Category: Tov

Tov meets Woori

Published on by Sophia LeeLeave a comment

I remember the day of my first date with David.

It was my first official date ever, really, the first time a man had formally asked me if he could take me out for a date, instead of that annoyingly ambiguous “Want to grab a bite to eat?” that could mean so many things.

We were to meet at 6 pm, but I started getting ready at 5 pm. There really was no need– it took 10 minutes to do my very minimal makeup and another 3 to change from sweats to jeans– but it was the anticipation of getting ready for something exciting and slightly nerve-wrecking. I felt like a high school girl getting ready for the dance.

I felt similarly the morning after I gave birth to Woori. She was dozing deeply next to me in her hospital bassinet, and the morning sun was starting to pour golden pools through the window blinds. It had been less than 12 hours since she was born, and I hadn’t had more than 20 minutes of uninterrupted sleep. My head was light, and my heart was fluttering.

David called to tell me he’d be visiting with Tov at 9 am. By then, I hadn’t even yet announced to any of my friends that I had given birth. Only our family knew (and unfortunately, all of David’s business clients), but Tov did not know.

We had been prepping him months before Woori’s birth, of course. I told Tov repeatedly that there’s a baby in my belly. “Where’s the baby?” I’d prompt him, and he’d smile and point at his own belly. He did not get it.

A friend bought Tov a book called “You’re a Big Brother.” I pointed at the pictures in the book. “Look, there’s omma. There’s abba. There’s Tov. And there’s…baby!” He loved that book. We read it over and over again, and I kept pointing to the characters in the book: “Omma…abba…Tov…baby!” And then later I’d ask him, “Where’s Tov?” hoping he’d point at the boy, but he’d always point at the baby in the crib. He thinks he’s still the baby in the family.

As the due date approached, people asked me how Tov feels about becoming a big brother, and I told them he has no idea. “He’s in for the shock of his life,” I joked, but I guess it’s not a joke. He is in for the shock of his young life. Never ever has he not been the center of attention since he was born. He was the baby of the home, the emperor and prince. Guests came and cooed at him, not anyone else. And now, someone was about to take his place.

I wondered how Tov will react to meeting his little sister. I was nervous, but more curious and excited, just like how I felt that evening waiting for David to show up at my apartment gate. Will he show interest in her? Will he completely ignore her? Will he break down into jealousy? Will he be thoroughly confused by the appearance of a stranger who never left?

The minutes ticked down. I ate the hospital’s very bland breakfast and saved the blueberry muffin bottom for Tov (the hospital menu claimed it was homemade blueberry muffin, but it was a package from Otis Spunkmeyer). I watched Woori sleep. I tried not to get annoyed as nurses barged in every 5 minutes.

And then around 9 am, I heard him. He’s a very loud boy. I heard his running footsteps from down the hall. Several minutes later, the door opened, and Tov stomped in with David behind him.

Oh, I missed this boy. It’s only been 17 hours since I last saw him, but a whole world had changed since then. My balloon stomach had deflated. I don’t have to drink decaf coffee anymore. Another Lee-Herrmann was in the birth records. And our family dynamics will never be the same.

“Hi, Tov!” I greeted, and he bounded over to me like a kangaroo with a huge grin. I gave him a big hug and kissed him. I purposely delayed introducing him to the baby; I wanted time for him to adjust to seeing me in a strange new room, to greet him properly and make him feel like he’s the star attention.

“Look what we have for you!” I said, and whipped out a wrapped gift that the women in my discipleship group had bought for Tov. They had thoughtfully written “Especially for Tov” on the wrapper.

“Woooow!” Tov exclaimed, and immediately demanded, “Open, open!”

We opened the gift. It was a digital book about animals. While we tinkered with it, David went over to Woori and bent down to look at her, and that’s when Tov noticed the baby.

“Tov! You want to come meet her? Yeah, that’s your little sister!”

I took off his shoes and lifted him up onto the bed. He crawled towards the bassinet and peered over to gaze at the tiny pink face, whose eyes were closed in peaceful slumber, her head covered in that classic newborn pink-and-blue striped hat.

“See Tov, that’s your little sister. Her name is Woori.”

“Bebe!” Tov cried, pointing. Then he got distracted and pointed at the clock on the wall: “Cuckoo!” And then his interest got drawn to the baby again. “Bebe!”

