Damien's Birth Story

“Your baby is measuring ‘out of range,’” my doctor told us that Thursday afternoon, March 26, explaining that the ultrasound’s best guess for my baby’s size was nearly 10 pounds.

“If he doesn’t come by next week, we’re going to have to induce,” she said. “It would be no fun to push out a 10 pound baby.”

“Don’t worry,” I assured her. “We’re planning to see you at the hospital tonight.”

Damien’s estimated due date was the very next day, and I hoped he’d be punctual like his older brother. We discarded our home dinner plans and celebrated our “last meal” at a local Korean restaurant—I was convinced spicy kimchi would help.

In the middle of the night, I woke a couple times from an intense contraction here and there, but I wasn’t positive they were the real deal. Around 5am, a slew of contractions woke me again, and before I could fall back to sleep, Luca opened our door and crawled in between Joe and me, so my chances of dozing dropped to zero.

I got out of bed to drink some water, rest on the couch and download an app on my phone to help me time my contractions: About five minutes apart and getting stronger. I had to roll over to my side each time one came on—I physically could not stay lying on my back since it made the contractions much less manageable.

Just after 6am, Luca came out to the living room with a groggy Joe in tow. “Mama’s awake!” Joe said, sensing freedom. To me: “Mind if I go lay back down for a bit?”

“Uuuummm, maybe…?”

Joe tried to shake off his sleepy fog to understand.

“I’m timing my contractions,” I said once one passed, pointing to my phone. “Seems like this is happening.”

The news was more effective than caffeine. “Oh!” he said, sleepy fog swiftly lifting. “I had no idea what you were doing!”

Luca took the news in stride and, it seemed to me, relief. He’d been asking Baby Brother to come out for weeks.

I called the hospital to give them a heads up, and the woman on the phone suggested I come right away. “Since it’s your second birth, it could happen faster,” she told me.

Regardless, I wanted to wait for my doula to arrive. (And I wanted to eat some scrambled eggs and toast—who knew when I’d feel like eating again?) Also, I’m a fan of laboring at home as long as possible, which, in this case, wasn’t long. My doula got to our home at about 7am, and she observed me through a few contractions. I rested my arms on our big exercise ball while she squeezed my hips to relieve the pressure and instructed Luca to gently pet my back.

“You can do it, Mama!” Luca cheered.

I smiled.

During a break between contractions, remembering something funny Luca said a few days before, I asked, “Luca, what is your baby brother going to say when he comes out?”

“Freeeeedom!!”

The drive to the hospital, which is at the peak of the mountain that bisects Hong Kong Island, was excruciating. I would say this was the hardest—nope, second hardest—part of labor. It seemed ages before I felt the car even moving uphill. “Thank God! We’re going up!” I said from where I hunched over the backseat breathing through increasingly strong contractions.

The walk from the car to the maternity ward seemed to have doubled, and I repeatedly had to stop to rest on my doula in a sort of hunched hug—hunching was the name of the game for me this labor, and she was just the right height for it. I’m sure I gave her quite a workout; it’s no joke taking on the weight of a 40-weeks-pregnant woman.

But she did it instinctively and without faltering, and for what felt like ages since, even once we’d arrived in the delivery suite, I had to stand up—well, hunch—for the initial fetal monitoring. I could have been flat on the bed, but there is positively no chance I was going to willingly lay on my back for that amount of time. Contractions were far, far more challenging in that position.

As soon as it was possible, I jumped in the warm bath, where I spent a couple hours letting the waves of contractions roll and diving deeper and deeper into my own personal zone. My contractions were only two to three minutes apart, but somehow I was so focused that I slept between them. Slept, prayed and visualized the baby pushing down and my body opening up. Joe and my doula poured water over me each time a contraction washed over me.

Unlike with Luca’s birth, in my zone I felt lucid. Utterly aware of all that was going on in my body and around me. “Move down,” I silently urged my baby. “Break the water,” I told him, waiting for that popping gush that happened during my first delivery.

Time passed, but I had no idea how much. My water did not break.

I woke up. Just like that, for no apparent reason, I came out of my zone to chat with Joe and my doula. Joe fed me some Cheese-Its and juice. “My legs are shaking,” I told the doula. “That’s weird.”

She said that happens sometimes, during the transition phase. “Huh,” I said, laying back and closing my eyes, trying to go back into my sleepy zone. I felt impatient.

Since things were so calm, Joe asked if it was ok for him to run and grab a bite to eat from the cafeteria. “Don’t go far,” I told him, hopeful things could intensify any moment.

“Hurry back,” my doula agreed.

Joe opted to stay.

I couldn’t go back to sleep. I didn’t want to. Was it lunch time already? I wondered. Why isn’t my water breaking?

“Let’s do this,” I told myself and pushed up into a deep squat in the bath. As I expected, contractions intensified right away. One contraction even triggered my expulsion reflex: My body pushed.

“It’s time to get out of the bath,” my doula said, after that one.

I wrapped in a robe and removed my soaking swim suit top, stopping every couple minutes to breathe deeply and rest on my doula’s shoulders.

I was out of the bath by about 11 or 11:30am, and I spent the next half hour or so trying to find the right position. I climbed up on the bed and tried something new each time my body got tired or a contraction was too strong in a certain pose: standing, squatting, all fours, lying on my side, resting my arms on an exercise ball or the back of the bed. It was hard to stay in any position for more than one or two contractions—a couple times the contractions were strong enough to knock me out of my focused zone, and my face would contort with a moan.

“Don’t start that now,” my doula urged. “Just keep doing what you’ve been doing.”

