Tiger Babies Strike Back (21 page)

To borrow a line from the movie
Swingers
, I guess we Asian Americans are “so money we don't even know how money we are.” Chinese culture and what our faces represent apparently bring in the big bucks. But I'm not exactly sure how I feel about Asian-themed objects being so popular. I am conflicted. As a Chinese person, I feel objectified and a little embarrassed when I see a placemat or a coffee mug decorated with the winking face of an Asian woman. However, simultaneously, my American side might be attracted to the innocent romance of a 1930s Shanghai girl in a pretty cheongsam. It's definitely weird to see something for sale that has a picture on it that is not me per se, but simultaneously represents me. In stores, I never see shirts or stationery whose sole decoration is the face of a random white person, or any other race for that matter. In contrast, I was in a boutique with Lucy and she tugged on my sleeve with honest confusion and asked, “Why does that apron have a picture of Auntie Angie on it?” We both stared in disbelief because the silk-screened image did, in fact, bear an uncanny resemblance to my sister-in-law. “I don't know” was all I managed to say.

And thus, when you are Chinese American, even shopping is complicated.

Whether I am at the trinket shop or the museum, both of which seem to share the purpose of bringing Chinese culture to the public, there doesn't seem to be any room for a real Chinese person who can dispel the romanticism and mystique. In the selling of Oriental illusion, is my very presence a fly in the soy milk?

I'm not yet ready to make any further waves, so for now I'll just stay out of that particular store as well as that gallery of artifacts. I understand why I might make those men feel uncomfortable. Clearly, they think I am biting their style.

But fellow citizens, really. Dare we ask, who bit whose style first?

26

One thing nobody tells you about motherhood is that you will be surrounded all the time. Someone is always touching you, talking to you, grabbing at your clothes, or otherwise obliterating your personal space. Your hands are always busy making something, rearranging and fixing an object or favorite item, or cleaning clothes, toys, or household items. And while you are trying to apply laserlike focus to the tasks at hand, your child or spouse is grabbing at your rump or sundry lady parts, and you just want to tell everyone to please, please, just stop. Please. Just. Stop. Touching. Me.

Everyone is supposedly being playful and just wanting to be lovey-dovey, but how can you think about hot glue guns, Twizzlers, soccer cleats, feeling feminine, the overdue property tax, sex, camping gear for the overnight field trip, and making a stuffed angel hedgehog with wings out of napkins all at the same time?

And then you have to feel guilty for being crabby. And even feeling guilty feels like just one more thing you gotta do. Of course, meanwhile, you aren't even looking after your own basic needs, and you might suddenly notice that for the past hour you have been starving. I often discover that my stomach is rumbling, and I recall that before I had a kid, I used to frequently eat hot meals. Now I vaguely remember what those tasted like. Remember the mom in
A Christmas Story
? In the voice-over, Ralphie says, “My mother had not had a hot meal for herself in fifteen years.” I always chuckled a little at that line until I became that line. For many years now I've made my daughter's dinner, then served the adult meal for my husband and me, but by the time I'm about to sit down, someone needs milk or water, and since I'm already the one who isn't eating yet, I am the one who ends up getting the drink, and then a fork is dropped or a drink is spilled, and by the time I settle down to take my first bite, the kid is done eating and wants something else, or suddenly has to poop. As I'm chewing that first mouthful of food, it is somewhat less appetizing knowing that any second now, someone will be yelling, “I NEED TO BE WIPED!”

Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Every single meal, of every single day, for the past nine years.

And I wish I was joking. But all you other moms out there know that I am not. As I ruminate on this daily situation, I have come to the realization that what I really want to say to my own mother is, “Sorry. I had no idea that this is what your life was like for
decades
.”

Before I had my daughter I never realized I would never go to the bathroom alone ever again. When she was a tiny infant, I used to strap her into the vibrating bouncy chair so she couldn't hurt herself while I was otherwise occupied for a couple of minutes. Later, when she was at the crawling stage, I locked the door with both of us inside so she couldn't scramble away and fall down the stairs. And from toddler age till now she has just wanted to be at my side at all times. It's wonderful that someone wants to accompany me for every bodily function I have, but it got old about seven years ago. Now she says, “Would you like some company?” which is really nice and polite, but frankly the answer is no.

