Mama Writer

Morning- Our Daily First Impression

I was reading an article on revision advice from an experienced editor. One piece of advice was to make the first time the reader meets the character extra impactful. First impressions matter, and that goes double for character-building.

Then, my alarm went off, signaling that I needed to wake my son up to get ready for school.

First impressions are important- and we get a chance for them every day, if we count mornings.

And I do.

The morning impression of my family is so telling. You can gather a lot about who they are from just the first hour.

Noah wakes up with a few cozy yawns and stretches. In a few minutes he willingly springs out of bed. In no time, he’s fighting imaginary enemies and explaining he’s actually someone’s lost son from some ninja planet.

He usually gets so wrapped up in his fantasies that I have to remind him of the breakfast that’s in front of him. Even though I get him up early, so he can play before school, he’s ready to go only two minutes before our school bus alarm goes off.

He’s bright, distracted, sunshine every morning.

My daughter is another story.

I don’t have to wake her up. Even though she is not a morning kid, she’d rather crawl out of her room before daylight than be left out of all the activity going on in the kitchen.

About five minutes after I get Noah up, I hear a bang! That’s Josie swinging her door open.  

Then, stomp, stomp, stomp.

I catch a glimpse of a little body wrapped head to toe in a blanket, face covered, navigating the way purely by memory, as she clomps to the couch. Still covered completely, she lays there in silence for several minutes. We’ve learned the hard way that if her father or I approach too soon, or too cheerfully, we’ll be met with scowls or fussing. We leave her alone for a good five minutes.

She thaws out on the couch, slowly letting the blanket fall off her face, as she blinks, bleary-eyed in the morning light. Once her eyes adjust, I offer her cereal and chocolate milk. She always says yes, leaving the blanket behind.

After this warm-up period, she’s pure sweet sunshine. She can’t give her brother enough hugs and kisses on his way out the door. The transformation is remarkable.

Husband is usually the last one up. He is even less of a morning person than his daughter, and he has a habit of going to bed well after midnight, making getting up harder.

Sometimes, I just open the bedroom door early. That way, he will at least hear the informal alarm clock of his daughter bursting through her door.

Other times, I let him sleep until there’s just enough time for him to get up and drink something before taking Noah to the bus stop. I wake him up sweetly- with a reminder that I’m not his mom, and that he should really set his own alarm.

Other times, if I’m feeling it, I’ll turn the kids loose on him.

“Hmmm. Is daddy still being a sleepy head? Who wants to go wake him up for me?”


Husband needs approximately 3 cups of coffee to activate his personality in the morning. After stumbling out of bed, it’s silence and slow moving until he gets those 3 cups.

That’s all three of my loves, between the hours of 6 and 7 a.m.

That first hour tells you a lot.   


Mama Writer

Mama’s Writing on a Snow Day

It’s a good time for a blog.

No one’s up yet.

I wanted to write about how I am in my own way, when it comes to getting writing done. For a few days, school has been canceled. Snow flew in NC, we all screamed, and here we are.

At home.

The following song and dance ensues every time I have a “day off,” when the kids are also home-

My wonderful husband encourages me to go work/write in the bedroom while he corrals the kids in the living room.

I am so, so, so lucky.

However, after a little while, I can’t stay in the bedroom.

It isn’t just that little bodies slip past their daddy to “check on mama.” It isn’t that my husband can’t handle the kids- he’s great.

It’s the guilt.

Since writing is, for me, a pleasure, I feel like I’m just playing in my room, while, out in the wilds of the living room, husband is doing the real, endless work of parenting/managing the house, and my children are “probably” (in my awful imagination) feeling neglected by their mother.

With this guilt in my chest, I try to sit and write, but I hear everything from the living room.

I hear the kids running and screaming around my poor husband (snow days amp kids UP).

I hear the kids getting in trouble after being cooped up too long and getting too wild.

I hear kids starting to ask for snacks/lunch.