I listened. Thankfully, I’d chosen a doula whose voice I could trust when the time was right. If that gorgeously accented Australian timbre told me to do jumping jacks, I might’ve tried.

My doctor materialized, though I didn’t notice for a little while. “Oh, hi,” I said when I noticed she’d been quietly observing me from the end of the bed. She never rushed me, but she told me she was attending another patient loboring in the next suite over.

When I decided to rest on my side for a minute, the doctor and midwife both stepped out to check on the other woman, who was also moving into the final stages.

But then, my body wanted a position change. I decided to switch to all fours, but right between lying and fours, as Joe was helping me shift on the small bed, a contraction hit, a real doozy. A pushing contraction like you wouldn’t believe. I was deep in a squat on the bed, with Joe in front of me to make sure I didn’t tip over. “He’s coming!” I announced.

Then, man, the contractions were coming. Still two minutes apart, but I was pushing hard core.

The doula pulled the emergency cord and ran out to find my doctor and midwife. I’m sure Joe and I were alone for just a few moments, but it felt like eternity. We didn’t speak at the time, but Joe was strategizing how to keep hold of me while catching the baby, and I just knew we’d be doing it alone.

With a sudden flurry, the doula and midwife ran in.

My water broke. I could feel the baby’s head.

The doctor came in and asked me to move up higher since my squat left no room for the baby to come out, so I used Joe for leverage and pulled myself up to my final position—fittingly, a hunch, with my knees on the bed and my arms around my husband.

Joe held at least half of my weight, supporting me through delivery in the most literal fashion.

The baby crowned.

When Luca was born, his head began to crown and then suddenly appeared between my legs with one sudden contraction. This is what I expected.

This is not what happened.

“His eyes are out!” my doula or doctor—I can’t remember which—told me.

Contractions were still two minutes apart, so I waited. And, yes, I could feel a baby’s head in my hips. Did you ever notice how long two whole minutes can be?

Also unlike my first delivery, this time I got verbal: “Oh my gosh!” I breathed near Joe’s ear. “Oh, man. Come on, baby!!!!!”

The best one of all: “Please don’t go back in!”

“His nose is out!” someone said after the next contraction.

Then two minutes. Two eternal minutes. I tried to push between contractions—this boy was coming out if I had anything to do with it.

“Wait till you feel the downward pressure,” my doctor urged.

“You wait!” I told her… in my head.

It felt like a hundred contractions, but I’m sure it was five or six. Probably fewer.

At 12:26pm, to my utter relief and joy, a 9lb, 4.5oz Damien Alexander, my second son, finally slid out. My body shook from the sudden hormone shift and I cried with no tears.

The midwife told me later that the other laboring woman had been so afraid our shared doctor would be in my delivery suite when her time came that she stalled at about 8cm. Once she heard I’d delivered, she was so relieved she rapidly dilated to 10 and popped out her bundle of joy about 10 minutes after I did. Labor is such a mental game: Fear can slow it down, relaxation can speed it up.

While the midwife and doctor were busy with the other woman, Damien showed us something miraculous: the breast crawl instinct. My doula set him on my stomach and we watched while he began to bob his head around, rooting. He found his fist and sucked on it. Then, he moved his knees, pushing himself up to my chest (and thus kneading my abdomen, which helps stimulate the uterus in its effort to contract to normal size). He then rooted around until he found his goal, latched on naturally, all by himself, and began to nurse.

I felt both emotional and numb as I watched my second son doze off in my arms for the first time. I didn’t yet know how this new creature would change our family, but I knew I was grateful.

I told Joe a funny thought I’d had while laboring in the tub: “I can probably do this one more time.”

This Life

When I explain to new acquaintances about Joe’s job—how we will move to a new country every two or three years—the first question is predictable:

“Wow. Do you like that?” they ask. “Or is it hard to move every couple years?”

The answer is, on both counts: Yes.

So far, I love it.

Oh, the fun of moving our stuff over and over...

Yes, starting over so often is lonely, but already I’ve developed a worldwide network of close friends, the kind who make it easy to pick up where we left off. Yes, Seoul was hard, but more for Luca’s health issues than anything related to our location, and we got to eat all the Korean food we could desire while getting to know Joe’s relatives. Yes, the transience between tours was challenging, but we got to spend a ton of time with family and stateside friends.

Yes, the pollution is gross at times in Hong Kong, but the skyline is always gorgeous, the city is fun and people here are welcoming. Yes, the weather is sometimes too hot and humid to enjoy the outdoors, but our building has a swimming pool and an amazing indoor playroom.

Gorgeous Hong Kong

You know what else is cool? The change.

In Korea, we relished our yard. We had a fire pit, a flourishing vegetable and herb garden and space to make snowmen in winter. But the houses weren’t well insulated, so the heating and air was always blasting away with the volume of a jet engine. Pollution, heat, cold or rain rushed into our living area each time we opened a door or window. We had to mow the lawn and rake the leaves (though Luca and I made the latter chore pretty fun).

In Hong Kong, our building has all kinds of amenities and activities planned for us. We have no yard to bother about. Up in our high rise, we are insulated from the heat, (minor) cold and pollution. But the herbs we try to grow in the windowsill are anemic and pale. There’s no lawn on which Luca can run through sprinklers or explore dirt and rocks. I fear one of us could fall out our window (thank God we don’t have a balcony) or off the side of the podium level, where all the kids in our building ride scooters or bicycles. I realize the fear is irrational since we’d have to make quite an effort to get over the side wall or break a window, but still, the image plays in my mind every time I’m walking near the edge. What if…

There are major benefits and minor drawbacks of both types of living arrangements—of all types of living arrangements, really, but the amazing thing is that none of it is permanent for us. I enjoyed duplex living in Seoul, and I was relieved to make the move to Hong Kong. I’m enjoying high rise living for now, but I’ll be relieved to make the switch to whatever kind of housing will come at our next post. And so on. I can appreciate the good without feeling stuck with the bad.

