My Shoes.

I wear a size 8.
This is relatively big considering I am 5'3. Walking home from daycare last week with my BOB stroller trying to cross the street, I lost a shoe. A beautiful powder blue, patent leather Butter ballet flat. A car swept by and ran over my shoe sending it twirling into traffic. I was sad for two reasons. One that I was in a Cinderella-state on a sidewalk covered in gum stains and Two, wait that was supposed to be Maika's shoe one day!
I am constantly daydreaming of my daughter inheriting my stuff. I get excited buying my own clothing now because I imagine how cool she will think her mom is. How she will have this endless closet to choose from and we will play dress up together. In reality, as Maika is currently in the 105%tile or something ridiculous for height, I am guessing she will be about 8 years old when she surpasses me in stature.
But back to my shoe.
So, standing on one leftover shoe I made it to Nine West and purchased a terribly impractical pair of wedge sandals and continued my walk home. The 3 mile stroll was topped off by a windy moment which caught my billowy sundress and lifted it up in a senior citizen Marilyn Monroe moment. Was it sexy and funny? Um, no. No it was not. It was in the midst of Columbia Heights in front of my local free clinic with a row of construction workers on their smoke break. I mean, I can't even make this stuff up.
Humiliated and feeling badly about my now postpartum saggy behind, I scurried the last few blocks home in my new shoes. Thirty four year old Chinese lady Moons Locals! I could just imagine the headlines.
I carried my BOB up my front steps and laugh-cried for a moment.
This is urban living. Can I handle this with my babe? Is it worth it to live walking distance from my grocery store, Target and some pretty good restaurants? I am not so sure anymore. I am not quite ready for a goat farm in upstate New York, but I am starting to wonder if I need more trees in my life...
Xo,
M

Puke much?

Four years of medical school, four years of residency, hemorrhaging postpartum women, vaginal breech deliveries....nope, none of those prepared me for taking care of my own sick, puking daughter.

I have always considered myself pretty damn cool under pressure. In my personal life I am not exactly a hard, tough tiger lady. In my professional world, though, I can tell you there is little that can make my heart race, my palms sweat, raise my eyebrow even. I have two personalities, formerly Dr. Tham and Mrs. Metz. Unlike Mr. Hyde, Mrs. Metz is not a murderous villain or maniac, but she is emotional, often driven by deep-seeded mommy issues and has a tempestuous attitude at times. Dr. Tham is cool as a cucumber.
Where was Dr. Tham last night when a vomit-soaked Maika Tham Metz appeared on our video baby monitor at 915 PM, her hair drenched and face dripping? Dr. Tham was not on call.
My heart raced, my stomach dropped, and I leapt off the couch. A third character appeared, Mom. Mama. Mee-maw. Seeing your nine-month old daughter sick, covered in banana chunks and old Pedialyte is an easy reminder of your own mortality, vitality, capacity. It is also such an unbelievable bonding moment between parents. I saw my husband as a hero in some Harlequin romance novel, tearing up the stairs with me to rescue our little nugget.
So, Bath #4 of the day commenced. I found my soothing singing voice and made up words to the popular nursery rhymes we didn't sing in my Chinese American home. And I thought.
I thought long and hard about when I would come home from college and have a slight cough in the middle of the night, I would wake up with my mother standing over me in my bedroom. I remember how that used to irritate me to no end. How I thought my mom was a weird, crazy overprotective lady.
Last night, we slept in my daughter's room and I think I hovered over her bed so much that my back aches a bit this morning.
I will be a weird, overprotective lady. I will wear mom jeans one day so I don't embarrass my daughter with my clothes that are Too Young, Mom! I will do it, I will share these frightening, tachycardia-inducing moments with my husband and I will be strong. Dr. Tham and Mrs. Metz, you are not needed here.
Momma's here. I just didn't know we were the same person.
Xo
M

Wheeeee!