It’s usually this last one that unseats me. I can’t just sit there while these crazy, amped up munchkins, who obviously need some organized activities, require their overworked father to also start cooking.

I stop “playing” and go out there, where the real work is, so I can help my family.


I wasn’t playing.

I was writing and planning.

You’re supposed to work for the job you love, so you’ll never actually feel like you’re working.

Mommy guilt adds a whole other layer to this idea. Work for the job you love, and you’ll find it much easier to consider it an easy sacrifice when the “real” work shows up.

Danger! Danger!

The job I love is not a toy. The job I love is not “free time.” This isn’t a video game that I should save and stop when it’s time to join “real life.”

A lot of quotation marks today.  

I teach writing. I write for myself and my students. It’s important. It’s necessary.

I have to stop treating it like a guilty pleasure.

Mama Writer

The Harry Potter Effect: My Boy is Growing Up

I took the above picture when Noah was mad at me. To get his revenge he decided he would design his mama’s nemesis, President Trump, a cool, new white house.

My boy has always been… strong-willed.  

He was back-talking me, and my parenting demands, since before he could use actual words.



Trying to get him to eat vegetables?

He’ll sit at the table, as long as I’ll let him, without touching a single bite. See you tomorrow, peas!

The baby book I read during his toddler years said that no kid who screamed in a tantrum for more than 2 hours was actually having a tantrum. It said there was probably something really wrong, and that parents should proceed to the emergency room.

But, as far as I know, the emergency room doesn’t treat “turned-off-Thomas-the-Train-Halfway-Through-an-Episode” syndrome.  

Thank goodness that I had him first. I thought he was an average kid. As my firstborn, he was my definition of normal.

I often tell people that, if I’d had my easygoing daughter first, I probably would have needlessly put Noah into therapy.  He would have been labeled my “problem child,” just because I didn’t know a child with a will of iron was an option.

Don’t get me wrong. He’s sunny, smiling, laughing, helpful, eager, and playful-

Until you tell him to do something that he doesn’t want to do.

Pretty sure this kid will chase and demand his own definition of success and happiness wherever he goes, so I’m only complaining for the sake of comedy, here- and for a little setup.

I’ve been reading him Harry Potter, every night I could, for a week.

The first book is, of course, wonderful, but I sometimes forget how much backstory and description it takes to get to the more magical parts of the story.

Having a six-year-old graphic novel enthusiasts beside me while I read it really emphasized that this book is for kids of an older, more patient age, or maybe those more ready to read to themselves entirely, skipping and skimming when they choose.

I’m his mom, so I can tell he’s not that into the book. When he’s enthusiastic, you know it. You can’t miss it.

He’s not yet enthusiastic. We’ll get to the really cool parts soon, so I have hope he’ll get into it.

But, it occurred to me last night, while I was reading one of my own favorite parts and pretty much doubling the length of our usual story time with this book that is not my son’s favorite-

He hasn’t complained.

At all.

I can tell it’s not his style. I know there are other things he would prefer to read. I’ve been reading some really long sections, completely devoid of the action scenes and intense pictures he usually craves.

But, if he’s thought of these things, he’s refused to voice them. He’s keeping quiet, and promptly, without a hint of hesitation, snuggling beside me for his wordy, picture-free, not-yet-his-style, story time.

He jumps into bed and pulls the covers over both of us, holding his flashlight up on the page to help me read, frequently switching hands, as I read so long, they get tired.

I think that shows me the love in our relationship so much more than words can.

My son. My Noah.

The will of iron in a six-year-old body is doing something for me, even though it’s not what he wants to do.

There are so many sides to this boy. I haven’t even begun to figure him out, and now he’s started growing up on me, changing all the rules that I thought I’d figured out.

I thought I couldn’t love him more back when he back-babbled, waving his indignant, pudgy arms at me.

Turns out we were just warming up.


