Risking Delight

Just Filipino

Recently someone asked me to share my experience as a Filipino American mom. The question was beautiful and generous, but as I tried to answer it, my heart ached. I can talk about mom-ing all day long – how I foster autonomy and nurture self-confidence, how I model boundaries and apologies. I can talk mom all day. It’s the Filipino part that stunned me. So what did I say? Some surface level answer about making my kids take off their shoes in the house and teaching them a few Tagalog words here and there.

walang hiya

I spent the most formative years of adolescence trying to hide my Filipino-ness. Often times denying it all together. What are you? the ambiguous question they asked with all the implications staring me in the face. I’m Filipino, but I’m also Spanish and Chinese and I think some Irish, but I don’t know. The message I was trying to convey – I’m not just Filipino. Because in my mind it wasn’t enough, and that idea was confirmed in the world around me. It wasn’t enough because Filipinos weren’t represented on TV or magazines. I didn’t see us outside of my own families and friends. This was only made more evident by the colonial mentality of those who surrounded me. You’re so Filipino, someone said to me. I was in 8th grade and it was the first time I had heard it like that, like it was a bad thing. Because I ate all the chicken off the bone, because I sat with one knee up to my chest and the other bent underneath me, because I said certain words with a Filipino accent.

I spent the next decade actively and painfully separated myself from Filipino culture purposely not hanging out with other Filipino kids if I could help it. I didn’t date Filipino guys and I was very vocal about it. I stopped listening to hip hop and rap even though I loved it because I thought surely it would expose me as Filipino. Instead I listened to KROQ and died my hair blonde. I wore only flip flops with flowy white skirts. Whatever Lindsey Lohan or Paris Hilton were wearing at the time, you bet I had the knock-off version of it.

I was very successful at pretending to be white. All my friends were white, and often times they would forget that I wasn’t. We’re going to be the only white people there, my best friend said as we drove to the graduation party my family was throwing me. My reply, I know… It took several seconds for us to realize that I wasn’t white.

It may seem trivial. After all, most teenagers go through phases, but this was much more than a phase like goth or emo. In my mind, I thought I was leveling up – that if I only surrounded myself with whiteness, bathed myself in it, I would be spared from the struggles of my ancestors. Turns out, I was wrong. Denying my culture didn’t protect me from racism, but it did isolate me from a community that would have validated my feelings, stood behind me, and made me stronger.

Even when I was pregnant, I dreamed of birthing babies with blue eyes and light brown hair. It wasn’t until my son was born that I started to think about what it means to be a Filipino mom. I could no longer deny it because denying my culture would be denying my son of his, and I didn’t want him untethered in this world like I had been. I wanted him to have roots. So in my 30s I started to wonder what this meant for me who had spent half my life claiming that I wasn’t just Filipino suddenly trying to Filipino again.

There are several ways I am raising my kids differently than my parents raised me. Yet, I still feel so honored to have been raised by Filipino parents who seem to be my anchor, my ticket, to Filipino culture. I often wonder who will go to Seafood city, order pancit from Manilla Grille, or send balikbayan boxes to the PI when they are gone. Maybe it will be me. Maybe then I will understand that being a Filipino American mom means taking care of family. Maybe it means feeding your loved ones not just with food, but with counsel. Maybe it’s holding people accountable and having hard conversations, not holding anything back. Maybe it’s forgiveness. Maybe it’s always having a place to call home. Maybe it’s understanding the value of hard work. Maybe it’s helping the hostess clean up after the party. Maybe it’s generosity, humility, love and goodness. And a whole lot of party games.

That is what I wish I had said when asked about my experience as a Filipino American mom. I wish I would have talked about how my Titas shower my kids with affection and gifts, ultimately spoiling them in ways I wish all brown kids could be spoiled. I wish I would have said that having a big Filipino family feels like unconditional love and protection. It feels like a safety net underneath my feet as I navigate the unfamiliar terrain of raising Filipino babies while having spent so much of my own life denying my inherent culture.