Maika's first time on the swings. Was it glorious? Was it magical squealing delight? Was it bubbling laughter and little plump legs kicking away?
Sadly, no. Mostly confusion and what on earth are you doing to me, mother?
In the midst of the swing experiment falling flat, the NRA also managed to ruin my day.
Parenting seems to have a lot of these moments. Little day to day events feel monumental and we somehow have to temper those feelings with emotions over major political upheaval, social injustice and newsworthy violence. I think even her birth was this way. I put too much unnecessary pressure and expectation on every moment, wanting it to be amazing with sparkles, rainbows and cherubs. Meanwhile, I knew all to well that there were other women in labor all around the world just hoping to survive their delivery.
Sometimes what I envision in my idealistic mind falls a little flat and I can't beat myself up over wanting so much for my daughter and losing sight of the big picture...that just bringing her up in a stable two parent home is enough.

There are going to be so many things my daughter will love that I will not, things that I would want so badly for her to appreciate that she might find ridiculous. Maybe she will be a six-foot awkward girl who hates sports or a gangly teen with a love for Dungeons and Dragons. The point is, I have no control.
I can't live in a world of expectations. I can't micromanage Maika. I can't hope for her to be anyway other than the way she wants to be. It is very hard to allow your child grow into their own personality with the appropriate amount of guidance. I don't want to burden her with any of my own emotional baggage. Hopes and dreams of mine be damned, she is going to be a child who lives an loves in her own way.
Today, all I can write is that I am disappointed in our Senate for not working towards minimizing gun violence and my daughter is not in love with the swings.
Next time, swings, we will meet again.

In the other half of my brain worrying about the sorry-ass state of our country, President Obama, thanks for caring so much about keeping my daughter safe. I heard it in your voice and it made me a little weepy. It made my mundane worries feel small. It reminded me to remember what really matters.

Marathons and Bombs

It's funny how quickly the angst I remember from training for the DC marathon falls away like a frivolous, self-absorbed memory of a former self. How foreign it seems to have cared so much about running some arbitrary distance. As a new mom, in the time that I was pregnant with Maika and brought her into this tough world, there has been much violence.
The shootings in Connecticut, the two sweet children murdered at bath time by their nanny, an eight-year old spectator at the Boston Marathon dead today. It isn't that I didn't feel sadness or pain over the loss of innocent lives before, but the pang in my chest in the sick fear that that someone could be My daughter, My Maika, leaves me breathless, I'll. These were innocent, warm children. Babies with their lives ahead of them. Pure, trusting, ruddy-faced little ones who did not deserve to be the casualties in our adult wars.
It makes me all too aware of the daily realities that other mothers in war torn countries face everyday. It moves me to tears to feel this collective holding of breath, hoping to our babies get home safe. I feel selfish at times, for bringing Maika into a not so great time in world history. She did not ask to be here or be exposed to bombs and assault rifles.
Becoming a mother... It is an unbelievable responsibility and my daughter is a constant reminder that I must remember to do good in this life. That I cannot spend my walk home with her worried about steaming her dinner or her blueberry stained new onesie. She is palpable, golden and here in the present.
I worry too much about insignificant, mundane daily tasks.
I only have right now to love her and this moment to enjoy her.
My heart breaks for the mothers in Boston tonight.
Xo
M

New York, New York

I used to be a New York City girl. Manhattan was the center of my universe and I could have never imagined a future anywhere else. The energy of that city is incomparable.
Now a Washingtonian, with DC in big letters on my daughter's birth certificate, my mortgage and driver's license... I still manage to fit in my New York roots into every conversation. Is this a longing for the past, an inability to move forward from memories of close girlfriends and the best restaurants? Or is it something more? Does my current city just lack that fundamental pulse of life?
I have more "things" here. A bigger home. A car. Three strollers. I am not sure that any of those things matter. When I think about where I want home to be, where I want Maika to run and laugh and become who she is, I have a hard time muddling through what is truly important to me. I dream of Mill Valley with a beach 7 miles away where flaxen-haired, sturdy girls befriend my daughter and they all climb trees together in some sort of treehouse paradise. I dream of Austin, Texas where I can have land for days, exposure to music, food, art, weirdness and good manners. I dream of a return to Brooklyn one day, where my husband and I are reunited with our oldest and dearest friends and we browse the Brooklyn Flea with Maika, roam through Prospect Park, show her where we were married.
We have made excel spreadsheets, bookmarked Trulia, RedFin, Houzz... It is an endless quest for answers and possibilities for an ideal life for our daughter, our family. I don't know where we will land or if we will ever take flight. There is good stuff here too and I find in my adult life it takes a little longer to make connections and find kindred spirits. I am just starting to feel more at home here.

