Insanity, a Workout... Success?

So, I did it.

I climbed the Everest of dvd workout bootcamps.

I completed the nine-week Insanity workout, missing only two workouts (one each month on days my little toddler refused to nap).

And I feel great. Suddenly, I can do pushups without completely dying. And pushup jacks, and all sorts of crazy moves in plank position. My results from the Fit Test (8 exercises at 1 minute each) improved dramatically, some even doubled from my original score on day 1.

I look great, too, not that you can tell in my winter clothes. My abs are strong enough to hold in that little mom pooch (yup, still got it) with little to no effort, I actually have a butt now, and I'm a bit more streamlined. At a gathering in the midst of Month Two, some friends (who couldn't see my tummy since I was sitting) asked if I was pregnant; I had a glow about me. Nope, not pregnancy (sorry, Mom). Just health. Or maybe confidence.

Wondering about pounds and inches? Here are my results:

Weight Lost: -3.5 pounds
Inches Lost (combination of all the places you'd measure): -6.5 inches

Wondering if you read that right?

Yes, there are negative symbols in front of those numbers. I gained weight and gained inches all over my body (see note on having a butt, above).

Now, I did Insanity as a challenge to myself and in order to get in shape, and honestly, I wasn't all that unhappy with my weight to begin with (about 30th percentile, according to this body mass index calculator). But I mean, what average woman doesn't want to lose 10 pounds? So yes, I was a little bit disappointed.

I can only assume I didn't shed pounds and inches for some combination of these reasons:

1. I lost fat while simultaneously gaining muscle, which is denser and weighs more. 
Maybe? Maybe? Please?

2. I overate... it was Christmastime, after all.
Mmm, fudge! Holiday roast! Pie!

3. I didn't eat enough. 
I didn't follow the 5-meal-per-day manual that comes with Insanity since planning meals for one food-allergic toddler is enough food stress for me, thank you. I did feel constantly hungry, tired and craving steak... but I suspect my post-workout protein shake gave me the extra calories I needed.

4. My body never adapted to the workout and kept releasing cortisol.
According to BeachBody, the people who sell Insanity, these intense bootcamp workouts put my body in a state of emergency and cause me to release cortisol, a stress hormone that enhances my performance but makes me store extra fat.

In any case, I wouldn't mind if a move to more sustainable workouts pushed the scale numbers south over the next few months. And, well, maybe I should share more of those Christmas goodies with friends.

In any case, I really am proud of myself for completing such a difficult workout program. And I did get in shape.

Insanity is designed to bring participants basically to muscle failure; even the people in the video have to take breaks during the crazy sets! Shaun T, the trainer, keeps reminding viewers, "Do what YOU can do; don't try to do what we're doing."

Shaun T calls the workout style in most of the videos "max interval training." He takes regular interval training (working out at a moderate level with short bursts of high-intensity) and turns it on its head: About 3 solid minutes of high-intensity exercise punctuated by 30-second breaks. Basically, he makes you do a few incredibly difficult moves, then once you think your body can't do anything else, asks you to do something even more difficult. And then you repeat all of that after 30 seconds of breath-catching. And then you do it all one more time.

It. Is. Hard. The warmups are more intense than the peak of most regular workout videos. I even had to modify some of the jumping moves (like high knees) after injuring my knee a little bit in Month One. But something about Shaun T is motivating. It sounds cheesy, but at critical moments, when he looks right into the camera and points straight at me, and says: "You. Can do it!" I keep going. Sometimes I felt like a machine following orders; it is amazing what the human body can do, even fighting through extreme muscle fatigue. Oh, man, do you SWEAT! I haven't sweat so much since junior high summer basketball camp.

During week one, I thought I actually might die... or become an Olympian. By the beginning of the second week, my abs were already showing more definition than they'd had since high school swim team. At the end of Month One, I got to where I could almost do the workouts without extra breaks. Almost.

Recovery Week was a breeze, though even the "recovery" workout video was harder than any other exercise dvd I've done.