My curious, restless personality thrives on the certainty of major change.

But there’s one thing that gives me pause. It’s not a regret, just a little twinge.

The thirst for variety and discovery, which makes me appreciate this lifestyle, is also what made me appreciate the budding career as a reporter I left behind.

It was the first job that truly fit my passion and gifting. When I taught in Malawi, I quickly discovered classroom management wasn’t my thing, and I wouldn’t want to continue past my year commitment. When I worked at a bank, I knew it was temporary since, even as I climbed the ladder to run my own tiny little branch, a focus on money wasn’t my thing. I was sad to discover there wasn’t a real career path for me at the nonprofit International Justice Mission since administration wasn’t my thing.

While politics wasn’t necessarily my thing, learning about the political game and other related topics certainly was. Writing what I’d learned certainly was. Chatting up political figures, experts, pollsters and others on the phone, on the street and at DC events certainly was. Of course there were frustrations, but I was having so much fun doing something I loved and something I was good at.

Luca visiting US News last summer

I had no trace of regret when I left my job to follow Joe to Seoul. I was proud of what I’d already accomplished at US News. I was pregnant, ready for adventure and unsure if we’d be able to afford childcare in DC with my salary, anyway (not much money in journalism). I thought I might freelance for my previous employer, but I never did, which was truly an opportunity missed since I was in Seoul during a major visit by President Obama and in Hong Kong during the Occupy Central protests. I simply got distracted with learning Korean, making friends, exploring Seoul and then Hong Kong, discovering culture, giving birth and raising children.

Now, three-and-a-half years later, my resume is stagnant. I’ve been writing and editing here and there, officially and unofficially, but nothing to fill the yawning hole in my work experience, and no plan in the near future to attempt to do so.

Actually, I don’t even feel all that bad about it—that’s not what gives me the twinge.

What does is that while I’ve been gallivanting around the world (with great joy), friends who started about the same time I did at US News are moving up to do what they hoped to back when we first met. One is now at NPR, which was a dream employer of mine, and another frequently appears on major TV networks like Fox News and MSNBC to share insight from her political reporting. Obviously my interests and job duties were different from those of my friends, but I wonder what would have happened had I stayed. Their lives are a glimpse into what could have been. Maybe I would’ve gotten laid off when US News trimmed down staff. Maybe I would’ve been promoted or moved on to other ventures, as my friends did.

In another life, I would’ve begun reporting earlier. I would’ve started with an internship at my tiny hometown newspaper, as my mom suggested when I was a teen, so I could have enjoyed journalism before the Internet took a bludgeoning club to the industry. So I could have had more of a consistent career in my 20s before starting a family and choosing to stay home with my brood for awhile. Then, I would have had something more established to return to once kids are in school.

But then, I never would have met Joe. I probably wouldn’t be living the expat life I enjoy. I wouldn’t be the same person with the same life, and honestly, I’m really happy with my life as it is. I’m happy I don’t have to work if I don’t want to. I love my husband and my children, and I’m having fun doing all the same mom duties I would probably be doing anywhere in the world.

Sweet Damien

I’m content strapping Damien in the Ergo for a peaceful afternoon nap while we accompany Luca to the playroom. I’m happy riding the MTR and running through a downpour with Joe for an anniversary date across Victoria Harbor. I like that, because we are able to have a helper here, I can leave during Damien’s long morning nap to take Luca to fun music classes or, on a weekend when Joe is with Luca, sit solo at Starbucks and type out my thoughts. I’m thrilled that I get to teach my boys about the world with first-hand experiences. And when Luca is frustrated and rushes into my arms for a comforting cuddle, I melt. And when Damien's eyes light up at the sight of my face and his mouth breaks into a toothless, dimpled grin, I melt.

All that is not doing much for my resume, but it’s more than enough, for now. And, God willing, I’ve got plenty of good years ahead of me.

Welcome, Damien Alexander

Each year on my birthday growing up, my mom would ask, “How does it feel to be 9?” Or, “How does it feel to be 13?”

My answer: “A lot like 8.” “A lot like 12.”

My birthdays never felt like they changed anything for me. One new day never made me feel like a new girl or a new woman.

But, for the second time in my life, one new day has changed me forever: Not my birthday, but my son’s. Something so foundational inside of me shifted the day Luca was born almost three years ago, and sixteen days ago, Damien’s arrival shifted me even further.

Of course, the change this time isn’t as drastic as becoming a mom in the first place, and (thankfully) it hasn’t come with the same level of emotional roller coaster drama hormones. But unlike young Mallie telling herself, “Ok, today I am 16,” if you ask me how it feels to be a mother of two, my answer most certainly will not be, “A lot like being a mother of one.”

I feel different. Hugely different.

Is it a sense of pride in my brood? Perhaps there’s some of that. But mostly it feels like I’ve grown another chamber in my heart to make room for the overflowing love that accompanied this new little person’s arrival.

When I was pregnant, I worried that I wasn’t feeling “connected” to my second baby like I had to Luca. Will I love my second son the same as the first? I wondered. Will we still bond and connect? I have been so close to Luca, and he is a known entity, whereas the baby inside felt unknown. I didn’t have time or energy to obsess and dream during my second pregnancy the way I did with Luca. I hadn’t assigned Damien wise thoughts and communications in-utero the way I had with his brother.

