Compliments by text:
Mom: Are you okay? You look like a drowning victim.
Me: Thank you. Drowning victim was what I was going for .
How can I not love my mom? Look, I know her word choice is harsh but it’s also so specific, over the top, creative, and just like from her own world that I just eat it up, and stuff my looks I don’t even hear. Plus, for all her insanity, she really, really cares about me and expresses it in a very twisted way.
This year, the kids and I have regularly going swimming. I’m so happy two out of three kids are able to swim without any flotation devices. Thank god. I don’t have a lot of goals as a parent, but I would like my kids to not drown. That would be fabulous.
Anyway, the kids all love to jump into the pool. You remember when you liked to do that, right? They climb out, jump in, over and over again. Whenever they jump, it causes an enormous splash that hits me in the fact, goes right for my eyes. So it’s like I’m constantly wiping my face. I need an umbrella. I’m also defending my body, because of course, they want to jump right into my arms, which just results in me getting kicked. We are all exhausted from this exercise.
When First Son jumps in, the splash is especially wild. He’s like a gigantic, sweet golden retriever and just jumps right onto me. Waves of water emerge from the pool. I finally figured a little system. Wonder Twin Boy and I got kick boards and propped them up in front of our faces. Golden, right? Wrong. I hid behind my kick board, First Son jumped, and somehow a sheet of water went over my little fence and hit me in the face.
I recently wathced “No Home Movie,” a documentary by Chantal Akerman. I had never heard of Ms. Akerman before I cam across this New York Times review. The review caught my eye because the movie is about Chantal Akerman’s intense bond with her elderly, dying mother, a French Holocaust survivor and because Ms. Akerman committed suicide after her mother died.
For years, I have been telling friends I can on watch movies where models are shooting zombies. That’s really all my brain can handle. Well the jokes on me, friends. I watched this long, slow documentary where for long periods of time, the camera froze on a wall or furniture or the filmmaker’s mom’s face, and I ate it up. Partially, it was how much the artist and mother clearly adored each other. Watching the old woman delight in her daughter, listen to her concerns quite seriously, remember her as a beautiful lovely student. They both expressed affection directly and honestly and simply. It was just moving. Perhaps I connected to it because my own mother is also aging (although my own exchanges with my mom are so much more barbed. My mother is one of the great loves of my life but she was born without an editor in her brain and I can definitely behave like a storm.)
There’s a moment where she asks Chantal why she’s filming her on Skype and Chantal says “I want to show how small the world is.” Her mother’s reaction was to laugh lightly and comment how Chantal has always had the most interesting ideas. Is that not moving?
The other night, I put Wonder Twin Boy to bed and was feeling some tenderness toward him. I hugged him and stroked his face and whispered to him “One day, you are going to be ten years old.” He whispered back, “And one day, you will be dead.”
I could not stop laughing. It was really bad. I had to leave the room and freak out into a pillow. Husband had to take over bedtime because I just fell apart.
Emoâ€™s reading list.
Iâ€™m very lucky that I was born into a family of readers. My mom, my emo and I can gab all day about books, parsing out style, point of view, what kind of lit appeals to â€œold peopleâ€ versus young people. My most recent list of recommendations from my emo include:
Being Mortal by Atul Gawande
A Bitter Sweet Season: Caring For Our Aging Parents and Ourselves by Jane Gross
Canâ€™t We Talk About Something More Pleasant? By Roz Chast
Itâ€™s like the grim reaperâ€™s required reading list and it makes me laugh so hard when I read this list to myself. My mom and emo are so bright, intelligent, literary â€“ and so, so very dark. This makes me love my family, love being Korean, where to talk and think about mortality from the day we are born, because, of course, I am right at home with these spectacular ladies. Ugh, my family is the freaking best.
Sometimes when I get ready in the morning, I do a final mirror check and wonder what my high school self would think about my middle-aged self. Profound horror? Oh, thatâ€™s all right? Jesus, never let me get to the mid-forties? Why are you wearing a blazer, you sell out? My friends from high school still canâ€™t believe it when I wear a suit to work. Mike calls me Corporate Barbie.
First Son: Mom, is Heaven a real place?
Me: I donâ€™t believe so. But to tell you the truth, I have never died, so I could be wrong. I am wrong all the time.
First Son: Well, if itâ€™s a real place, then I would like to find you and play catch.
I think we then went to the shoulder of the main road of the conversation and discussed what kind of materials our mitts would be made of in some heavenly kingdom. Husband pointed out that while this is First Sonâ€™s idea of heaven, to play catch with his mother for eternity, it might not be mine. I donâ€™t mind. I actually enjoy playing catch now, but I hate pitching. My god, do I hate pitching.
This was my idea of heaven in high school. Ooooo, that hair, that man makeupâ€¦.
In these awful news stories times, I have been watching â€œThe Good Place,â€ a light comedy thatâ€™s well crafted, theatrical, but substantive enough and takes place inâ€¦the after life! (dum, dum, dah!) Kristen Bell is the leader navigating these new waters, and wow, she knows this character, it is so in her wheel house. And it’s a complete pleasure to watch her expertise at work. The show is well written, the premise and the characters actually deepen, and the cast is diverse. Sold, dudes. Iâ€™m totally sold. Ted Danson is great in it as well, and he’s had a long career under the radar, always working and consistently good. (Side story: I was in his orbit for one episode of TV I shot years ago. It was 3 in the freaking morning and he was doing a scene of casual conversation with his co-star, but you need so much energy in the middle of the night, he asked for some protein, turkey rolls before Take Kajillion. Friend #1 was on fire that night [I was Friend #2]. He asked Friend #1 if she was tired and she said â€œthereâ€™s no place Iâ€™d rather be.â€ Wow. Quite frequently, I am not like the people around me but that was a fun experience.) I had to watch like four episodes in a row the other night to convince myself it was worth getting up out of bed to do the dishesâ€¦again. (Yet another aside: I finally saw one apartment that was crazy-messier than ours, with four kids, three cats, and piles of clean laundry on every available surface. The father would be horrified that Iâ€™m saying this because he was already horrified when I said I needed to use their bathroom at the block party. I was only excited because most apartments are not as messier than ours, and I finally got to find one EVEN MESSIER! I HAVE REACHED SOME OBSCURE LEVEL OF NIRVANA! You guys, see? Life is worth living.)
I really thought this title said â€œLittle FRIES Everywhereâ€ and I was pretty excited. Ugh. Will still read the book, though am now incredibly left down. Have no idea what this book is about.
I love him. Iâ€™m so glad to hear this. â€œNever Let Me Goâ€ is one of all-time favorites, though my friend recently cited as a cold, unfeeling book. I feel about â€œNever Let Me Goâ€ the way I do about â€œPurple Rain.â€ Itâ€™s such a weird, creepy story, I just ATE IT UP.