I am mending my identity has a Filipino American mom so that I have something to give to my kids but also so that I have something to give back to my younger self. It will probably take me my entire life to fully understand what it means to be a Filipino American mom, but I’m off to a good start. I know it means mahal, and I hope I live long enough to be a Lola who sings karaoke nightly and tells my apos how lucky they are to be Filipino.

And now, when people ask me the arduous question, What are you? I say proudly, I’m Filipino. You’re not mixed? They ask. Nope. I’m just Filipino.

Evading Sleep

Let’s stay up

Worrying

About things

We can’t change

Let’s hold a race

For our thoughts

The only rule:

Don’t stop running

Let’s check the clock

Every 15 minutes

And around 3

Start to wonder

Can I make it through the night without sleeping?

Let’s watch comfort tv

Waiting to fall asleep

But never fall asleep

For a second let’s be broken

And not try to fix it

Let’s sulk

Let’s spin

Letting the monster

We’ve been tempering

Finally swallow us whole

And within that darkness

Let’s sleep.

You in?

Wild Abandon

Sometimes I wonder, why I did have kids?

Even before I was pregnant I knew that having children was a selfish act, trying to fulfill something within me. In the grocery store, passing parents and their screaming child, thinking time to go home. Hearing a parent scold their child thinking I would never do that. So quick to point out what they did wrong, and what I would do right.

The problem with that way of thinking (or should I say that kind of judging) is that eventually that narrative turned against me.

It’s easier to parent at home when no one is around. Where I openly laugh at my kids’ potty humor and let them hop from couch to couch with no strangers’ eyes shooting worried looks.

But I can’t keep up this charade. I can’t keep letting my children run free when we’re alone and try to tame them in front of others.

And I ask myself, what’s it gonna be? Am I going to love these children with wild abandon? Am I brave enough to honor their being wholly and fully – as they are – and not what society expects them to be? Will I nourish their freedom or will I stifle their roars? What will it be? Because I can’t have it both ways.

Well-behaved and fearful or wild and free.

What’ll it be?

Father Time

It's my biggest fear

Losing you

It keeps me up at night

My heart aches at

What could have been

What I wanted it to be

There isn’t enough time 

To be the daughter you wanted

So that you might be

The father I needed

And we’re running out of time

So this has to be enough

It has to be enough

It has to be enough

Mother-Friend

Postpartum depression hit me like a ton of bricks after having my first baby. I would get so upset anytime someone would call it the “baby blues.” It felt too trivial a term to describe the desperation and hopelessness I felt moment after moment, day after day, and it didn’t help that there weren’t a lot of people who talked about it. When I tried to bring it up to other mothers, many of them seemed confused and would admit to feeling tired after having a baby but couldn’t relate to the depression part of it. It felt isolating.

During my second pregnancy I was determined to “beat” PPD. I convinced myself that an unmedicated pregnancy would surely spare me from PPD. I approached pregnancy and delivery much like a high achieving student – by reading all the birthing books, and watching all the birthing documentaries. I even considered naming my daughter “Ina” after Ina May Gaskin.

So when the time came to deliver, I squatted down and gave birth to my daughter completely unmedicated. I picked her up and had skin to skin immediately. I was in heaven. I had done it, and PPD was nowhere in sight…or so I thought.

It was right before the baby’s first doctor’s appointment that I first noticed she was orange. It was undeniable. The pediatrician confirmed this and checked her bilirubin. Not only was she jaundiced but she had also lost 13% of her body weight. Suffice to say breastfeeding was not going well…again. The pediatrician said we would have to bring her back for treatment. Everything seemed fine until I realized I would have to leave her at the hospital.

One thing I know for sure is that babies belong with their mother. No one can prepare you for having to go home without your baby. Yes, it was only jaundice and for that I’m thankful, but leaving your baby feels wrong. I would say that was the day PPD started to get a hold of me. It probably would have come on a lot stronger had it not been for an unexpected mother-friend.