When Luca was born, my emotions were unlike anything I could previously imagine—even with all the obsessing and dreaming—and I can say now that it is the same with his baby brother.

When Damien Alexander Kim, all 4.23kg of him, made his grand entrance on March 27 at 12:26pm, I was overjoyed.

Damien means “one who tames,” and Alexander means “defender of men” or “helper of men.”

The name Damien caught our attention first for the sound, but second for the meaning. It reminded us of the book The Little Prince, in which a prince searches his universe for meaningful connections. One day, he comes across a fox who tells him he won’t play because he isn’t tamed.

“I am looking for friends. What does that mean -- tame?"
"It is an act too often neglected," said the fox. "It means to establish ties."
"To establish ties?"
"Just that," said the fox. "To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world....”

I loved Damien on sight and was beyond thrilled a challenging pregnancy was over, but with the massive hormone shift, I was strangely tearless. I cried, but no tears came. Then, once Joe had gone home to Luca, and Damien and I were encased in our somewhat depressing curtain area—my insurance only pays for a shared room in pricey Hong Kong—my hormones were still shifting, and I didn’t recognize the baby beside me in the cot. He didn’t look like the baby I already know. He didn’t look like Luca, and he didn’t act like I remember Luca acting—I remember my first son as voracious from the start, but Damien seemed to prefer sucking his own hand over trying to nurse.

He seemed like a little tiny stranger. Not quite like a hundred thousand other little boys, but you get the idea.

So we cuddled, and we bonded, and I stared at his lovely, puffy little newborn face. I threw out my plan of setting him down any time he dozed (good sleep habits can start later). My love grew as I changed each meconium diaper, as I realized he would root around not to eat, but to rest on me; to make sure he was close to me, his provider.

In short, Damien tamed me, and it didn’t take long.

Today, my heart is overflowing: With the increase in love to account for this new family member, my sense of love for Luca and for Joe are heightened as well. Of course I’m tired, and of course there are challenges and there are fears of the balancing act to come. But the joy I feel is something that was unimaginable three weeks ago.

I am mother to two boys. We are a family of four. And this just feels right.

A Tale of Two Pregnancies

Apparently Joe and I like to combine our major life changes into pairs. Get pregnant, move to Seoul. Get pregnant, move to Hong Kong.

It’s tricky adjusting to a new country and attempting to build community while pregnant, even aside from the physical demands of simply moving and setting up house.

In Seoul, I was lonely at first (as with any move), but I enjoyed the freedom I had to take a semester of Korean, wander the city and take walks around our tree-lined neighborhood and the military base.

In Hong Kong, I was lonely at first (of course), but I enjoy the freedom I have to walk out my door and into the clubhouse, where Luca and I can swim (in season) or play in an epic indoor playroom. I was also thrilled to discover we can leave our building and find ourselves in a bustling part of the city with easy access to public transportation. But, as I’ve mentioned elsewhere, navigating the city sidewalks and the grocery stores with a toddler in tow proved stressful and physically difficult for an exhausted pregnant woman.

My first pregnancy, I danced my belly silly at a Zumba class until it became uncomfortable, and then I swam laps two to three times per week. I was fit.

This time, walking the city with Luca was all the exercise I could muster—and even that dropped significantly with some physical issues that came up. I’ll get to that.

My first pregnancy, my doctor constantly badgered me about my weight, saying I was gaining way too much and should exercise at least three hours a day. Do marathoners even exercise three hours every day?! (and, by the way, the maximum she thought I should gain was about 22lbs, less than the minimum my doctor in the United States recommended).

This time, my doctor has never weighed me. Her nurse asked me to estimate my weight at my first appointment, but that’s it. “Keep growing!” my doctor told me during my second trimester.

Funny enough, I’ve gained less this time around, though I assume part of that disparity is my lack of muscle mass.

In both countries, I got awkward comments about the size of my belly, but perhaps that’s universal. Listen, no one wants to hear she’s HUGE and looks about to pop at the beginning of the second trimester, thank you very much, random store clerk. The hand motions to clarify the hugeness of my belly are particularly helpful.

Perhaps the biggest difference between my pregnancy with Luca and this pregnancy with his younger brother, though, is the sheer physical and emotional challenge the new one has presented over the past nine months. My first pregnancy was a breeze in comparison. This pregnancy has been marked by one difficulty after another—none threatening to the baby, thank God. Just enough to make life difficult. I realize many people have stressful complications far worse than mine, and I have many, many reasons to be grateful, but these truths don’t mean my experience hasn’t been tough. The worst thing was an issue with my lower hips and sacroiliac joint, the upshot of which was that some days I would stand up unsure whether I could put pressure on my left leg at all—unsure whether I could even walk to the bathroom.

I wrote this blog post on a rare morning of solitude. Joe took Luca for a daddy-son date to allow me some time alone with my thoughts and the keyboard at a bustling Starbucks. I sat down with my Frappucino to write, and about half a word into it, I heard a voice: “It’s Mallie, isn’t it?”

I looked up to see a woman around my parents’ age smiling at me, coffee in hand.

This woman has approached me before, at church. Right in the middle of a difficult phase of my pregnancy.

On that Sunday, Joe was traveling out of town. It had been a stressful week. My sacroiliac pain was starting to let up, just in time to see Luca’s behavior descend into everything I’d heard about the… well, the Testing Twos, I’ll call it. With Joe gone, Luca was particularly emotional about everything. He’d just given up naps completely and tantrums sparked up on the daily. My little buddy’s desire for me to be close at all times was at a peak.