That first moment was about as anticlimax as expected. He was constantly distracted, either by the clock or the packaged blueberry muffin or the new toy, and most especially, the bassinet, which he insisted on climbing into and lying spread-eagle as though he himself is the baby.

And it was also as sweet and precious as I had hoped for. When he did remember the baby, he was enthralled. He pointed at her eyes. He pointed at her nose. He patted her on the head. He pressed his forehead onto hers. He kissed her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, over and over again, delighting in the act. It was sweeter than my first kiss, more precious than my engagement ring, more satisfying than my first byline.

I wanted to hold this moment with both palms and cradle them into the deepest groove of my heart. I wanted time to pause, and replay slowly, over and over, that moment when my firstborn met my secondborn, and my whole family bunched together in that morning glow like a fresh-picked bouquet, pure and crisp and new.

Even as I was pregnant with Woori, feeling her kicks and seeing her little figure on the ultrasound, I couldn’t imagine loving her as much I as love Tov. People with multiple kids told me your heart grows. Bitterness and anger corrode the heart, but there’s always space in the human heart for more love; in fact, the more love it fills, the bigger and stronger and healthier it gets.

My heart is the biggest and strongest and healthiest it’s ever been.

Lord, you are so good.

Why won’t you just EAT

Published on by Sophia Lee1 Comment

Two Sundays ago, we got together with two church families for our first book meeting, in which we discuss Jonathan Haidt’s The Anxious Generation. We thought the easiest way for us to be able to meet and chat was to hang out poolside, letting our young kids aged 9 months to 6 years old to splash around at the pool while we snack on fruits and sunbutter sandwiches and talk about the impact of social media and screen time on young minds.

We had a good discussion, but I also felt myself feeling rather agitated and frustrated– not because of the content, or the company, which was wonderful, but because I was watching my friends’ toddlers, both several months older than Tov, hang out close to the snack table while Tov was way more interested in splashing in the pool.

By then I knew that Tov had skipped breakfast, had eaten one mini dried fruit bar in the car after church, and then had consumed nothing else. Meanwhile, these two other healthy toddlers, both bigger and chunkier than skinny Tov, grabbed fistfuls of blueberries, downed a bottle of juice, and chomped on not one, but three, four pieces of sunflower butter sandwiches. All the while, Tov was expending all the calories he didn’t ingest by scampering and jumping around, totally disinterested in the food.

“Tov, you want to eat something?” I called out to my son, and he shook his head and said his new favorite word to every question: “No.”

Eventually he came by my side to the snack table, drenched and sunburned, and I was able to get him to eat some watermelon, on which he nibbled a few squirrely bites and then handed the rest of the chewed-up chunks to me.

“Try some sandwich,” I begged, holding out a small piece, and he shook his head, “No.”

He licked on some blueberries, spat some out. Nibbled on some watermelon, and then tossed most of it onto the table. The sandwich I had offered to him sat crusty and dry before me.

He was driving me INSANE. He’s got to be hungry by now! He’s eating 1/5 of what other kids his age eat, and using up three times the energy! Why the heck wouldn’t he just freaking EAT!

I had been noticing Tov’s declining appetite for a couple weeks by then. Because he still was his happy and energetic self, I didn’t worry much at first. He’s always been a good eater; some days he ate less, but he naturally ate more the next day. He’s been getting pickier about what he eats, but that’s pretty normal for toddlers his age, and I just did what the experts advised: Keep offering new foods, including vegetables and meat he won’t touch, but don’t ever pressure him. Simple breezy easy.

And then one day of not eating became three days, and then a week, and then two weeks, and by the time we were at the pool for our book club, I was observing every morsel touching his lips like a hawk. I was starting to do what the experts told me not to do: I was starting to stress, and the stress steamed off my pores like fresh-boiled potatoes, burning both me and Tov and others around us.

I told our nanny that he hasn’t been eating, and she shrugged. “He’s never been a breakfast person,” she said.

I gritted my teeth. “He’s not eating lunch either.”

“I don’t like fat babies,” she said. “He looks fine to me.”

“The doctor said he’s pretty underweight,” I said, feeling an irritation heating up into a volcanic rage. She sees how little he’s eating, doesn’t she? He’s not eating breakfast, he’s not eating his snacks, he’s barely touching his lunch. “He’s not really been eating much for dinner, either.”