Cooking Irresponsibly Mama Writer

Cooking- Whether They Like It or Not

I’ve always loved to cook. Since I was a little kid, family members have complimented me on my simple, but enthusiastic, kitchen skills. It was a common joke that I would easily “catch” a husband because I could cook. When I was pregnant, friends wished the babies would be boys, so I would have those legendary appetites to feed.

Reality was a complete surprise.

My husband is a Korean gentleman who has been adjusting to American food. It isn’t easy for him, and, while he always politely eats my food, and even compliments me on it, there’s a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

For him, roast turkey with mashed potatoes and balsamic Brussel sprouts are equivalent to hotdogs with canned baked beans. If I said we were going to quit my home cooked meals and just start eating out, he probably wouldn’t feel a thing.

Then, there’s my boy. Eating me out of house and home? Only if my home was made out of carbohydrates and/or cheese. He’s one of those super-picky eaters. He practically hyperventilates at the prospect of trying different foods.

We have a “tasting” rule that’s been in place for the last two years. He doesn’t have to eat all of any item on his plate, but he does have to taste everything and behave politely.

Two years- and he still fights the rule Every. Single. Night. He stalls. Squirms. Tries to negotiate. Begs. Pleads. Sits there for long periods of time. Eventually, finally, reluctantly takes an excruciating bite.

After all that drama, of course, he always says he hates what he just tasted (our rule requires him to say it with a polite, “No, thanks. This is not my favorite.”).

My daughter is not super-picky. She’s more of a traditionally picky preschooler. She doesn’t want vegetables and needs three or four reminders not to call new food we put in front of her “disgusting.”

Did I mention I love to cook?

I forget sometimes, too. I’ve been worn down like a crayon.

They don’t want my food.

My husband appreciates my cooking efforts. I know he does, but, overall, It’s just hard to keep presenting beautiful dishes that took planning and patience when I’m going to get the same polite thanks and a couple of “yucks.”

I’ve been wondering how I can make the situation more positive. So far, figuring out some Korean recipes is sounding pretty good. Maybe Husband and I can find some common favorites.

As for the kids, I’ve been assured this is a phase most littles grow out of- though it does sometimes take a decade or two.

Mama Writer

Thankfully, 30 Wasn’t My New 20

I just finished my 30th year, (Happy Birthday to me!) and I’m well aware that 30 was supposed to be tough.

People expected me to suddenly feel a rush of aging.

People might have expected me to mourn the loss of my twenties.

A few wrote hopeful little “30 is the new 20!” messages on my timeline.

These feelings probably run through all of us in varying degrees.

But, I wrote a lot of my twenties down. I remember them through the pages, so I don’t feel like I’m losing them.

Plus, while I love how my life grew during those years, looking over my writings from my twenties, the one thing I see that I needed, again and again, was 30-year-old me.

For example, I will have to go on a trip alone for the first time in 9 years. My husband and I have been road trip people since we married. This will be the first time that I’ve had to handle a flight/hotel/adventure on my own since I was 22.

So, when I was planning my trip, all of my 22-year-old issues starting rushing back to me.

When I was in my early twenties, I studied abroad for a session with the UNC honor’s program. It was a great opportunity. We split our time between London and Oxford while studying theater and Shakespeare.

Such a wonderful trip in so many ways.

Also, incredibly difficult.

I had never been on a plane before.

I had never had to deal with passport checks, security procedures, layover problems, missed flights, and exchanging currency.

I did it all, except the initial airport drop off and final pick up, alone.

While I struggled, while I fought to overcome a tidal wave of unprepared ignorance in order to survive the trip, what I desperately, tears-in-my-eyes, wished to have was a traveling companion who knew what the hell she was doing to show me the way.

It occurred to me the other day.

That’s me now. That’s 30-year-old me.

If I were to see a young woman looking lost and alone at the check-in counter at the airport, being told she was sold a problematic ticket, had thus missed her impossible flight, and would have to wait 12 hours for the next one, I would know what to say.