So I’d gone to church alone with Luca, hoping Sunday school would at least give me some time to focus on something outside of my own life, the sermon. As soon as we walked into his class, though, I knew that was a long shot, what with all the weeping and gnashing of teeth. Luca is not a fan of other kids crying. 

“Are you right there, Mama?” he kept asking, his mouth a worried line ready to droop into a crying pout. “You’re staying with me, Mama?” I didn't have the heart to leave him—the unusually distraught, screaming two-year olds were overwhelmingly stressful even for me, as an adult.

The last ten minutes of church, I realized the noise-blocking headphones we’d borrowed from upstairs during the loud music section of the church service were still in my purse. I decided to run up to drop them off and return straight to Luca, but a woman in the hallway—the children’s pastor—said hello as I passed, and I mentioned offhand that I planned to get back before Luca broke down.

“Oh, he’ll be fine,” she said with a knowing smile.

As I hung the headphones up in the back of the service, I realized, She’s right. I should just stay.

So I found an open seat and heard the final words in the sermon, about the need to rest and renew our mindset in order to actually be able to listen to God. Ha, rest, I thought, I wonder how that’s possible with a two-year old suffering from separation anxiety and who never naps.

When the closing worship songs ended, I started to turn to rush back downstairs and pick up Luca, but just then, an expat woman—the woman from this morning at Starbucks—walked up to me as though she had something to say.

“You don’t know me,” she said, accurately, “but I see you here on Sundays, and I've seen you out around in neighborhood, in the supermarket, and I think you're new to Hong Kong. And God really put you on my heart to pray for you this week. You're expecting—and you have another little one, too, right? I believe he wants me to tell you that his peace is upon you.”

Um.

Wow.

I squeezed a “thank you” in my lame, caught-off-guard, trying-to-avoid-tears response, but I was unable to express what her words meant to me in that moment.

I had just been thinking that God must have been listening to prayers on my behalf since every time I came close to sinking, something let up to keep my head above water. If my hips and legs were still hurting so severely, I wouldn't have been able to deal with Luca’s behavior and neediness (try taking a wiggling two-year old to a time out in his room when you can’t get off the couch without extreme pain—which happened a couple times). God was keeping things just shy of what I could no longer handle, and her prayers were an encouragement to me that God was with me while I was overwhelmed, sustaining me right when I needed him to.

That’s been true this entire pregnancy. When my joint issue hit its worst point was the week our domestic helper’s visa finally came through and she started working for us. Honestly, I don’t think we would have had groceries that week if she hadn’t arrived, let alone a cleaner house that I could ever have conjured, even on a good week.

(Before you judge, I wrote a little on the particular need for a domestic helper in Hong Kong elsewhere.)

When Luca’s behavior worsened and Joe went out of town, my joints were improving. Then something else, followed by another thing, and so on.

This pregnancy has felt like running on an uneven treadmill, tripping unexpectedly and trying to keep up simply to stay in the same place. It’s hard to have goals of my own when the only energy I have goes to being Mama to Luca, and any more I can eek out goes toward being wife to Joe. It’s hard to feel productive. It’s hard to chill out and rest in the knowledge that being a mom every day and growing a baby are actually enough.

It’s frustrating when my usual go-getter, self-motivated personality is superseded by the constant need to take a breather on the couch so my hips don’t go out of joint or so I can simply regain my composure and catch my breath.

Labor and delivery has been the light at the end of my tunnel.

If you recall from Luca’s birth, I’m a bit of a hippie about birthing drug-free unless there are medical complications, and I felt so empowered by the positive experience the first time around that I’m ready for such a hill to climb, such a goal to accomplish.

There’s a reason people refer to huge life achievements as “my baby.” The hard work, the blood, sweat and tears of researching a thesis or completing huge work project or writing novel or training for a marathon isn’t necessarily enjoyable at the time, but it is what gives the final product meaning.

The thought of working through labor and delivery, even though I'm not in as good physical shape as the first time around, sounds like a breath of fresh air for my willpower and personal agency. God has proven himself (once again) to be a reliable source of strength over the past months of pregnancy, and the concentrated hours of labor and delivery will give me the chance to draw my strength from him, once again. To experience the power of the female body, which he designed with the ability to grow and produce another human.

It’s strange, knowing what to expect this time (barring any complications) and anticipating it with excitement.

But, even if things go wrong and I need medical interventions, I realize now that those labor pains have already begun. I see now that this difficult pregnancy as a whole is part of that process. The accomplishment I seek is not just in the literal labor and delivery, but in the months of discomfort, growing a baby while raising a toddler and building a new life in a new country.

The “labor” culminates in delivering not only a new member of our family, but in strengthened character, in a stronger marriage and in an increased ability to humble myself and ask for help and prayer.

God never promised I won’t go through storms, but he promises to be with me through the storms, growing me into the person he alone knows I can be. 

So, who knows whether I will get another peaceful, rewarding accomplishment of a birth story in the next few weeks. But even if I don't, I can still have the satisfaction of my 10 months' hard work coming to a head.

And for that, I am grateful.

Hong Kong Culture Points, Volume 3

Warning: These observations on life in Hong Kong are filled with first-world problems. No judging allowed.

“Winter”
I remember telling Joe, “It’s so nice the fall weather has finally started! It feels like the heat is letting up.”

Joe looked at me, deadpan, and said, “Did you realize you just said that in late November?”

Seriously, the day we turned our AC off for the season was December 1. We turned it back on one humid night late in February.