A mother-friend is a woman who has had her own children and has experienced the difficulty and the beauty of motherhood. She embodies the saying it takes a village to raise a child by becoming part of your village. She is genuinely empathetic and shows up for you in ways that may seem small but are actually life changing.

My girlfriend reached out to me. She had seen on social media that the baby was in the NICU and wanted to check in. Because I trust her I told her exactly how I was feeling and my difficulties with nursing. She gave me some advice and uplifting words. A few days later she offered to come over and teach me how to cook mochi which is what she swears by if you’re trying to get your milk supply up. (This is where it gets good.) She shows up, and she’s wearing glasses, absolutely no make up, and her hair in a ponytail. Immediately my soft postpartum body relaxes. She wasn’t there to hang out. She didn’t want me to host her. She was there to help. She got it.

She sets up in my kitchen. Takes out all her ingredients and cooks for me. Talking me through each part of the process step-by-step so that I would be able to make it too. THEN SHE LEFT. Even the way she left (promptly) was an act of kindness. She understood in a way only another mother would – through lived experience.

Over the next week I ate so much mochi. I can’t tell if it was the mochi I ate that increased my milk supply, but I know that because someone had shown me genuine kindness and empathy, I was fueled.

So the other day when I visited my friend and her newborn baby, I remembered my mother-friend and how she showed up for me. I arrived at my friend’s house in leggings, with no makeup on, and my hair in a ponytail. I brought her lunch and held the baby while she ate. I changed a diaper and rocked that baby to sleep. I didn’t do it for any reason other than someone had done it for me and it felt good.

Motherhood is a collective energy, a state of being that’s strong, nurturing, and loving. This friend taught me that while we mother our children, on occasion we may need to mother our friends too, especially when our friend just had a new baby. To this day, it remains one of the kindest and gentlest ways a woman has shown up for me, and I view it as my duty and honor to show up for another woman in the same way – as a mother-friend.

This Old House

I, like many other people during the pandemic, have spent a lot of time in my house lately…and I, like many other people, have found ways to improve it. Renovate, decorate, whatever terminology you choose. I know I’m not the only one because driving around my neighborhood you will find house painters, concrete mixers, pool install-ers, roofers, entire extensions and additions put on houses. We are restless.

During the first year of the pandemic I found myself buying all the toys and activities to do at home for me and the kids. I guess the second year was spent renovating and redecorating the house. There was a lot of love and care put into decorating this house. Multiple paint swatches until we found the right color. Our walls were bare for 2 years because we wanted to hang items that meant something to us. We took our time, and now that it’s almost done, it has truly become a space that we love. A thoughtful space.

But I get into these moods. Mat calls it a wild hair…where I want to do more. A she-shed? Adding a wardrobe? Changing the light fixtures? I wonder if these years spent nitpicking this old house has inadvertently caused me to develop a habit. Constantly looking for ways to improve is making it difficult for me to just see things for what they are and more importantly enjoy them in the state they are in…now, not what they could be….but now. It’s a pattern of fantasizing about the future and how things could be. The downfall is that you miss out on the way things are now in the present moment.

When we first gained the momentum to redecorate, it was done very aggressively. See, it takes me a while to get going. I see something I don’t like, I think of ways to improve it. I get an idea that excites me. Then I do it, but by that time, I’ve been waiting and thinking about it so much that it feels like I’ve been waiting for years. There’s always chaos. Messes. Big emotion. Then I finish, and there’s peace…for a moment. Until I find the next thing to “fix.”

But lately, even I have noticed this pattern and I feel the exhaustion from my husband every time I say I have an idea (and I say it a lot). There must be some idea in my head of what a “nice house” looks like and another idea of what a “nice house” means. For example, once I have a nice house then I will be _______. Happy, calm, proud? Acceptable? Normal functioning person?

I don’t think I’ve wanted a nice house though because looking around, it is nice. I think what I’ve been chasing is perfection. I’ve been trying to create a perfect home by changing….everything, and it’s been chaotic.