I was reasonably prepared for the idea that an infant or toddler needs her mother to be physically close most of the time, but I am taken by surprise that the seven- to nine-year-old girl needs and wants her mom still, maybe even more. Kids want to sleep in a heap, like puppies. I want to sleep and not be kicked in the head. I would really appreciate some quiet any time of the day, but my kid likes to chatter constantly about kittens and mice and hamsters and which would I like better, a drawing of Russian or Chinese or Native American hedgehogs in Atlantis or an underground science fair where they grow magic blueberries that make them disappear and never grow old or die and always have chocolate caramel sundae parfaits for dinner and wear diapers that never smell bad?

She strings the sentences all together perhaps because she believes that as soon as she stops talking I will stop looking at her. That sounds logical. But here's the thing. She already gets tons of attention. She is an only child who lives with both her parents, and we are together all the time. And yet. Even for her, consistent attention is still not enough. When I see my daughter doing her version of “Egyptian tap dancing” complete with booty shakes and arm wiggling, I remember how desperately I also attempted to keep my own mother's gaze upon me. If she closed the door to go to the bathroom, it felt like the sun had suddenly been obscured by a dark cloud.

But enough already! Every mother I know has at one time or another waited hours to pee only to finally sit down and have a kid bang on the door like the house is on fire. When you waddle over to open the door with your pants still at your knees, it turns out the emergency is just that the kid couldn't peel a glitter sticker off its backing. So is it any wonder we want to drink wine all night?

And as the kid gets older, she is getting more and more curious about bodies. During the infant and toddler years, I took speed showers and barely spent time drying myself off or moisturizing. But I thought that after eight years I might get to take a somewhat normal shower. But no. I might be two days without bathing, and when I finally get in and feel the first three seconds of hot water awakening my skin, I think maybe I can finally relax for a minute. But then the curtain is yanked wide open for another urgent bit of news, “I CAN'T GET MY KINDLE TO WORK!” I am standing there naked as my daughter gapes at my body, wet boobs and all. Then my husband might stroll on in and say, “Ooh, what's going on in here?”

Please. Please, all of you. Please. Just. Get. Out.

When you are a mom, often it feels like the only time to yourself is when you are in the car. In your head, you hope that no one will want to go to the grocery store with you. You want to buy tampons in peace and not have to answer a barrage of questions like “Are those the thingies you stick in your butt?” or “Why do mommies have to wear diapers inside their underwear, anyway?”

Kids want to know everything. They want to touch, feel, and smell anything and everything about you. Some small person is always asking invasive questions about your deep, furrowed wrinkles (“Why do you have stripes on your forehead?”), your blubber (“That feels like pudding!”), or your breasts (“They kinda look like cupcakes, and that makes me hungry!”).

Um, yeah.

So yes, Mom. I do apologize. I now know why you were so cranky. You were only as grumpy as I am now. We were all making you insane and I hadn't realized that mothers are like Rodney Dangerfield. Mothers don't get any respect.

As I look back, I recall that my own mom also wanted to be left alone. When I was younger, I couldn't imagine why she didn't want us crawling all over her with sticky hands, grabbing her face, and stepping all over her feet with our hard shoes. Our flailing limbs were constantly accidentally bonking her in the eyeball, side of the head, and anywhere else within our reach.

Ugh. Sorry, Mom. My bad. I get it now.

27

I never applied for membership to the Hot Mess Club, but one day I suddenly realized I belonged. Somehow I already knew the exclusive address, and surprisingly, there was a reserved parking space right out front, just for me. Seemingly overnight there was a heap of crazy yelling from the kitchen and her name was Kim Wong Keltner.

I think every mother has asked herself at some point,
Why am I the one who has to do
everything
?
The quick answer is, because everyone has to do everything. What else is there to do, sit in the mush pot all day? For me, performing all the little tasks of every day is its own reward, a daily way of saying, “I'm grateful I have all my limbs.”

It does feel exhausting sometimes though. However, I don't ever want to be like my friend Ann's mother. Every Sunday night she served a beautiful dinner that took all day to prepare, but when it came time to eat, she sat down at the table and sobbed uncontrollably into her hands. Meanwhile, the whole family ate in silence and pretended not to notice.

Ugh. For everybody. Note to self: Don't wanna cry at the dinner table no matter how exquisite the beef bourguignon.