I could help someone through that.

And this new self-assured experience carries over in other ways.

20-year-old me almost broke a middle-aged dude’s hand on that first flight. He turned into an octopus when we were sky-high. I was so proud of myself for strong arming him and finally getting him to leave me alone.

30-year-old me, though, would have started with the pulling his fingers back to his wrist, then stood up and reported his ass, so he would think twice before ever doing that to another woman.

24-year-old me thought she was the worst mama in the world, as I struggled to take care of my first newborn.

Now, I know I was just a regular mom fed a myth about “good” moms. Now, I’m on the lookout for new moms who need to be told how good of a job they’re doing.

My twenties were about learning to take care of myself, then learning to take care of my family. At this point, though, I have those things pretty well in hand. It’s a lot easier to think about others, now.

I’m saying hello to 31, today. As someone officially on the other side of 30, I am happy, proud, and relieved to report that, for me, 30 was not the new 20.

Thank God.


Mama Writer

In Case the Grandparents Missed Visiting for Christmas

The important parts of today, in case the grandparents, who couldn’t visit, are feeling left out:

-Husband and I woke up before the kids, since we were so excited. Then, we didn’t want to miss the part where the kids storm into our room to announce it’s Christmas, so we went back to bed and waited for the kids to “wake us up.” Worth it.

-The stockings were full of dollar store finds, and they are probably some of the favorite gifts overall.

-Jocelyn asked Santa for a tiny stuffed cat with “sparkle eyes.” I bought it the day after she asked for it, and she hasn’t stopped carrying it since 6:20 a.m.

-Breakfast was a lot like a pretend tea party, since we set the table, but no one actually ate much. Purely decorative food.

-We staggered the present opening to try and make the excitement last. Stockings. Break. Small gifts. Break. Christmas lunch. Big gifts. It worked out really well- and Husband and I weren’t swamped with stuff to put together or batteries to find all at once.

-Josie loves her 80-piece tea set… that came with 80 stickers for some hapless parent to put on every. single. item. (It was MEEEEEE!)

-Lunch and dinner were easy since our favorite foods are macaroni and cheese, turkey sandwiches, and bratwursts. I didn’t even bake anything. The house is already overflowing with goodies that will seem out of date tomorrow (Candy cane fudge on December 26th? I don’t think so).

-Noah is playing his new video game every chance he gets. Pretty sure he’s going to turn into a Pokémon.

-We purposefully did nothing but play at home today. It was interesting. I, the watcher of almost no T.V. (besides cooking shows and my kids cartoons- which I admittedly love) watched two movies today. TWO.).

-The kids just helped me take all of the candy treats off the tree. We put them in a big bowl to munch on tonight.

-Husband and I plan to take the tree down after the kids’ bedtimes.

-Tomorrow is my birthday, which will help all of us transition out of Christmas mode. The party doesn’t have to end. It goes on without a tree- and with a more varied color scheme. I think I want a Carolina blue cake with sunflowers on it.  

We missed you, grandparents. The kids asked about you, and we’ll probably call soon. We’ll rehash some holiday highlights. If we skype, get ready for an intense closeup of a kitty with sparkle eyes.

I hope you had a Merry Christmas!

Mama Writer

Might’ve had fudge for breakfast.

How much damage can we really do in two days? It can’t be a lot, right?


I’m trying to relax my standards for the holidays, but there’s some internal struggle.

After working hard to play Christmas Fairy and getting my kids the special items on their Christmas lists, I’m left wondering: well, isn’t getting them everything they asked for spoiling them? Or, wouldn’t just the special items have been enough? Why are there also 1,000 other things under the tree and planned for the stockings?

Then, there’s the food.

My kids haven’t had a healthy item in 24 hours, and, if I can’t get them to eat an apple at snack time, I admit the menu for the next 24 hours is also planned to be holiday-rich-tastic.