What if, instead of changing the house, I change my mind? What if I give this old house, this beautifully simple, warm house room to breathe? What if I tell it how beautiful it is and how loved it is every day? What if I spend time thanking it? What if I take good care of it just as it is now?

If I appreciate what is maybe that appreciation will guide me towards what could be in a way that’s natural and peaceful. Maybe. Hopefully.

The Work They Can’t See

“Productive.” It’s the bane of my existence. It’s the new 4 letter word. The same goes for “goals.”

I have to admit that I’ve felt completely lost for a while now. At least a few years and probably for much longer than that. Aside from wanting to be a singer or an actress when I was little, I never really knew what I wanted to do. When I worked for Nordstrom I thought I wanted to work in fashion. When I dated a journalist, I thought I wanted to be a journalist. Then I married a teacher and I wanted to become a teacher…or so I thought. I guess I’m truly an actress at heart because I fooled everyone, including myself, into believing that I wanted to be these things. Toting around the euphoria that comes with purpose, I thought that once I get this job, once I marry this man, once I have this house, bliss will follow. I have been living in a never ending cycle of chasing happy.

Lately it’s been once I clean this house, once I write this book, once I lose this weight, bliss will surely be just on the other side of that, no? What stopped me from cycling into another fantasy of bliss was when I caught myself thinking, “once the kids are older and can clean up after themselves it will be easier.” Is that what I really want?…for my kids to be older? I know it’s not. Then why am I waiting for X,Y, and Z until I can give myself permission to be happy? I guess a better question is will a clean house, a new job, a thinner body make me happy. I’ve been told no.

So what’s left? Be happy now, right? That’s what all those Pinterest quotes tell us. Stop waiting for things to be perfect. Stop waiting for someone to make you happy. Stop waiting to be happy. Be happy now. Do it. DO IT NOW. BE HAPPY.

Image description: Baymax from Big Hero 6 trying to take a step up the stairs but falls on his face.

If only it were that simple. Can you imagine if you could tell yourself, “You know what? I’m not going to wait to be happy anymore. I’m doing it right the fuck now.” TA-DA! Mental health professionals would be out of their jobs. (Side note: praise be for therapist, amirite?)

It’s not that simple. I know that. You know that too otherwise we wouldn’t be here communing over the internet about our shared suffering. It’s not as simple as cleaning my house either or even writing this goddamn book. I’m learning that it’s not what I can produce that will bring me happiness. It’s my happiness that will help me produce…but like I said, I hate that word and all its forms so instead I will use the word flourish because 1.) I like plants and 2.) The etymology of flourish is to bloom and grow. “It’s my happiness that will help me flourish.” That feels better.

I have been operating for a while now knowing full well that I have deeply rooted self-love deficiencies, but I thought that because I have done so much research on self-care that I had it down. My head knew so I thought my heart would follow. I thought making an extensive self-care routine, exercise schedule, and cleaning schedule would prove that I could take care of myself, and if I took care of myself then that would be evidence that I loved myself. Essentially, I unconsciously thought that I could act like I loved myself without actually having to love myself. Is that even love though? Or is it just productivity? Changing the external to heal the internal. I just don’t think it works that way.

Me researching the self-care part while skipping the self-love part. Image description: cat typing wildly on a computer keyboard.

It’s as if I was constantly having to prove my worth to myself. How productive can you be, Jenilee? Turns out, not much. Because when I couldn’t keep up with the demands that I had set for myself, then I was a failure (obviously).

The thing is I would never ever impose these kinds of expectations on the people I actually love. I would never expect my kids to make completely drastic changes to their behavior and their lives. So why is it okay for me to do this to myself? I guess that’s what happens when you lead with your head and not your heart.

The other day I made an appointment to see my therapist. Initially, I tried to make an appointment back in November but because my insurance changed I had to fill out the paperwork all over again, and if you’re anything like me you probably waited too long to reach out for help and so all that paperwork just seemed like another hurdle that my already weary body and mind could not jump. Three months and 2 cycles of depression later, I had the mental bandwidth to fill out the paperwork and schedule myself an appointment.