A "cold" winter's day at the beach

One January day was about 66* Fahrenheit, and I was pushing the stroller, wearing jeans and short sleeves. My sweater and light scarf were wrapped around the stroller’s handle, unneeded in the gorgeous sunlight. It felt like a sunny San Francisco day—chilly in the shade when a breeze picked up, but downright warm in the sun. All-around lovely.

As I waited for a street-crossing light to change, a stylish, middle-aged Chinese woman wearing a light down jacket and woven scarf walked up and stood to wait next to me. She cast me a sidelong glance.

“You must not be from Hong Kong,” she said.

Not sure where she was going with that, I responded, “I live here.”

“Oh!” she said. “Well then, how can you wear so little?! It’s cold!”

I chuckled. “Oh, I see. I’m not from here,” I said. “It feels hot to me.”

The “winter” does get cold enough to require a sweater and puffer vest, but the cold, windy and cloudy days are frequently punctuated with what feels like springtime in January. February was more gloomy and polluted, but February is short. I know the summer will be brutally hot and humid, but as for now, I’m so gratefully to be in a place that lacks a frozen season.

Odd Plugs
With some of those chilly days, I’ve become less excited to go out the door with wet hair, but this culture point has, until now, stood in the way of my locks and a daily blow dry.

I suspect I have the UK’s colonization to blame for this one: The only plug in our bathroom is apparently only to be used for plug-in shavers. The idea is, I’ve heard, that electricity and bathrooms don’t mix, so they limit it to shavers. Ok, I suppose I see the rationale, aside from the fact that I’ve always had multiple plugs in bathrooms everywhere I’ve ever lived with no problems. But… shavers? Maybe it’s just me, but this seems odd since I’ve never even known anyone to regularly use an electric shaver. My dad had an old-school shave kit with a big kabuki brush I loved playing with, and my husband uses a basic razor. Perhaps electric shavers are all the rage here. Who knows?

Despite the “shavers only” warning, it appears my electric toothbrush charger is within the acceptable voltage range, so I’m experimenting with that. So far, so good, but we shall see if the Sonicare or charger burns out faster than it should.

Given, this seemingly wasteful plug isn’t the end of the world, but it does make blow drying my hair a challenge. The other plugs in our room are too close to the ground to stand up while blow drying, and none are close enough to use a mirror comfortably.

I know, first-world problems.

Thankfully, as a counterpoint to this tease of a plug in the bathroom, we noticed another set of plugs that struck us as odd: There are outlets inside some of our closets! Whatever would you need to plug in inside a closet that wouldn’t be just fine out of it? Huh.

Well, right when I was getting sick of letting my hair air dry, I realized: The closet with the plug is my closet, the one I outfitted with an IKEA full-length mirror. Problem solved! I now blow dry my hair in the closet.

Hey, whatever works.

Transformers
Speaking of electricity, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that most of our doo dads are powered by monster transformers. I don’t mean the cars that become robots (can you tell I have a son?). I mean big humming boxes of power that make our American 120v appliances work in this 210v world.

Of course, this is more of a foreign-service-culture issue as most expats who move to Hong Kong would likely buy a new TV or Kitchenaid here, but since we move every couple years, that is untenable. Consulates and embassies around the world provide these transformers to slightly help ease the inconvenience of such a transient lifestyle. Sometimes it’s the details that matter. There’s a risk we could damage our kitchen tools, yes, but so far we’ve just blown a transformer fuse or three.

Appliance Size
There’s nothing quite like transplanting an American kitchen to Asia to point out the American obsession with bigger-is-better.

My biggest cookie sheets don’t fit in the oven, nor does my roasting pan.

Even more embarrassing? My regular-sized dinner plates are too big for the dishwasher. That’s right. Regular American portions are just too big for Asia. So, if I want to use the dishwasher, I have to stick to my salad plates. Better for portion control, I’m sure.

Many homes don’t even have an oven, which surprised me, but I guess it shouldn’t since Asian cuisine isn’t really about baking.

This tiny-by-comparison kitchen issue was the same in Korea, but since we lived on a military base in American-style houses, I didn’t feel the sting of less-cookies-per-batch, and I could happily host those endowed with smaller cooking spaces.

Helper Culture
When I first arrived in Hong Kong, I was surprised by how difficult it was to get around with Luca in tow. Grocery aisles? Tiny and crowded. Sidewalks? Tiny, crowded and filled with potholes and construction that make them uneven. The air? Even on a clear day, walking in my neighborhood of heavy traffic and tall buildings smells like hanging out in a garage with all the cars running and all the drivers smoking. Not ideal for babies to be out and about.

How do moms do it, especially moms with more than one? I can’t imagine toting a double stroller up an escalator or down some stairs.

Well, the way they do it is with a domestic helper, often from the Philippines or Indonesia, and most often (or always?) supporting a child or children who are back home with grandma or an aunt or uncle.

After our first weeks in town, I raised the white flag and surrendered my idea of getting by on my own in this city, which is not set up for moms with little ones to get around easily. We hired a domestic helper who started in December, and while I was nervous about how awkward it would be to manage a full-time employee in our home, I needn’t have been. She is amazing and such a blessing to us, especially in light of a difficult pregnancy.

Our helper has never been out of her country except to live and work in this city.

“Why Hong Kong?” I asked her one day. Filipino domestic helpers are common in many, many places around the world.

“It’s better than Saudi,” she replied.

Point taken.

When I interviewed her, she said the thing she was looking for in an employer was to be treated like a person. Ahem, I think we can manage that.

