True Love

This is what love looks like on Facebook:

My husband made chocolate-covered strawberries!  Thanks, sweetie!  I love you!

Image: thanunkorn

 This is what love looks like in real life:

On Friday, I buy strawberries at the store and tell my husband what they're for.

Saturday morning, our alarm clock (the baby) wakes us up at 6:40am.  After my husband gets the baby, I ask him about something he was going to do a few weeks ago.  My asking turns to nagging.  My nagging turns to criticism.  My husband leaves the room, taking the baby with him.  (Always take the baby with you if you're trying to make a point.)

As I wrap up the kids' breakfast (two hours after I started), I remind my husband that I'm having lunch with a friend but that I will be back before the baby's naptime to nurse her.  When I get back from lunch 15 minutes before the baby's normal naptime, I find out that my husband already put her down because he didn't know when I would be getting home.

I get upset that I rushed home and skipped several errands to make it for the baby's nap.  We fold laundry together in silence.  I'm still mad, so I go check the tire pressure on my car and fill one of the tires with our manual pump.  I'm still mad, so I go outside to do yardwork.  As I'm angrily hacking away at the hedges, my husband makes chocolate-covered strawberries.

He burns the first batch of chocolate and leaves the pot in the sink for me to wash because he's not sure how to wash it out.  The second batch turns out beautifully.

Yardwork successfully burns away most of my anger.  After showering, I shove several chocolate-covered strawberries into my mouth while standing in front of the fridge so that my toddler won't see me.  I wash out the burnt-chocolate pot.

That evening, after we've put the kids down, we look at each other with weary eyes.  "Life is really tiring," my husband says, "but I'm glad I have you to spend it with."  He smiles at me.

"Thanks, sweetie.  I'm glad I have you, too."

We go to bed exhausted, knowing that we will be woken again at the crack of dawn the next day - to another day of coaxing a picky eater, taming temper tantrums, wrestling with a baby on the changing table, wiping snot from dripping noses.  I might get impatient.  We might argue.  But I never have to wonder if this is the last straw.  Because I know he meant it when he said he would stay with me for better or for worse.  And that?  That's true love.

"Good night, I love you," he says.

"Good night, I love you, too."

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Guest post at Postpartum Progress

I don't usually blog twice in one week, but I'm incredibly privileged to share my story on Postpartum Progress today.  Postpartum Progress is an incredibly informational PPD website and blog that provides tons of educational material as well as support for postpartum mood disorders.  The website is where I first learned about intrusive thoughts.  I'm not usually a huge advocate for Asian-American issues, but my personal experience with PPD/PPA made me realize how little awareness and acceptance there is among Asians.  Please check out my story:  A Culture of Emotional Restraint: Asian-American Mom Shares Her Perspective on PPD.

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The mask I wear

It starts as soon as they begin to speak.  The first time my daughter said, "No Grandma!" I immediately shushed her.  We must be polite to others!  And she learned to be polite, but she also learned to put on her first, little mask.

Image: Adell Rucke

Later, we learn that the mask not only protects others but also protects us - from the rejection that might happen if others knew our deepest fears, our inner sufferings, our greatest dreams.  So we put the mask on a little more frequently.  And it starts to feel more comfortable, so that this mask, which was meant to hide who I really am, becomes a part of me.  I don't even have to put it on anymore because it's always there.

Sometimes when I talk to other people, I wonder, what's behind that mask?  Does she ever feel unsure of herself?  Does she wonder what the purpose of her life is?  Does she sometimes just want to run away?  Sometimes, there's a small, very small crack - just a faint look in the eye or a falter in the smile.  But most of the time, the mask is seamless, airtight.

When I started this blog, I wanted to take off my mask so that other women would have the courage to take their's off, too.  Because I have all this sadness, guilt, frustration, and anger that just wants to get out of me, but there's also love, sacrifice, joy, and beauty inside of me, too.  The mask keeps it all in and only lets out a sterile version of me.

But when I sit down to write what I really want to say, I start censoring myself immediately.  I don't want to make so-and-so feel bad.  I don't want my kids to read this someday and misinterpret what I mean.  I don't want to discourage my brothers and sisters in Christ.  I don't want to dishonor God.  Raw is good but raw can also be hurtful.  And by the time I'm done writing, I've written something with a lot of inspiration but very little of my heart left.

Don't get me wrong, I love inspiration.  But how do we also be real with each other?  How do we take our masks off without killing each other?  Maybe as long as we live in this broken world with our broken hearts, we can't.  So for now, I'll keep this mask on.  Because it holds together my brokenness.  And it keeps me from trampling on you and breaking you more than you already are.

So...all this is a very long and dramatic way of saying that I might be changing the content and format of my blog soon.  I'm just so tired of struggling.  What about you?  Are you comfortable with your mask?  Or do you wish you could take it off every once in awhile, let your heart breathe a little?

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