I Am Entitled to Nothing

This season has been tough.

Because I had to go to the bathroom
rather than scoop food he's perfectly
capable of scooping himself.

I’m not asking for sympathy—I never expected life with two tiny boys to be easy. Parenthood isn’t supposed to be easy.

Some days are all sweet cuddles and playing happily together and reading books.

Other days, we have tantrums and territorial disputes over toys and Mama’s lap and Mama’s undivided attention.

Some days I’m patient and creative and happy. Other days I’m irritated and frustrated and exhausted, and I DESERVE A NAP.

I’m ok with having bad days now and then—they’re normal. They happen.

But after we returned from our trip to the U.S., the massive, lingering dose of jet lag exacerbated by a sleepless baby—along with the wonderful fun that is age three—sent me reeling into a series of bad days.

I’m a smiler, so it wasn’t a good sign when Joe had to ask me a few times if I was angry about something.

One morning, I retreated to my one respite, those few blessed moments alone in the shower, and I asked myself and God: Why am I so easily irritated lately? Why am I sour?

The answer hit me, and a weight lifted.

I went to find Joe and told him, point-blank: “I am entitled to nothing.”

“What?” he asked.

“I am entitled to nothing,” I said again. “I’m not entitled to an easy day or to time on my own to catch up on writing my backlog of blog ideas. I’m grateful for those things when they happen. But I am entitled to nothing.”

“You know that was Frank Underwood’s campaign slogan, don’t you?” Joe asked.

“What? Oh, Yeah. No, that was, ‘YOU are entitled to nothing.’” I reminded him. “This is different.”

“Oookaaay,” he said, going about his business.

I followed him. “I am not entitled to your love, but I’m really grateful you freely give it and choose to fulfill your vows,” I said. “I’m not entitled to good food and clean water, but it’s awesome that I have both, and that’s mainly an accident of birth. We’re not entitled to have someone clean our house, but I’m extremely grateful we can afford to employ Sheryl.”

He got the point.

When things go generally well in life, it’s easy for people to take it all for granted. Of course things go easily for me. When something snags, we get annoyed. When things take a turn, we ask, “WHY?!”

That whole day, I looked at everything through my new lens: I’m not entitled to hit all the green lights and avoid the reds. I’m not entitled to a morning without traffic, or to a spot in the fastest lane. I’m not entitled to a quick entry into the elevators when there’s a long line of people waiting. I’m not entitled to a perfectly-behaved 3-year old who doesn’t test his limits. I’m not entitled to a full night of sleep. I’m not entitled to U.S. prices in Hong Kong.

And guess what?

I felt joyful.

I felt happy.

I felt less stressed and less annoyed.

When I shifted my expectations to gratitude instead, I began to enjoy the day.

I suddenly recognized my default setting was a subconscious, subtle shade of sheer pride and selfishness, a product of human nature fostered by societies and advertisements that sell the idea that I deserve it.

Our culture is so ingrained with a "have it your way" philosophy that it's easy to expect just that out of more than just Burger King. And so each day has its share of disappointments, big and small.

I think humility may be the true secret to happiness. (So does David Brooks, by the way, in this awesome take down of high expectations.)

And funny enough, this was essentially the call of Christ: humility. To stop thinking we’re “good people” enough to deserve a suffering-free life on Earth and then Heaven for eternity, to stop thinking anything we could possibly do could earn us a relationship with God or a happy life, but rather to look at life as though the needs of others are just as pressing as—or more pressing than—our own. To sit back in gratitude for the perfect sacrifice of Jesus on the cross. For the love of family. For a sunny day. For a roof and a meal.

Now, to find a loving way to teach this to my 3-year old…

Brothers as Babies: 6 Months of Comparisons

Somehow six months have come and gone since Damien's birth, and my gorgeous second born is healthy as ever. He is a happy baby who loves sleep, which is slightly different from my previous experience mothering a baby. (understatement)

Over the months, relatives and friends often comment on whether they think Damien looks more like a Brewer or Kim. They ask if he looks like his big brother.

My answer isn't fun, but it's truthful: They look like brothers, but also distinctive. Both are a mix, with strong notes of both Brewer and Kim.

Here are some side-by-side comparison pictures so you can judge for yourself.

NEWBORN

Luca newborn

Damien newborn

1 MONTH

Luca 1 month

Damien 1 month

2 MONTHS

Luca 2 months

Damien 2 months

3 MONTHS

Luca 3 months

Damien 3 months

4 MONTHS

Luca 4 months

Damien 4 months

5 MONTHS

Luca 5 months

Damien 5 months

6 MONTHS

Luca 6 months

Damien 6 months

Three

Three years old.

I am daily astounded by this intelligent, funny, creative, strong-willed boy. He's a chatterbox, loves imagination play and has extremely particular preferences.

One day when Joe brought home an Amazon package, Luca asked what was in the little rectangle boxes.

"It's cake mix," I said. "For your birthday. Remember your birthday party last year?"

"Yeah!" Luca said.

"Remember your cake was a construction site?"

"I don't want a construction cake this time," he said. "I want a camping cake."