It took a lot of time and effort, and it was time and effort that no one could see. It wasn’t like cleaning the house or putting on a cute outfit or doing my hair where people notice that you did something. It was sitting at my computer answering question after question about my mental state. It was important work that no one could see. And maybe that’s what loving yourself looks like. Maybe it’s the brave work you do for yourself when no one’s looking. It’s sleeping. It’s resting. It’s thinking kind thoughts about yourself. It’s leading with your heart. It’s listening to your body. Sometimes it’s saying no. It’s not imposing strict schedules on yourself. It’s not how much work you can produce. It’s not seeing how much you can take. It’s just letting yourself be. Giving yourself permission to live. To breathe. It’s the work they can’t see.

With Love,

Year 2 and Thank You

As my kids return to school after winter break I find myself in a familiar situation checking the rising COVID numbers in our county and refreshing the school district’s COVID dashboard webpage every hour knowing damn well that those numbers do not accurately reflect the number of active COVID cases and are just a fraction of the amount infected…

But after that run-on sentence I was reminded of something beautiful. Throughout these pandemic years I have felt anxious and fearful, but I have never felt alone and that’s mostly because of you. Of course I missed people but because of the magic of social media I still felt connected. Seeing your posts, even the stupid ones, was surprisingly comforting and through social media I was able to reconnect with old friends and I even made new ones.

I feel lucky and grateful to you on the other side of this screen. There is strange comfort in knowing that we are all experiencing the same fears as we go into year 2 of this pandemic. As we move forward, I’m reminded of the first few months when most of us had no idea how devastating this would be. We suddenly had loads of unstructured time and we didn’t know what to do with ourselves. I spent many late nights scrolling through your posts and DMing you about our kids, our jobs, the state of the world. I’m grateful for your honesty and vulnerability. Thank you for being there, for showing up, for giving me space, for your patience, humor, and kindness. Thank you for being generous with your photos of your daily lives, and thank you for the memes.

I realize this post makes it seem like I’m saying goodbye and I wonder if that’s because we’re not used to saying thank you to each other just because. I don’t plan on going anywhere. I’m just feeling particularly grateful for you today.

Thank you for reading. I realize I’m not a fancy writer and I probably will never be. I use boring words like so and really and a lot. It’s something that used to bother me to the point where I wouldn’t write anything. Nothing ever seemed good enough…but I’ve stopped chasing perfection. Sure, I could use better adjectives but here I want my writing to sound as much like me as possible. When you read my posts I want you to feel like we are sitting on my living room couch with no makeup and our glasses on because that’s how some of the most meaningful conversations of my life were had.

Today my writing is jagged and nonsequential, but I don’t plan on editing it. This is how my mind is today and I don’t really have a reason to post except for the fact that I miss you and I wanted to let you know that I’m grateful for how you show up in my life.

I hope you step into the world today knowing you are deeply loved, and I hope knowing that will give you the courage to tell someone you love the same. Salamat po.

Dear Girl

A letter to my pre-pandemic self.

Dear Girl,

It’s December 2019 and you are living a version of your life that seems successful to the onlooker. You have two adorable babies. You just spent the first year in your new house. Your social life is active, but things are about to change abruptly and there is no way to prepare for it. Well, I suppose you could buy extra toilet paper.

Do you remember that virus that Mat casually mentioned to you? It’s going to spread around the world and you, along with your entire area, will be asked to stay home for two weeks. Now, I don’t want to scare you, but it’s going to be longer than two weeks. I don’t want to tell you how long because looking back I believe the only way you were able to get through it is because you didn’t know how long it would be.

However, you made the most of it. Every day you brought the kids outside to the backyard. There was so much digging and plenty of water fights. You played. A lot. You took family trips to the grocery store. You didn’t all go inside. Mat went shopping and you and the kids played in the van. You’ll be so happy you bought a van. You set up your tent inside and did living room camping. Those electric candles were perfect for indoor bonfires. You went on a lot of walks and you stayed up too late. You loved and fought and laughed and cried and numbed yourself a lot in the beginning.