Husband had signs of high blood pressure at his last doctor’s appointment. We were planning on a change of diet after the holidays, but I feel twinges every time I’m serving him anything that isn’t salad- Christmas Eve or no Christmas Eve.

And I’ve been on a slow and steady weight loss program since July-

But not right now, of course.

Is it hot in here? Please get that spotlight off of me.

I also finished my book right at the end of the semester. I’ve been decompressing for a week, but I’m itching to start my revisions.

But, not yet. I can’t be working now. It’s the holidays.

Must soak up magic. Must eat butter. Must color pictures for Santa Claus and watch The Grinch.

Try not to think about nutrition. Or general health. Or teaching the principles of discipline.

It’s just two days in anything-goes-except-work land. Try to enjoy it.

Pass the candy cane fudge.

Mama Writer

Back in Time for the Holidays

I have prepared my excuses. There are a lot of reasons why I took a week off from blogging.

Grades were due.

Graduation ate a whole day.

I had fun houseguests.

My son and daughter took turns being sick.

But the whole time I was missing blogs, I didn’t realize it until I was about to drop at the end of the day.

Work, work, work, work, lay down, eyes pop open-

“Didn’t blog today.”

That happened most days.

I’m disappointed to have broken my daily blogging streak. However, this is a great time to come back. I want to share some of my Christmas.

What I write about this holiday, I will probably keep forever. My kids are 6 and 4, and this is a big year for holiday magic.

For example, Husband wrapped the big gifts last night. I’m up early, so I’ll be able to see the kids’ reactions when they come out and see new gifts under the tree (We already had a few under there. They knew exactly how many and who each one was for).

They’re going to freak out.  

Also, this year, we live in a well-established neighborhood. We’ve been able to take afternoon walks and see some mega decorations. People around here get serious about their lights (I suspect a few neighbors are actually dueling).

The kids are enchanted.

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. We have plans to make cookies for Santa. I’m trying to figure out what goes in their stockings and what should go under the tree.

We won’t have guests this year. It feels strange that it will just be the four of us. I usually try to make “favorite foods” for Christmas dinner, but with the kids mainly in attendance, I guess that’s… mac and cheese? Festive! Maybe I’ll dye it red and green.

Any minute now, the kids will come blinking out of their rooms to ask me how many days left until Christmas. I’ll tell them just two more to go- then, I’ll watch as they discover (and carefully tally) the new presents under the tree.

It’s already a fun day.

Mama Writer

“Yes, she’s mine. She looks like her daddy.”

I wasn’t familiar with the incredibly problematic term of “passing” until I had my son.

He’s 50% his daddy’s boy, but he has my coloring. When we go out together, I’m sure he is generally expected to be Caucasian, despite having his Korean daddy’s eyes, mouth, ears, stubbornness, etc. My son looks white.

Husband had some discomfort with this “white son of a Korean guy” feeling. He told me he felt like people weren’t sure he was Noah’s father. The fact that Noah calls Husband “Appa,” the Korean word for daddy, didn’t help.

When we met new people, we had to explain that Husband is Noah’s father. It wasn’t always assumed- which could be difficult for Husband and confusing for Noah.

I had it easy, though. Noah looked like my son in all of the stereotypical white kid of a white lady ways.

Then, I had my daughter, Josie.

She was born with a thick head of jet black hair that stood straight up. Her perfect skin is two shades lighter than Husband’s and about four shades darker than mine (my color going all the way past porcelain to “transparent”).  

My daughter has a few of my features, but her lovely coloring meant Husband and I switched places. Now, I’m dealing with the “white mom of the Asian girl” idea.

And, apparently, people just can’t even.

A woman at the grocery store approached in order to ooh and aah over my beautiful baby. Josie sat smiling in the grocery cart while the woman asked if I would mind giving her some details about how I “got” my daughter. Her own daughter was also interested in adopting from Asia, and she wanted some tips.