During the first week of the longer, harder workouts of Month Two, again, I thought I might die... or maybe climb the actual Everest. Seriously, month two of Insanity was the first time in a workout program where I had to take breaks during the warmup. But the moves kept chiseling out more and more muscles, and I got better and better.

And then I finished and breathed a huge sigh of relief. But I'm a little tiny bit sad it's over.

It's only been a couple days off, but already I miss that daily adrenaline rush of attempting something nearly impossible. For the first time in my life, I look to working out as a way to reset a bad morning or to get out of a bad mood.

I'm taking it slow this week to let my body recover, but I can't wait to dive back into to regular workouts, alternating between a couple dvds I used to use, to help me keep these awesome abs.

...Maybe I'll even throw an Insanity dvd into my rotation. Maybe. I still have to decide if I'm crazy enough.

A Happier Holiday with the Kims

This holiday season is tucked away into memory now, and I feel as if I’ve let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. A sigh of relief I didn’t expect.

Because this year was not like last year.

On the surface, last year should have been the better holiday season. This year, we stayed in Seoul and missed seeing our families. Last year, we spent Christmas with my family on Kauai and a second week in Honolulu. The beach! The sun! Shave ice! Fun relatives!

Sounds awesome, right?

Notice Luca's face. Typical of the trip...

The kicker, though, is that the holiday season a year ago was the peak of the hardest time in our lives so far, when Luca was sick. Hawaii kicked off a run of ER visits and hospitalizations.

This holiday season, I tried not to pressure myself, but I felt like it was truly Luca’s first Christmas: he’s healthy, he’s thriving, he’s aware of his surroundings. He gets excited.

I couldn’t wait to see the magic of the season come alive for him, and that sense gave me a burst of creative motivation.

I prepared... and started to understand Clark Griswold’s obsession with making his family Christmas absolutely perfect.

I made some Pinterest-worthy Christmas crafts, the best being Luca’s felt tree, which he liked to decorate at first, but soon decided was more fun to undecorate and pull from the wall. Hey, at least it distracted him from the big tree.

And, in addition to our Advent wreath and candles, I introduced a new tradition for our family: the Jesse Tree, which tells the story of the Old Testament, leading up to Christ's birth.

I had high expectations.

But Advent came, and we all got sick. Luca was sick for half the Christmas season. Two out of three colds since August had landed him in the ER for breathing problems, so I stressed and vigilantly puffed his inhaler to keep his lungs from freaking out.

I kept up with the Jesse Tree for the most part—hanging one ornament to represent someone in Jesus’ genealogy each day (or, you know, two every other day), and reading applicable Bible verses—but we never once got to our Advent wreath candles on a Sunday. Hey, it still counts on Monday, right?

Even the final candle—we lit it the day after Christmas instead of Christmas Eve.

It was hard to really bask in the Advent season in preparation for Christmas, as I’d hoped.

One saving grace, though, came in the form of three people Joe and I love very much: visitors! More on them in another post, but suffice it to say that there is something so wonderfully precious about watching people I care about meet and care for my son.

Reindeer sweater!!

A few days before Christmas, everything was coming together. Our colds were over. We had a Saturday night carol service at our church (Luca danced to the music and didn’t cause too much of a scene when he got bored, and he even cooperated to let us stay for the dinner afterward). We planned to attend a neighbor's small party on Christmas Eve and a food-allergy-friendly dinner with close friends on Christmas Day.

Christmas was shaping up to be wonderful.

But then, late the night before, toward the end of our friends’ party, Luca started coughing. A lot. Some barking coughs. Some Gollum coughs.

He slept horribly and coughed often. His skin felt warm. I just knew he’d get a fever and feel terrible on Christmas Day. I was already scheming to move our gift-giving to the weekend and arrange for to-go plates for dinner. I was disappointed at the thought of missing the shared Christmas meal we had planned.