“Oh!” our nanny said, starting to look concerned. “I didn’t know he’s not been eating dinner either. I didn’t know it was that bad.”

From then on, she made a concentrated effort to get Tov to eat. She chased him with a piece of bread in her hand, going, “Mmmm! Bread! You want some bread?” and it turned into a game for Tov, who ran in circles around the living room giggling, and of course refusing to even taste the by-then soggy, wretched-looking, wholly unappetizing bread. In the end, she would put him down for a nap with his stomach empty, his breakfast and lunch plates still full and congealing and attracting fruit flies.

A week after that poolside hangout, his appetite dropped even lower, if that was even possible. He didn’t even want his milk. He had a low-grade temperature and was clingy, simply wanting to be held and rocked. I took him to the doctor, and turns out, he has strep throat. His pediatrician said the back of his throat is swollen, which makes sense why he completely lost his appetite, but she said it doesn’t really explain why he’s been eating so little for the past few weeks. That just might be normal toddler behavior, she said. She put him on antibiotics and Tylenol/ibuprofen, and said he should be feeling better in about three days.

The next day, after a full day of not eating again, our nanny tried to wake him up from his nap, and he barely stirred. She rubbed his back, stroked his cheeks, called out to him, but he lay like a stone in his crib, eyes shut tight. She got frightened and called me and David. When David picked Tov up from his crib, his head lolled backwards, limp, but thankfully, he later woke up crying, and we were able to get him to drink some water and milk.

I took him to the pediatrician again, and we found out not only does he have strep throat, he also developed hand foot mouth disease. He had no sores or rashes on his body, but there were two painful-looking white ulcers on his tongue and uvula.

“No wonder he’s not eating,” the pediatrician said, eyes filled with pity. “He’s in a lot of pain.”

I felt my heart break, held the poor boy close. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Tov.”

Even then, I could not break from my obsession with making sure he eats something. I ran to Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s and paid too much money buying things that I rarely let Tov eat: popsicles, juice, sweetened yogurt drinks, ice cream, soft white bread– anything that would be cooling and easier to eat. What kid doesn’t like popsicles and ice cream?

Well, Tov.

He licked the popsicle but then let the rest of it melt into a bright purple puddle. He would not even touch the bread. He took a few sips of the juice and then left it sitting on the table. He spilled the yogurt drink into another bowl and smacked his hand into the pink liquid, splashing the sticky substance everywhere.

My friends and the internet gave me advice on how to get a sick, low-appetite toddler to eat or stay hydrated, and I got frustrated because I had already tried it all. None of them works.

How does he not like popsicles? One friend exclaimed.

Because, I thought, he’s torturing me. He’s being a stubborn ass. He won’t even try it because he knows how much I want him to eat, and that makes him even more stubborn not to.

Stubborn…like his mother? one friend joked.

Ha ha. Touche.

But it was really eating at me. I was worried, but my love and worry for Tov stormed out in the form of rage. I wanted to throw a tantrum. I wanted to scream every time Tov said “no” to anything I offered him. I wanted to smash things when Tov left his plate untouched, when he squeezed the juices out of his watermelon without bringing it anywhere close to his mouth, when he spit out whatever I was able to put into his mouth.

And at times, I did throw a mini-tantrum. My voice sharpened. My face turned smoky. “Fine, just starve!” I exclaimed at him. I smacked his plate over the trash can to dump his food out and flung the dirty plate into the sink. I stormed into my room and banged the door shut before I completely erupt in front of Tov. I retreated to my desk, my body shaking with frustration and anger.

“Mama gone,” I heard him tell our nanny.

I sat at my desk, trying to return to work, but heart and mind swimming with mad, pulsating emotions and thoughts: Why won’t he even try to eat? What if his eating is always going to be like this, because I’m pressuring him too much? What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with me? Why am I so angry? Why am I acting like a bitch? What if he senses my displeasure and frustration, and gets scared of me? What if he develops an eating disorder because of me?

I knew Tov is sick. I knew it probably was uncomfortable for him to eat. He did nothing wrong, but for whatever reason, a part of me still blamed him, thinking it was a behavioral issue, for the simple reason that he was not doing what I wanted him to do. I could not bend his will to mine. He was his own person, and no matter how much I wanted to force something that I know is good for him on him, he ultimately makes the decision.