So what do I really care about?

Safety first! I want Maika to walk home from school and not have a drunk, wrinkled man asking her for cash. I want her to love birds and grass and not be scared of nature (admittedly I squealed like an eight year old at the DC arboretum this weekend after being stung by a wasp).
I want her to be confident and healthy, surrounded by a strong community of like minded kids. Where is this place? Is it just where my husband and I make it? Does geography matter?
We are still figuring it out. For now, I am thankful for our local Taqueria where the waitresses fill my daughter with avocados and kisses. I am weirdly obsessed with the Zoo and live within walking distance of elephants, flamingos and orangutans. I need to live a little more in the present.
Right now matters most.

Breastfeeding until the cows come home

In a quiet act of rebellion I wore a drop waist, boat necked dress to work today. Not a V-neck. Not a pull to the side tank. Not a button down.
Like Tosh.0, I am currently immersed in my third much anticipated wardrobe, "Breast-Friendly Tops". This season was immediately preceded by "Maternity Michelle" and "Normal Clothes I Thought I'd Wear Forever". Breastfeeding, while one of my happiest and rewarding activities, has led to an overflowing closet and a collection of slightly misshapen shirts.
In a rookie mistake, I wore a pre-baby black dress to Maika's first pediatrician appointment. This resulted in a Macho Man, Randy Savage-esq seam-shredding scene when she cried out in hunger. Who knew I was so strong?
Every morning is now a creative effort to dress well and have quick access to breast milk. I initially made my husband go to Target and purchase every click and snap, one handed miracle shirt they had. I quickly realized that for a short-waisted Chinese girl, nursing tops are a recipe for disaster. Since then, I have struck a pretty good balance between functional and fashionable.
I have breastfed everywhere, in an Ikea furniture display, balancing on one leg over Maika's car seat on I-495, in front of the Great Apes at the zoo. I never imagined it would mean this much to me or that I would be one of those crazy women with her boob out in public places.
Motherhood is that way, though, it's transformative and unpredictable. It's hard to know who you'll be after you open that door.
As I sit here behind my closed office door, my dress bunched in a crumpled bundle under my neck as I pump, I feel pretty silly, though.
V neck Tee tomorrow. Breast Friendly Tops it is, at least until the cows come home. Three months to go.
Xo,
M

Fried chicken, anyone?

I've told many white(grayish) lies in my lifetime. As a child I was afraid of bringing home A minuses and in the days of carbon paper report cards, I became quite adept at creating plus signs.
This was bad behavior and I am embarrassed by it, but I don't know that I necessarily caused any permanent damage. As an adult, as a mom, the white lie I am currently telling myself is that I have just had a baby and I can continue to eat fried chicken, French fries and everything bagels with whitefish salad.

These are by no means daily offenses, but yeah, my caloric intake is naughty.

I am breastfeeding so I lean heavily on those extra 500 calories I burn daily and make an endless amount of excuses. I used to have a great metabolism. I used to run 4 or 5 miles daily. I am a mom now, and you know, I get a free pass.

I don't get a free pass on my health, though. I have a daughter and while I cringe to think that I will be pushing seventy on her wedding day, I want to be a damn good looking senior citizen.

How does one get exercise and eat clean while working occasional 60 hour work weeks and delivering babies at 3am?

I think the answer lies in transportation, late evenings, early mornings and lunchtime. I have, of late, become an expert in all things game of thrones, walking dead and justified. In the wake of a tough 24 hours at the hospital I believe I deserve couch potato time, endless handfuls of my daughter's cheddar bunnies and a dusty set of Insanity workout DVDs. Woe is me that I have a stable income, loving husband, healthy daughter and an overflowing shoe collection.
I don't "deserve" fried chicken for all of my troubles. I deserve healthy arteries, a strong right hip flexor and bright skin.
I am done making excuses... Next step, a plan!
Xo
M