But, no, Christmas was magical. Yes, Luca felt sick, but he didn’t get a fever, and he didn’t struggle to breathe. We still got to give him presents; we still got to spend time with our friends.

It was just fun:

The night-before preparations.

The discovery.

The wonderfully slow process of opening each gift and playing with it a while before taking interest in the next.

The crash.

After Luca’s nap, he came out of his room with a curious, almost worried look on his face.

Was all that real? His expression seemed to say.

Focused, he walked right past me into the living room and around the couches. There, after seeing his new toys hadn't vanished, he grinned, relieved and excited. He made the rounds to each one, saying its name and playing with it a little bit.

His favorites? The dump truck (“dump uht”) and excavator (“eh wawa”) Joe and I picked out. He wouldn’t let them go when we left for our food-allergy-safe Christmas dinner with close friends a few minutes later.

There’s a joy to knowing we gave our child something he delights in. I’m proud, watching him stack blocks in his dump truck, move it around with a “Vvvvvv” and lift the back, shouting, “Dump!” as blocks tumble out.

Side note: I can't imagine giving Santa credit for the best gift of Christmas. Maybe that's selfish, but I'm still figuring out my position on the subject...

Anyway, I can’t help but remember that Christmas gift-giving is a small reflection of the greatest gift in history: God giving up Heaven for a time to become one of us—a human, a baby, Jesus—so that we can be close to him despite our imperfections. But it's also a reflection of the gifts God gives in the day-to-day, like health, a better Christmas and a better New Year than the last.

When I rang in 2013, dinner found me sitting on a hotel couch in one of Joe's t-shirts eating Round Table Pizza and sipping wine from a plastic cup while a suffering Luca laid on my lap. I woke up several hours after going to sleep and heard fireworks from the direction of the beach, and prayed they wouldn't wake my son.

This year, we still didn't make it until midnight, but our moods were light, carefree, happy.

On New Year's Day, Joe and I took time before bed to look at photos of last Christmas and New Year's, and some from the rest of the year. It was amazing to see how much has changed, improved.

I couldn't get through it without grabbing a tissue.

Seeing Luca delight in the gifts I've given him or the crafts I made for him gives me so much joy, but the photos reminded me that the gifts God has given me are so much grander than a toy construction set or a felt tree.

It's emotional for me to bring to mind all we faced last winter, but at the same time, I'd never before felt God's hand so firmly at my back, supporting me. His comfort was never so real to me as that time when I truly needed him. And he provided friends and family to surround us as well, propping us up when we felt so close to falling.

So this year, I am taking a cue from Luca and basking in a gift from God: His presence. He was there last year when I needed him so badly, and therefore I am confident he is here this year, hiding in the glories of a happy holiday.


* * * *

“Which of you fathers, if your son asks for a fish, will give him a snake instead? Or if he asks for an egg, will give him a scorpion? If you then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!” Luke 11:11-13

Well-Being: Korean Bath House

Korean culture is all about “well-being,” pronounced “wellbing” as one word and prolific (in English) on signs and labels throughout Seoul. And why shouldn’t it be? Everyone should want to feel healthy inside and out.

Men are often told certain dishes or drinks will enhance their “vitality” (wink wink), and ginseng tea is a staple in the diet of elderly Koreans.

Sometimes the intent misses the mark, like in these “well-being smoothies” that are somewhere on the health scale below 7-11 Slurpies.

But some wellbing efforts Korea gets absolutely right, like jimjilbang, or the traditional Korean bathhouse / sauna house.

My brother-in-law Albert is in town and feeling under the weather, so we spent one chilly winter’s morning at a local jimjilbang, the Dragon Hill Spa, a place Joe and I have used as a way to knock out colds in the past. Better yet, it is cheap. Dragon Hill is about $10 for as long as you want to stay, up to 24 hours.

Each jimjilbang is different, but the basic layout includes a same-gender locker and bathing area (complete with showers, hot tubs with various massage jets, medicinal pools and perhaps a steam room or sauna) and a co-ed area with saunas made of materials like salt, charcoal or red clay, said to help with ailments from asthma to joint pain.