It truly is a vulnerable thing to hire yourself out to serve a family you don’t really know yet. And since the only strictly legal way to hire a foreign domestic helper in Hong Kong is full-time and live-in, that vulnerability grows exponentially. Especially since Hong Kong apartments are notoriously tiny with no extra room for a helper. Many, many helpers actually sleep in the same room as the children, taking on night duty for babies and toddlers. Just about every family here has a domestic helper, particularly since there is not the daycare structure found in the United States. There really aren't a lot of options, especially when both parents work.

In Hong Kong, as with, I’m sure, many places in the world, there are reports of mistreatment of helpers. I’ve heard of helpers who had to sleep under the dining room table and couldn’t make their bed until the Sir and Ma’am of the house were asleep. That means if the bosses want to stay up until midnight watching a movie in the living room, the helper can’t go to sleep. But she’d better have her bedding out of site by the time the kids wake up. Eek.

Or, some helpers have to sleep on the balcony. Do you know how hot and humid it gets here? And the pollution? Even without a freeze, winter does get chilly, especially for people used to living closer to the equator.

Thankfully, I don’t believe that is the norm, just a risk. And thankfully, there’s a nonprofit organized for the express purpose of limiting abuses and assisting victims.

Most helpers, at least in my building (where the apartments have built-in maids’ quarters with bathroom and shower), seem happy, healthy and friendly.

Another interesting aspect of the helper culture here is that Sunday is the usual day off for every helper. Since these (mostly) women don’t have a place to host their friends, many public spaces are jam packed with helpers hanging out together with others from their home country. They set up flattened cardboard boxes or plastic sheets as picnic blankets and camp out all day long at a park or a beach with buddies, eating and chatting the day away in their native languages.

We’ve had visitors see this phenomenon and tell us later, “I thought maybe they were all homeless people, but they were dressed nicely and had cell phones and good food!”

Super Cars
Hong Kong is known for its banks and stock market, horse races and high rollers. Apparently there are more millionaires per capita here than any other city in the world.

So, amongst the red-and-white taxis, the buses and trams, it is quite common to see super cars stuck in traffic: Ferrari, Maserati, Lotus, Rolls Royce, Lamborghini, Mercedes.

We were driving out of a parking garage recently past an electric BMW charging at a smart car station and noticed a sign for a Tesla supercharger station on the next floor… just before we drove up behind a Porsche 911 Carrera.

For someone who was perfectly happy with a Saturn, I'm surprised to say I now know that sweet, almost musical roar of a Maserati engine firing up.

Hong Kong Moms
Facebook forums are an amazing place to share knowledge, ask questions and seek council from others in the same life stage and/or geographical region. And Hong Kong Moms is a great place for all of that, and a helpful source for news about current events in the city, like the democracy protests last fall or the plight of abused domestic helpers. I was usually the one updating Joe on the latest with the Umbrella Revolution protests, just based on what other Hong Kong moms would share in the group.

But, honestly, I often read the Hong Kong Moms Facebook forum for the drama.

Oh. My. Goodness. Some of the responses are simply not nice.

I’ve seen women ask questions only to draw the comment: “Why would you even ASK something like this?”

Once there was a worked-up woman who posted after having a run-in with a middle-aged lady on the MTR train. She caught the lady with her hand in her purse, gripped around her wallet. To reclaim her wallet, the woman posting gave the older lady an elbow to the face, much to the shock and dismay of everyone on the train. She asked advice on whether to go to the police, and got a variety of responses in the comments, some supportive and others telling her she’d get in trouble for assaulting the woman, despite the attempted theft. As the comment thread continued, the original poster, distraught, went to a bar, got tipsy, and kept posting to argue with the other moms about what she should or shouldn’t have done. It was like a train wreck.

But, on the bright side, along with helpful advice and tips on where to find a suitable pediatric dentist or cute maternity clothes, the network is so far-reaching in Hong Kong that it frequently acts as a giant Lost & Found. A post by a mom who found a cell phone in a taxi’s back seat will pop up minutes after a post by another mom, hunting for the same phone. It’s brilliant.

Hong Kong Culture Points, Volume 2

As our newness in Hong Kong begins to wear off (we've got our shipment, celebrated two major holidays, made some friends and settled into something of a routine), I'm still noticing the things that make this city different from others I've experienced. Here are some more Hong Kong culture points:

[Catch up with Hong Kong Culture Points, Volume 1]

1. Accents

Hong Kong is astoundingly diverse. There may be a greater variety of skin color in New York or Los Angeles, but Hong Kong has so many expats that the variety of accents (in English alone) I hear on any given day is astounding: Australian, French, Eastern European, American, British, Canadian, French-Canadian, Filipino, Indian, everything. People settle in Hong Kong from all over the world, and it's fun to hear such color every day. Even among those of Chinese origin, some have a very specific Cantonese accent (I hope this isn’t terribly offensive to anyone, but comedian Russell Peters does a pretty good imitation), and others have an accent closer to that of upper-class Londoners

2. Hot Water

Beware the scalding glass cup

I am a thirsty person, particularly when I’m pregnant, and I can drink water by the liter during a meal. Cold water, that is. Or even room temperature water. But when we visit a dim sum joint or other Asian restaurant in Hong Kong, water only comes HOT. Like, tea temperature hot. This doesn’t work well for thirsty me, let alone for my toddler son, who would burn his mouth. Asking for water that isn’t scalding strikes confusion that usually leads to the server bringing a small bottle of water I could drink in a few gulps. Saying, “No, thank you. I just want whatever water you’re serving HOT, but before you make it hot…” doesn’t work. I’ve finally wised up to realize restaurants serve ice with Cokes, so I'm starting to just ask for a plain cup of ice, as many times as I can get our server’s attention (which is typically about twice), and pour in the water from my steaming mug (or painfully hot glass cup) for Luca and me to share. I’m trying hard to remember to bring my own Nalgene bottle with me from home to obviate the awkwardness.

