Motherhood Uncensored

Have you hugged a Half Asian today?

A few days ago, my friend Julie offered me a hug if I signed up for some Facebook event which just so happened to be "Hug a Half Asian" day.

Now I have to say that hugging a HAPA (which is the "correct" term, by the way, and stands for Holy Affordable Awesome Piece of Ass) happens a lot around my house.

Or as the Mominatrix would say - "hugging."

Ahem.

Cough. Cough.

Being the daughter of a full Chinese woman and a European mixed man was never a big deal until I got into my teen years and it became the world's worst pick-up line ever.

"What are you?"

Your worst fucking nightmare, asshole.

And dear God if someone compares me to the Tilly sisters again.

Um, am I the one that starred as a distraught nun or the one with the really big boobs and annoying high pitched voice?

Oddly enough, I've found over the years that my Asian-ness is made more or less obvious by my hairstyle. And my amazing talent with chopsticks.

Ahem.

Cough. Cough.

It's usually a toss up as to whether people can pick out me out, though interestingly enough is never the case for young children or psychiatric patients (seriously), who figure it out right away and then obsess about it.

But even I have trouble sometimes, particularly on the internet, where there happen to be a zillion Half Asians (like City Mama and Glennia from MOMocrats - two name two lovely ones), who you wouldn't necessarily know were HAPA until you saw them or stared at their picture for awhile. 

So in case you're in the mood to give out some serious hugs today, or just want to stop using the "What are you" pick up line, here are my 10 easy, and completely stereootypical identifiers of HAPAs.

Simply look for these characteristics in white-ish looking people and you've probably got a HAPA on your hands:

1. Played a stringed instrument at some point in their lives.

2. Is particularly good at math - typically the very useless kind.

3. Has wicked knife skills but never went to chef school.

4. Cooks rice perfectly every time. In a pot.

5. Owns a rice cooker.

6. Uses chopsticks to do any of the following: eat rice with, cook with, stir powdered or mixed drinks with.

7. Gets the "you're one of us" eye, nod, and/or smile at any Asian eating establishment.

8. Can do a mean Asian American accent without using the words "Ching or Chong" and looking like a complete racist asshole.

9. Takes offense to the word "Oriental" unless it's being used to describe floor coverings or food.

10. Is fucking hot.

So, friends, go forth and find yourself a HAPA to hug today. That is after you've given me my love.

Ahem.

Cough. Cough.

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So much coolness people - my Mominatrix-inspired Father's Day Gift Guide should not be missed (or shared with all 300 of your closest friends. And my column The Sometimes Single Mom - are you one? I'd love to meet you - and head over to meet moms just like you.

In the company of men [and women]

I can't tell you the last time I had an actual birthday party, let alone a gathering comprised completely of adults.

Or at least ones that are legally adults, anyway.

But on Saturday night, a few friends and I gathered in a restaurant, hidden to most passers-by on the 2nd floor of a random office building in New York City, to eat the best chicken wings I've ever tasted.

In fact, I'm pretty sure calling them "chicken wings" is an insult.

There were rosemary fries and corn on the cob smothered in some creamy sauce and a magic avocado salad. 

I'm not sure why the salad was magical, but for me it was because I was cramming it down my gullet next to, across from, and caddy-cornered with adults that I love dearly.

We ended the night (or morning, rather) singing our hearts out to what might be considered a bastard, reject DJ playlist in a small, cold karaoke room with cheese balls and smuggled-in booze, the likes of which got us kicked out and flung into the streets.

No Karaoke For You! 

Okay, so we weren't actually flung out into the streets. But when someone rudely interrupts your extremely rousing duet rendition of "Like a Prayer," it feels like you just got thrown out on your ass.

Thankfully, karaoke is quite a popular pastime in Korea-town, NYC and so we gathered ourselves and walked about 50 feet across the street to finish what we had started - belting out the likes of Bonnie Tyler, Britney Spears, and the Backstreet Boys while the words flashed in front of weird scrolling images of Prague and some island full of very white swimsuit clad tourists.

And those were only my song choices. *CoughMom101'sJourneyMedleyCough*

There were many pictures.

And video - the likes of which I'm sure would be more embarrassing than any sex tape I may or may not have made.

But more importantly, there was laughter.

And absolutely no children.

And it was good.

My secret

There have been days and moments when I'd just as soon give up - when the thought of taking one more breath seemed like a big fat waste of polluted air because for whatever reason I'd rather impale myself with a white flag than break through the mobs of idiots, naysayers, fuckwads, and doucheheads that stand in front of me, hands grasped firmly like in a game of Red Rover, taunting me to run so they can plant their sweaty fists into my gut as I'm thrust backwards onto my ass.