Chatty old people are the main guests, but young people go also, and—surprisingly enough, considering the unattractive shorts-and-t-shirt pajamas everyone must wear—jimjilbang is apparently a popular place for a date.

And (lest you start to think this is a perfectly relaxing experience), it is completely acceptable to allow a toddler to run around the common area while we take turns in the saunas. In fact, Luca gets a lot of attention from loungers who think it’s so adorable he threw his Pororo ball in their direction, or grabbed the straw from their wellbing smoothie.

This time, Joe and Albert were kind enough to allow me plenty of time in the ladies’ bath.

Oh—before I continue, I should clarify that the same-gender bath areas do not allow clothing. My first introduction to jimjilbang was Spa World in Annandale, Virginia, not far from DC. The ladies in the group decided we could wear our swimsuits. What could they say, really? They couldn’t possibly make us strip.

…Well, um. Yes, they could. But, seriously, you faint of heart: Just keep your eyes at eye-level, don’t be too awkward, and you’ll get over it after 5 minutes of relaxing in the jade bath, or whatever. They give you a 2-foot-by-1-foot towel to awkwardly position where you will, to give at least a small shred of modesty to those who care.

Those old ladies I mentioned? They do not care.

Anyway, I spent my precious alone time soaking and relaxing and reflecting. Great for the body; great for the soul. My favorite was the outdoor medicinal hot tub with a wooden spout waterfall. It was awesome until my ears froze (and don't worry, it is blocked from public eye). Only slightly unnerving was the reclining jet tub—you lie back and look up, only to see yourself, your whole self, reflected back on the ceiling mirror. It is just so dang comfortable, though…

But even with a homerun like Dragon Hill Spa, there are a few things (ahem, the ceiling mirror) that are just slightly off, like the somewhat gaudy Las-Vegas-style decorations and especially the bright, casino-loud video-game arcade area guests must pass through to reach the saunas. There’s also something called Indian Barbeque Village on the top floor (advertised with a life-sized statue of a Native American in traditional garb, complete with feather), but we haven’t made it up there.

I hear they sell beer and fried chicken. Obviously, foods that evoke the true meaning of well-being.

How Saints are Made

They say marriage is like a mirror, revealing things in each spouse’s character that each would rather not see. The challenge is to grow from these revelations, rather than bury them, run away or blame the other.

I believe Joe and I have grown leaps and bounds in our few years together, but never so much as in this past 16 months. If marriage is a mirror, parenthood is a magnifying mirror, making obvious even the tiniest imperfections.

We’ve both seen new sides of ourselves since Luca was born—good, bad and ugly.

It is so easy to get frustrated, to get angry.

I get frustrated when my son refuses to eat a nutritious and—I think—delicious meal I’ve spent my precious free time (his nap time) preparing.

I get frustrated when he treats his diaper change like torture, so I let him hang loose a while next to his toddler potty, only to see him pee on the floor—or worse, on his bed that I’ve just made with his last clean sheet. He loves going in his potty, announcing, “Brabo!” (bravo) and watching me dump the pee in the toilet. But he also loves watching his pee go anywhere in the house. Ugh.

I get frustrated when he just whines and whines and nothing makes him happy.

I get frustrated when it’s the middle of the night and he just. won’t. fall. asleep.

It is easy to discuss the happy side of parenthood, to declare some version of the cliché—with a smile—“parenting is the hardest job you’ll ever love.”

And those words are true for me, and probably for most who say them. But it is rare to understand someone else’s hard time, particularly if you don’t live through the details with them.

Before I had my own small child, I had no idea the depths of difficulty. I had no idea how my own character would be revealed and challenged.

Sometimes Joe and I wonder if parenthood is harder for us than others—if we are the only ones who feel trapped by our toddler’s strict nap and meal schedule. But I hear other parents talk, and I read blogs, and I watch comedy routines, and I realize we are not alone.