At Discovery Place Kids, while I struggled to hold on to an ecstatic one-year-old girl who was trying to go for a swim in the water table, a woman approached me and tried to bond over adoption. Apparently, she “also” had adopted a child, though not from Asia.

When I told the woman that Josie wasn’t adopted, she grew flustered, apologized, and pointed at my sister-in-law (also Korean) to ask, “Oh, so she’s hers?”

Is it so hard to believe, people? I mean, I know I’m pale, but come on. We all had to learn about the pea plants and genetics in high school, right?

Ironically, on the same trip, a little boy at the booth next to ours in the cafeteria stood up and labeled my family. Husband and his sister were “the mommy and the daddy,” the kids were “their babies,” and I was “the grandma.”

Lucky he was a minor.

I’ve been very nice, so far, but it’s getting harder. The last couple of times we’ve run into this problem, my kids were present to hear these ignorant assumptions. I do not need anyone asking if my daughter is adopted in front of my daughter.

She will have plenty of confusion about her biracial identity as she grows up in this crazy world (we’re trying to prepare for it). She doesn’t need additional confusion.

Last time, I was in the checkout line, when a man in a Harley Davidson jacket smiled at my daughter beside me. She smiled back, and the man looked at me, bent his head meaningfully in my daughter’s direction, and asked, “China?”

I laughed- and the flood gates opened.

“Nope- Charlotte, North Carolina. Presbyterian Hospital. 6 days late even though I was already 3 centimeters dilated when she was 8 months along. Had her with no anesthesia and minimal tearing, thank God. She was 7 pounds, 15 ounces, 20 inches long. She looks like her daddy- who is not Chinese.”

The poor guy. The line was pretty long, and we had to wait together for a while.

But I’m totally going to do the exact same thing the next time someone asks me.

If they’re going to walk in front of my daughter and hint at her being adopted, I’m going to speak up in front of my daughter about how she did a good job not tearing mama on her way out of my baby-making place.

At least she’ll never have to doubt where she came from. 

Mama Writer

Domestic Days

Saturdays are my overcompensation days.

During the week, I tend to be all business. I only get to be with my family when I’m resting, so I’m not exactly giving them my all.

On Friday, I even make a list of all the work stuff I need to get done over the weekend. There’s a long list of things I should accomplish on Saturday, specifically, which would free up Sunday for class planning.

Then, on Saturday morning- Poof.


(That is not really me- I found this on Pinterest, and it had no publishing info that I could distinguish.) 

I am the wife-mama machine here to represent all things Pinterest while giving cuddles and trying to pay attention to everyone at once.

This weekend, it even started early- Friday night.

After a grading frenzy, I just had to have an extended family-time activity. Unfortunately, with little planning, our impromptu gingerbread house building didn’t have enough time to dry.

I did get a really cool action shot as it was collapsing, though.


And it still tasted pretty good in pieces.


Today, Saturday, I was in full-on Pinterest mommy mode.

If someone had said “Ms. T.,” I wouldn’t have looked up.

I am “Mama” on Saturdays.

There was a one-pot mac and cheese recipe with the most enthusiastic helper there is. She wants in on the action so badly that It’s all I can do to keep her from climbing in the pot.

Then, we went to the Christmas Tree Shop, where I was literally in decorative holiday plate paradise.



After dinner, both kids helped me make cookie dough, 4 colors of royal icing, and (eventually) 3 dozen perfect cookie cutouts.

The super messy decorating finale was one for the history books.

And, the grand cherry on top for my domestic Saturday marathon- I cleaned it all up.

The after shots:

Tomorrow, I will remember all of the things I had scheduled myself to do today, and I will go back into 50/50 teacher/parent mode. The 7 hour football marathon, when Husband has the kids and I can work in relative peace, usually gets enough done.

I’ll keep that work momentum going until the next weekend rolls around- then I’ll probably try to embroider something while singing the ABCs and baking a cake.