What I’m really here to tell you though is that you will emerge from this a different person. It’s a good thing, I think. You will leave the classroom. You will struggle with identity, self worth, authenticity, all the usual suspects. You will discover with delight that a career can be 7 years long and that no one said you had to do one thing for the rest of your life.

You will read books and have conversations with people about ideas. It will be the first time in your life that conversations about ideas are more interesting to you than conversations about other people. You will grow, and much of it will be painful. You will discover that you like who you are when you’re alone. You will get to know yourself and this creature you inhabit. You will gain weight, and everyone else will care except you. You will learn that you do well when you spend some time every day in solitude. You will shave your head as a way to show autonomy over this body. Again, everyone will care except you.

You will grow fierce and strong which will surprise and impress you. You will be humbled and reminded that no one is above another. We’re all just trying our best.

There will be loss. So much loss. But you will never be alone in your grief. You will start to make the climb up the mountain of peace. Don’t worry. There are rest stops.

The pandemic will carry on much longer than anyone in the mainstream media admits. There will be a new normal and with that new normal will be a new you. It would be unrealistic for me to tell you that this new you will have it all figured out because you finally understands that figuring it all out is an illusion…just like maintaining a clean house. The new you is learning to ride the waves instead of trying to control the ocean.

So brace yourself or don’t. It doesn’t matter because you are on the right path and it will take you. All you have to do is stay open and curious.

With love,

Girl, December 2021

They Grow Up so Fast

My mom has been coming over almost every day. My son’s school ends right in the middle of my daughter’s naptime, and I need someone to be home just in case my daughter wakes up while I’m gone. I tried pushing her naptime an hour later which I immediately realized is not a good idea unless you happen to like screaming, crying, inconsolable children. Personally, I do not. I considered asking my 93 year old neighbor to come over while I pick up my son, but that’s a lot to ask especially if my 3 year old wildling-of-a-child wakes up during the 20 minutes I’m gone. I also considered paying a babysitter, but who wants to pay someone to sit on the couch quietly for 30 minutes? Again, I do not.

Enter Grammy.

My mom (aka Grammy) has been coming over most days of the week to stay with my daughter and like any Filipino mom she’s incredibly helpful. If she’s not washing the dishes I’ve left in the sink, she’s folding laundry, or sweeping. (To my Filipinx readers: the sweeeeeeeeeping, right? It’s endless. It’s graceful. Slightly hunched over, rhythmically gliding the walis tambo in short sweeps of the wrist and every so often the loooooong sweep engaging the entire arm all the way up to the shoulder. It’s an artform, but I digress.)

This particular afternoon my son had jiu-jitsu so my husband comes home and in a whirlwind picks Ben up, gets him changed and takes him off to jiu-jitsu. Normally when my husband comes home is about the same time my mom decides to leave. As soon as he walks through the door, she picks up her bag and she’s ready to go as if to say, “Okay someone else is here to take care of you now. My job is over. He’s going to take the next shift.” It’s reminiscent of my wedding day and her overall role in my life since I’ve gotten married, but today, my husband and Ben had left so it’s just me and my daughter at home. My mom parks herself on the couch and we start to have a little bit of girl chat.

She loves to gossip. She’ll hate me for saying that and she’ll deny it, but it’s true. She’s telling me all sorts of things about people I’ve never met or don’t remember, telling me her drama (which isn’t really drama) like how she doesn’t know what to get her best friend for her birthday next week. I’m throwing out suggestions, she doesn’t like any of them, but I can tell she just wants to talk and I’m enjoying this conversation with her. It doesn’t involve religion, politics, my body, or my parenting style so I’m here for it.

We chatted for about an hour. The sun is starting to set and I tell my mom she should probably get going now. “You’re welcome to stay” I say, “but I know you don’t like driving at night” (mostly because she can’t see at night.)