A mom of two small girls told me last year, when Luca was new, that she hadn’t had a chance to grow in her Christian faith since her first was born. She hadn’t had much time to read or focus on the spiritual.

Those words nagged at me for a few days until I realized why: She was wrong.

I normally don’t go around telling friends their personal reflections are flawed, but I couldn’t resist sharing what I saw in her.

It is difficult for any woman to find time for the kind of intentional personal growth she practiced before motherhood. But raising children is an opportunity for a practical crash course in developing the fruits of the Spirit: Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.

My friend had good days and bad days, of course, but she was much farther along in that crash course, and I only hoped I’d learn as well as she had. I decided to make those fruits my goal.

This is not easy, particularly when I’m exhausted and my toddler demands to be held while I am trying to make dinner for him before he completely loses it. And by demands, I mean holding and leaning on my legs in such a way that if I move, he will fall to the ground.

Luca has made five separate ER visits and had three hospitalizations, and those were some of the hardest concentrated times in my life. But during those extreme challenges, it was easy to be a "good" parent, to be patient, gentle and kind.

It’s so much harder when things are fine. When I struggle to fill increasingly cold days. When the thought of going to a playground again makes me cringe a little bit.

You can’t phone it in with parenthood, whether or not you work outside the home. There are no sick days. Even if you find healthy ways to take breaks from your kids, you are a parent every hour of the day. And night. Children demand 110 percent, and that's taxing for anyone.

In those moments when I feel so frustrated I think I might explode, parenthood shows me my need for God.

A friend facing an ongoing conflict at work recently reflected, “Any idiot can get through a crisis—adrenaline will take care of most of that. It's in the day-to-day that the saints are made.”

So. True.

Perhaps the hardest thing about parenthood is sacrifice in the little things, day to day. Daily doing something I don’t feel like doing. Reading that same book ten times in a row. Praying for strength to stay calm while telling Luca again not to bite me or pull my hair. Playing in the dusty sandbox because he asked me to work the rake while he shovels. Giving up my plan to exercise because he pooped and woke himself up early from his nap. Keeping my cool when he spits out blueberries on the beige carpet.

Some days I see these “inconveniences” as gifts, and I am in awe at this wonderful child. But I can’t be emotionally on every day. No one can, and no one should be expected to. I think it is OK to have those days when you'd rather do something else.

But I can’t stop expressing love to my child just because I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I can’t stop changing diapers when I don’t feel like it. I can’t watch TV all day if I’m under the weather.

Of course it is healthy for parents to have outlets and hobbies apart from their brood, and of course it is healthy to take breaks, but even with those things in place, parenthood will bring you beyond what you can calmly handle on your own. It will reveal your selfishness and give you the chance to let your self-focus go, little by little.

In the midst of a rather controversial section of scripture discussing gender roles, the apostle Paul writes, “women will be saved through childbearing—if they continue in faith, love and holiness with propriety (1 Timothy 2:15).”

I don’t believe the author was talking literally about labor and delivery. I think he was talking about the much harder day in and day out work of raising children. I suspect the meaning is broader: At the time, women didn’t have careers or opportunities the way they do today, and fathers weren’t as involved in childrearing. I believe Paul's words apply to dads as well, and of course I don’t believe raising kids is the only way a women can grow and learn to rely on God—though it is one particularly intense opportunity to do so.

But just as the challenges of parenthood are far more acute than I’d anticipated, so is the love and the joy. The cliché is right.

I love watching my son learn the letter E and hearing him giggle uncontrollably at something unexpected. Feeling him cuddle up to me as he falls asleep. Seeing him get that spoon successfully from the bowl to his mouth. Listening to him make monkey noises. Hearing “Mama!” when he needs me.

I love that little man.

The thing about parenthood is that each moment—each breakthrough moment, each impossibly hard moment, each fun moment, each moment you lose your cool—is a gift.

A chance to become just a little bit more like a saint.

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!