But then I think of my mother, holding my sweet dead sister in her arms. Maybe she was rocking her softly, tears dropping like a cascading waterfall on her head as she held her tightly. Or perhaps she was wailing, like someone had just pulled her heart right out of her chest as she watched helplessly.

And then suddenly I gasp and sputter, choking and coughing like I've been pulled lifeless from a pool. And I open my eyes and as my vision clears, I see what truly matters.

And I breathe again.

Terrible day

I found her sobbing outside the elevators on the 1st floor of the medical building, dressed in purple scrubs and fake crocs clutching her lunch bag as tears rolled down her face.

The people waiting for the elevator stared somberly at the up and down lights as if to move them more quickly in their direction.

They all knew. An entire floor of OB offices.

A mom with a little girl in her stroller looked at me as I walked closer. Our eyes met and we connected in our own helplessness. "She said she'll be okay" she whispered. You could tell she didn't believe her.

Either did I.

The woman was unmoved by the crowds exiting and entering the elevators as I sat down next to her. I offered her water and help, and told her my name. I tried to engage her in conversation to see what was wrong.

I could barely understand what she said, but I just sat there anyway until she assured me that she didn't need anything. That she'd be fine.

The mom returned, telling me that she had alerted the doctor's office. I sat for a little longer, hoping someone would come out to offer her tissues or at least walk her to her car.

And then I put my hand on her shoulder and walked away, trying hard not to remember sitting in the hallway of my own OB's office, watching staff and patients pass me by as I not so quietly sobbed on my own terrible day.

Flask of hope

I had my first drink as a sophomore in college, delayed mostly by the all too present reminders of my alcoholic father. And since then, I've been an extremely controlled social drinker.

In fact, I can count the times I've been drunk on my one hand.

So when I decided to kick the booze for the entire month of January, I didn't really think too much of it. A little post-holiday detox would do my liver and let's face it, my ass, a lot of good.

Plus, I've cut out booze for a total of 27 months (give or take a few days for those third trimester weak moments). Heck, I even ate nothing but a combination of five foods in one form or another for an entire year.

I can resist the glass of wine with dinner. The beer during Monday night football. The weird rum "with whatever kid's juice I have laying around" drink.

Suddenly, the list went on, and I realized I had become a bit more than a social drinker.

I didn't think much of it, really, until about a week into January when I felt like my body was screaming and I wanted to rip a Bud Light out of my husband's hands.

I'm quite aware that I've got addictive tendencies, which makes doing anything in moderation quite a challenge for me.  

It's great for the 30 Day Shred.

And work.

But other parts of life that require moderation require a bit more of an effort.

So either I drink when I want and how I want because I CAN DRINK DAMNIT.

Or I don't do it at all.

And when it functions as a drug for me, and not as just an excellent pairing with a pasta dish, I had to wonder if I just shouldn't do it.

And so I did, well, save a few days in Puerto Rico when I sucked down a few mojitos and couple of free Margaritas (Embassy Suites Free Happy Hour FTW!), for the entire month of January.

Wouldn't you know that life was better. Sleep was better. Sex was BETTER.

Ahem.

*****

I've watched motherhood take a lot of victims - good women, awesome marriages - drowned without any chance of resuscitation. Even good swimmers, some extra prepared with lessons and life jackets, can't stay afloat when they're tossed into freezing cold water.

That's not the case for all of us.

The water is warmer, or we're fortunate to have someone toss us a lifeline and pull us in, even if it's by our hair.

But others aren't as lucky, and they grasp at what they can to keep their heads afloat.

*****

The first time I stood up to my father, he took away my car. He grabbed the keys away from me as I screamed in his face about the time he was too drunk to pick me up from youth group and left me there mortified trying to explain to my boyfriend why were were still sitting there 45 minutes after it was over.

The time he broke into our basement after being taken away by the police and screamed at us into the wee hours of the morning about how my sister's death was my mom's fault.

I raised my hand at him and he flinched. "Are you afraid I'm going to hit you?" I asked. "How does it feel?" I remember saying, my heart racing out of my chest.

He laughed, staring at the keys in his hand. "You have nothing now," he said to me. "You'll end up alone. Miserable."

*****

Life was never hard enough for me to drink.

And then I had a kid, and got married again, and attempted to be married with kids.

That's the short story.

And all that shit is pretty fucking hard.

I don't think I have a problem. But I also know I just don't do moderation well.

So instead of risk it, I'm going to enjoy the bliss and heartache of being present in my own daily existence. And I'm filling my flask with nothing else but hope.

For my kids, for my husband, and for my dad.