my own. Here's how it went:

I drilled a hole in one of the eyes and let it drain, saving the water.

I put each coconut in a ziplock and got out the hammer.

Luca was confused about why I was hammering the brown ball. During the second coconut smashing, he giggled uncontrollably.

They really smashed beautifully.

Ahh, the fun part. Getting the meat out is no small chore, even with a pairing knife and veggie peeler. I had to stop and finish it the next day.

I put half the coconut meat and coconut water along with 2 cups boiling water in the blender...

...and the other half in the food processor, which leaked a lot.

I poured the results into a nutmilk bag in a pitcher, and squeezed the milk out of the bag.

Yum!

The pulp is currently drying in my oven to become coconut flour for baking!

Two coconuts made about a liter and a third.

My experiment was fun, and the resulting milk is yummy... but it separates (which I expected) and developed some chunks as it cooled (which I did not expect). I may blend it one more time tomorrow.

Scraping the meat, however, out took way too long for this to become a part of my routine. Unless I buy a special coconut-scraping tool and figure out why my milk is clumping, this will be Luca's one and only batch of homemade coconut milk.

Next up: homemade flax milk!

UPDATE in case you (or I) want to make this in the future: The next morning, the milk was separated into liquid and very solid. I put it in the blender, which helped, but the milk was way too thick to drink straight. I added water--enough to double the volume--and also added two tablespoons of good quality vanilla (one T per coconut). The result is delicious, and Luca likes it!

Luca's 돌 (Dol), In Pictures

In Korea, a first birthday is a huge deal and truly cause for celebration. Since Luca turns one this week, Joe's parents flew in from New York, and we threw a party with Luca's relatives. Here's how the day went:

Luca, dressed to impress, greeted relatives as they gathered at our house.

Charming the ladies

Luca loves his 할아버지 (grandfather)

The family enjoyed Sunday brunch at a restaurant on base.

Mama's hair is the best toy

Back at the Kim house, everything is set up: The table for the traditional dol ceremony, Luca's hanbok, presents and cake.

We played a slideshow of pictures from Luca's first year

Which item will Luca choose?

But the star of the show needed a nap, so the family spent time together talking, snacking and watching the kids play Wii.


When Luca woke up, I dressed him in his hanbok and showed him off to the waiting paparazzi.





In a dol ceremony, a baby chooses from items set before him, each representing something different: Luck, long life, wealth, intelligence, government service (I think?), and artistic talent. Traditionally, the ceremony is believed to foretell a baby's future, though of course we did it all in fun. Watch the video to see Luca's result!





After the dol, my smart and lucky Luca opened presents and played with the other kids.

Baby jewelry is the traditional dol gift

Fancy clothes never stop Luca from playing in his ball house

Particularly popular with the kids was a pop-up tunnel from Nana and Papa in California.
























Luca liked looking at his cake, but since he has food allergies, he got his own special cupcake, which he dismantled and ate.

I'll take two, thank you.

Everything is more fun to eat once it's been dissected.

After the party, Luca was thrilled to play with all the balloons. Happy birthday, Luca!!

Morning Monsoons

Monsoon season started this morning with a 5am, wake-me-up crack of thunder. The torrent began a few hours later, soaking the barbeque we’d left outside and overflowing the roof gutters.

The air seems electric—almost magical—in a thunderstorm, and I welcome the respite from yesterday’s oppressive heat.

Luca, who was too young to notice last year’s rains, watches the downpour and lightning flashes in fascination from my arms just outside our front door. “Ya, ya ya!” He squeals, reaching out his chubby arms to feel the giant drops just beyond the covered porch.

His knees tense around me when thunder rumbles.

I remember the heavy rains in Malawi that washed our compound clean, swept away the unbearable heat, and hammered our corrugated classroom roofs, rendering any lessons almost impossible but somehow more fun.

I remember—vaguely—Seoul rains outside our window last summer, as I held my swaddled newborn close.

I forget that I live in what feels like a U.S. suburb, and I remember where I am: On an adventure. Living where Americans and Brits used to consider the ends of the earth.

“Rainstorms are LOUD,” I say, reciting one of Luca’s current favorite books.

“Huh,” he says. “Huh. Ga.”

Luca wiggles to get down, but I don’t want him to crawl outside, so I kneel with him and let him plant his bare feet in the layer of water on the concrete. He points to the rain gushing out of the gutter drain, and he reaches for tree debris floating the puddle next to the walkway, a flooded planter with water creeping up stalks of growing mint.

Watching my son discover compounds that sense of excitement and promise and nostalgia the rain brought me. He makes me look to the future.

Luca is on the verge. He’s communicating desires more clearly and responding with understanding.

He even took a couple tiny steps without holding on to anyone the other day—it was so lacking drama and fanfare that I almost didn’t believe it happened. I wouldn’t have believed, except that Joe and his visiting cousin Audrey also witnessed it.

Luca now chooses his own books for Joe or me to read. If we say a key line or title of a book, he will find the right book and pull it out. He will give a little scream on queue when I read, “Whispering is quiet. Screaming is LOUD!” When I come to the part of a book that includes monkey noises and say, “Where’s Monkey?” He looks around for his sock monkey, and often picks it up with a satisfied grunt.

I’ve heard people say that when babies start talking, it is as strange as if a dog or cat suddenly spouted words. We’re not to real words yet (other than Mama, Appa, and an attempt at “vroom,” though I’m not sure onomatopoeias count), but I can attest: This is very strange.

It is amazing.

This is what separates humans from the rest, isn’t it? The ability to understand and communicate and learn in this way? I know next year I will take for granted that Luca understands my words and can respond in kind, but this year, it seems miraculous.

Out on the porch in the rain, Luca starts to get frustrated and wiggles again to get down, eager to explore. But it’s dirty, and it’s wet.

Soon (I hope), he’ll be able to walk. Soon, I’ll strap on his (knock-off) crock sandals and pull on his rain jacket, and he can snap dripping bush leaves and stomp in tiny puddles. He can feel the drops on his water-resistant hood. He can be free.

I know Luca walking will mean I have to chase him more, eye him more closely, worry more. I know it will make things harder.

But, in another way, it will make things easier. Luca walking will mean I can set him down at church or in museums or at the playground or in the subway or on the sidewalk. I won’t have to constantly wrestle him to stay in my arms when the floor is too filthy for his hands and knees (and mouth).

This crawling-and-discovery phase of Luca’s life is so much fun. But it means we stay home often. It means it’s stressful—and usually not worth it—to go to museums or the playground or the subway, because I know he’ll wrestle the whole time to get down.

Maybe it’s the clean, ozone smell of lightning or the rushing sound of the rain, but the storm gives me a sense of hope. I can’t help but believe the freedom Luca will gain from walking will also be my freedom. We have about half a year left in Seoul, and I’m determined to make the most of it.

I kiss my little wiggling boy as I carry him—protesting—back inside where I can let him be free and crawl. I let the morning’s magic pass into play time.

Monsoon season can be weeks of endless pouring rain that maroons most families inside their homes, and soon I may be praying for sun. I realize that. But today, I welcome the rain. Today, it makes anything seem possible.