3. No Pee On Concrete

I’ve heard in mainland China, people peeing (and pooping) in public, on the side of any road, is commonplace. Apparently this practice trickled down (pun intended) to Hong Kong as mainlanders began moving into town at a higher rate when the city became officially part of China again, but from what I’ve heard, it was met with stiff resistance from resident Hong Kongers, and is generally unheard of today, or at least hidden (except for an incident last spring in which Hong Kongers got into a scuffle with mainlanders who let their toddler pee on a busy sidewalk). The sensitivity toward public urination extends also to pets. Our neighborhood, along with most of Hong Kong’s center, has a nice view of green trees climbing the steep mountains that divide the island, but pedestrians are generally concrete-bound. There’s no real grass patch or soft shoulder to let dogs urinate freely, so pet owners carry a water bottle around so they can dilute pee on concrete. Apparently pee on concrete is a particularly nasty offense in the hot, humid summer months. Our building’s outdoor area (“the podium,” where kids ride bikes and scooters) has a small dog-wee section of dirt and grass, but some dogs are particular and prefer not to climb onto that elevated platform to do their business. A friend, who owns one such dog, told me recently that she was tired of the looks she got out on the podium if her dog let loose near where the children play, even when she watered it down, so now she lets her doggie go in the parking garage, where she still dilutes it to prevent smells.

4. Paying by Octopus

Like many metro systems around the world, Hong Kong’s MTR (and public bus) system has its own frequent-user card, the Octopus card. An added bonus? Hong Kongers can pay by Octopus at many convenience stores, taxis, bubble tea stands or even theme-park cafes. It’s an in-between for such a cash society. The Octopus even lets users go into the negative a bit, which is handy in a pinch if I'm out of cash.

5. Small Bills, Please

Cashier making change for my $500 from her purse

Yes, Hong Kong is a cash society, but using big bills can be tricky, and many places won’t accept $1000 bills (about US$130). The next biggest is a $500 bill (US$65), and that’s even a problematic one for businesses, though sometimes as a customer, that's all I have. In fact, when I’ve paid with a $500 for food, the cashier herself has had to make change from her own wallet before processing my transaction. The first such instance caught me off guard, but I've seen this at chain restaurants and small food shops, so apparently it isn't unheard of. This happened once right at the opening of business, which tells me cafes don’t really stock change for their employees to use at all.


6. Bank-Issued Currency

Top is HSBC (with lion logo); Bottom Bank of China (with building image)

In the United States, dollars are issued by the Federal Reserve and printed by The Bureau of Engraving and Printing. Basically, money comes from the government. Hong Kong dollars, on the other hand, are printed in one location, but private banks are the ones who issue the currency. So my wallet might have bills from HSBC, Standard Chartered or Bank of China.

A Pre-Christmas Escape to Thailand

Before Christmas, our little branch of the Kim clan decided to get away together to somewhere warmer and more spacious than our new city, this Manhattan-on-steroids, Hong Kong. And, luckily for us, the beaches of Thailand are not too far away.

When you think of Thailand, you might think of tiny boats touring gorgeous and famous islands, or of riding elephants or snorkeling or scuba diving. Of eating pad thai and panang curry from tiny, authentic restaurants. I've seen such things in friends' pictures of visits to Thailand.

Joe and I love adventure travel. We've each had a taste in our single lives and in our life together, like when we backpacked through Mexico. So we never in a million years imagined we'd vacation in such an adventurous destination with the express intent of never leaving our resort. But with a food-allergic 2.5-year old, a major baby bump and some killer, unpredictable hip pain, that is precisely what we did.

Our many major life transitions this year meant that peaceful time for the three of us to enjoy each other (with a beach and pool available) was the perfect choice for us.


And what a resort it was. The JW Marriott Khao Lak was a fantastic place to plant ourselves. A lagoon pool wove all around the resort,
including right past our room's back door, so we could literally swim from our room to the beach.

The staff went above and beyond to ensure Luca had safe food to eat. The executive chef or one of his top sous chefs would bring out meals prepared in the central kitchen to whichever resort restaurant we'd chosen for the evening, or even to the pool bar or our room, if we preferred. I'll admit it was disorienting to have top chefs in charge of meals for our toddler, but we were grateful, and Luca loved that he got to eat food that wasn't leftovers I'd brought in a Thermos.

Below are some more pictures of our fantastic, resort-bound vacation filled with beach fun, pool fun, early nights out and time feeding watermelon rinds and bananas to a visiting elephant.

It's a life-phase. Perhaps next time we're in Thailand, we'll be scuba diving and touring James Bond Island. Or perhaps we'll go back to the JW and just relax and enjoy the fresh young coconuts just hacked open and accompanied by a straw and spoon, or returned to the shell ice-blended with a little sugar. Yum.

Oh! Before the pictures, here's a glimpse of Luca's joy in the hours and hours of swimming. He is fearless, and kept jumping in without telling us, so we taught him to yell an announcement of his intentions, to which he added his own little script. His love of being underwater increased after we bought him goggles in the dive shop. His reaction after the first dive with goggles was priceless: "My eyes are better!!"

We told Luca we were heading to a buffet
at the beach, so he insisted
on bringing his bucket of beach tools.

Luca's reaction to the teppanyaki chef lighting onions on fire