And thus began my brainstorm.

These days, I am creative a total of two times per year: Christmas and Luca's birthday (Hopefully Damien's arrival will generate enough creative juices to last for his birthday as well). So thank you, Internet, for all the fun ideas that made this party cute.

Did I mention Luca's particular preferences? Well, whenever we talked about his birthday, he decided there was just one person he wanted to attend: Austin.

Campsite cake, complete with campfire, tent and pond

As in, our adult friend in D.C.

Luca enjoys his friends (sometimes), but isn't much for big groups, so we invited as few friends as possible to still make for a fun party. We roped Austin in to FaceTime Luca on his birthday, and we told him Austin asked Mommy to invite some Hong Kong friends to take his place. Thankfully, it worked, and Luca wasn't upset when the other kids walked in.

Attendees needed a compass, flashlight and carabiner to "navigate" the party.

Like any good camping trip, there was fishing (magnet toy inside a felt fish)...

Biggest catch of the day!

...and "digging for bugs" (homemade chocolate playdough with toy insects).

The kids played in the ball pit tent and the real tent...

...and I "told stories" around the campfire (Camping Spree with Mr. Magee).

There were yummy snacks...

...and of course no party is complete without cake and s'mores ice cream! 

Luca's favorite gift was a set of real walkie talkies--he spent the rest of the party running around giggling, saying "Hello Appa!" and grinning from ear to ear when Joe would respond: "Happy birthday, Luca!"

100 Days of Damien

Damien on his 100th Day

Each morning over the monitor, I hear Damien contentedly sucking his hand, waiting patiently in his room.

“Good morning, Damien!” I say while leaning over his crib. His face lights up with a heart-melting, one-dimpled grin as he squeezes up his shoulders in a joyful wiggle.

Is there any better way to start a day?

And yesterday marked a special one: 100 days of life for my second son, our first hundred days as a family of four.

I can’t believe he’s reached this milestone already, and yet I feel as though his (usually) calm, sweet presence has been with us forever. He watches his “threenager” older brother’s very loud ups and downs, ready to flash that dimple at us when we speak to him and ready to giggle that belly laugh when I fly him like a baby airplane.

Damien with a baby girlfriend--same age but he's much larger!

And he is one heavy baby airplane. So far he measures in the 98th percentile—he’s topped 16 pounds already, by my estimate.

He loves sleep and attention, and he also loves his own time and space. When he’s had too much attention, Damien enjoys watching the teddy bears on his mobile go around and around while Luca and I play blocks nearby. (I never knew babies could have too much attention.)

Damien enjoying alone time

Here’s the kicker, and what’s made these 100 days so different from Luca’s first few months: To our utter, utter astonishment, Damien prefers to fall asleep lying alone in his crib, watching his Baby Einstein ocean soother and sucking his thumb or pacifier. He sleeps like a champ both day and night.

It’s unbelievable.

I don’t write these things to brag—this dreamy newborn phase is not due to anything we’ve done—I write them in grateful disbelief. Is this Damien’s personality? Will he be sweet and easygoing?

Damien on his 100th Day

Of course he’s had his fussy hours and he gets gassy, and some evenings he needs active help to fall asleep. Many afternoons, he only catnaps.

But the only real cloud in our sunny sky is my worry: Will Damien have food allergies, like his brother? I’ve tried to calm the alarmist within me, who vividly remembers Luca’s itchy, suffering infancy. I’ve tried to dismiss symptoms as normal for newborns.

But.

He was getting rashes and his poop was abnormal. His gas seemed particularly painful and he spit up like there was no tomorrow.

So I did what I wish I’d known to do when Luca’s condition began: I cut out all common allergens and began to eat like my firstborn. It is easy since we already plan our meals with Luca in mind, and yet, it is torture because all I want to do is chow a spoonful of peanut butter or snack on those dark chocolate almonds in our cupboard. I can’t stave off my nursing-mom cravings with a handful of Kirkland trail mix—you know the kind, with the M&Ms.

Damien’s rash cleared up within a couple days. His poop improved and his gas lessened over the next few weeks. His spit up is still over-the-top excessive. And projectile. That's just Damien, apparently.

Yes, all these can be attributed to other factors: Perhaps it was heat rash that would’ve cleared up anyway; perhaps his digestive system hit a developmental milestone.

But I’d rather waste my time and suffer inconvenience now than repeat the anguish with a second baby.

I’ve reintroduced wheat (do you know how amazing baguettes are?), and I’m watching. I’m suspicious, but I’m holding out judgment until enough time passes to make an educated enough guess.

Is that dry, bumpy patch on his temple because of the wheat? Is his painful gas from the wheat? What about the rash beneath his diaper? Honestly, I don’t know.

I’m praying for clear answers. For wisdom.

I’m hoping his tranquil demeanor means he’s not hurting internally or itching horribly. His calm feeds my calm: Maybe he’s ok.

So as we trek forward to meet whatever joys and challenges lie ahead for our family, I’m happy to bask in this unexpectedly peaceful time.

And in that dimple.

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.