So she leaves my house. I start a load of laundry and go outside to play with my daughter. Eventually, my husband and son get home. I notice that the street lights have turned on and it’s starting to get dark. My phone rings. It’s my dad. My dad is at an age where you need to answer the phone if he’s calling, and he doesn’t call unless he needs something so you definitely need to answer. Every time.

I answer and he asks, “Where’s your mom?” and I say, “I don’t know….Isn’t she there?” which I realize now is a dumb question. He says, “No, she’s not here.” I ask him if he tried calling her and he says yes. I tell him she left here about an hour ago (or so I think). I say maybe I should call her and he tells me not to because she’s probably driving.

My mom lives about 5 or 6 miles from my house. As slow as she may drive, it should not take her, under any circumstances, an hour to get home, even if she got stopped behind every train on her way there. Now I’m thinking this is weird, and I’m starting to worry. Of course, I’m assuming the worst. Then I see my husband’s face or maybe he sees mine and he’s mirroring me but the look on his face is concern, deep concern.

I get off the phone and he says, “Do you want me to go?”

“Where?” I ask.

“Well, what route does she take home?” he says.

“Orangethorpe.” I say.

Then he tells me he’s just going to drive up and down Orangethorpe looking for her. And I say no. Plus if anyone’s going to go, I’m going to go. You put the kids down and I’m going to go look for my mom, I think to myself.

We’re trying to work out the logistics to see how viable this concern is and he’s asking me what time she left.

“Did she leave 10 minutes after we left?” he asks. I tell him, “No, she stayed and she chatted with me for about an hour.” It’s now 7 o’clock. I thought she left at 6 but I’m not sure, and then I noticed the timer I had set to change over the laundry – a timer for one hour. It’s now down to 18 minutes so I’m thinking she left 40 minutes ago. It does not take 40 mins to get from my house to her house. I grab my keys and say, “I’m just gonna go. I can drive down to their house and back in 30 minutes” and I leave.

I get in my car and call my best friend because we grew up during a time where talking on the phone was still a thing and our friendship is deeply rooted in free mobile-to-moblie. Now that I have kids I have to sneak in phone calls whenever I get a chance. I’m driving. I’m driving and I’m looking. I’m driving and I’m looking but I don’t see her. I’m not just looking on the side of the roads, I slow down when I pass parking lots. Maybe her car broke down and she managed to make it into a parking lot, I think. And it’s dark now. I’m a mother of 2 small children who have a strict 7:30 bedtime. I have not been on the road at night for quite a while and it’s pretty thrilling but also nerve-wracking because at the end of day I’m searching the city for my mom.

Finally, I get to her house, I turn on her street, I don’t see her car. I’m driving slowly past her house and parked behind this big truck is her car. A sigh of relief. She’s home. I’m thinking I could go inside and say something to her, but I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed that I was so worried about my mom – so worried I scoured the city looking for her – and my friend says, “I would have gotten out of the car and I would have told her I was so worried about you! I was driving up and down the streets looking for you!” I say, “No, no, no. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to embarrass her,” but what I meant is I don’t want to embarrass myself. I was embarrassed by how worried I was. Then my friend says something so poignant. She says, “Well, now we know how they felt when we were gone all hours of the night” and I think oh my god, you’re right.

You have children and people start telling you to soak it all in. “They grow up so fast,” they say. But what I’ve realized is that around the same time our children are “growing up so fast,” so are our parents. And while we’re busy tending, nurturing, and raising our children, trying to soak it all in, our parents are changing too, but you don’t notice until one day when you find yourself searching the city for them. Now you realize that you’re the able-bodied one, you’re the one that can take care of them, you’re the one they call when they need help. They will always think of us as their “babies” but we have to acknowledge that the roles are changing a bit.

The next time I saw my mom I ended up telling her that I drove all over the city looking for her. I thought she’d be embarrassed or sad that I was so worried about her, but she just looked at me and said, “Why didn’t you just check my location from your phone?”

Oh, and why did it take her so long to get home? She was at Target.