I got a bitter taste of parenthood then. So much of parenthood is accepting the fact that I cannot control my kid, cannot control the situation, and often, cannot even control myself. It’s also acknowledging how selfish I am. Even my love is selfish, and can oppress my kid in self-serving ways. I want Tov to eat for his sake, but also for my sake. I want to feel the relief. I want to be appeased. I want to feel the satisfaction of feeding my kid well.

It bothered me, how selfish I am even as a mother. I’d always thought with motherhood comes this supernatural, self-sacrificing, all-giving, all-encompassing holy love. A mother’s extraordinary love is fabled in the news and social media and novels and poetry and songs. I have a powerful, instinctual love for my child, but it’s also a broken kind of love. It’s a love that can get twisted, can oppress, can consume, because the lover herself is a broken person.

I thought about this a lot this week, praying through it, asking God for help and patience. I also repented.

Last night, before I went to bed, I crept into Tov’s room while he was fast asleep on his stomach, his little fist crooked beneath his chin. I stroked his unruly hair, his smooth cheek, his sweet eyelashes. Even though he was deep in sleep, he subconsciously sensed my presence, and he stirred, reached out, and grabbed my hand. My love might be broken, but he was still made to receive my love, and my love I will give, though Lord help me, purify and sanctify this love I have for him.

I sat next to Tov’s crib, holding my precious son’s hand, and felt tears drip down my neck.

“I’m so sorry, Tov,” I whispered to him. “Omma is so sorry.”

He breathed, in and out, in and out. And I sat there for a while, stroking his little hand, simply loving him for who he is.

Tov is one

Published on by Sophia LeeLeave a comment

Tov is one. Well, he’s 13 months today. I’ve been wanting to write a post about his first birthday, but for all my good intentions of keeping this blog regularly updated, I’ve failed to do so because of time and energy and priorities…and also, how did time whoosh by so freaking fast?! How is my son already one? How is he no longer a baby, but almost a toddler?!

I often swipe through older pictures on my iPhone, and it’s so strange to look at pictures of when he was a newborn, a six-month-old, a nine-month-old, and not really recognize his face just several months ago. He was a pink tiny alien with scabby forehead and cheeks when he was a newborn, an apple-cheeked, double-chinned little nugget with bald spots when he was six months old, and even at nine months old, his face looked different– more baby, less little boy. And now he’s a 13-month-old busy body opening every cabinet, climbing into every box, banging and slamming spoons and kabochas, and chomping on everything he can find, including the wall.

He is still barely 20 pounds, but he is mini and mighty. His legs don’t have much meat on them, but those bones are thick and strong. He must do at least 300 squats a day, standing up to reach for me or bouncing his butt up and down to some beat only he can hear.

The weeks before and after his first birthday have been rough. He was non-stop sick, and more than two months since he first caught a viral infection, he was still runny-nosed and coughing. A week before his birthday, the poor boy had an eye infection and then a double-ear infection.

Fluids and gunk dribbled down his face constantly, and his face and body were breaking out into inexplicable rashes. He had no appetite and was eating more snot than food. He lost pounds that he didn’t even have. We were in and out of the clinic, checking his heart and lungs and temperature, and returning home with not much useful tips from the doctor other than to “watch him.”

Those days were brutal, but more so for me and David than Tov. Once his ear infection cleared up, the little boy was back to his happy, loud, busy self, exploring every corner and nub in the house until his energy levels dipped because he wasn’t eating enough. The sticky liquid dripping from his nose was more a nuisance than any serious ailment. But for his parents, every hacking cough shaking his little body pinched at our hearts: Oh, the poor, poor boy. The parents’ hearts are more fragile than the child’s body and spirit.

Tov also went through some weird sleep regression or separation anxiety phase around the same time. He started waking up around midnight every night as though he’s had a nightmare. His cries were different from his usual cries when he wakes up– this time, he was screaming as though terrified. He bolted up in his sleep sack, clutching the rails of his crib, sobbing and sobbing until I went in to calm him down. Some nights, all he needed was for me to stroke his head and lull him back to sleep. Other nights, he wouldn’t let me leave for hours. He would jolt up every few minutes to check if I’m still there, feeling around for me, and sobbing again if he couldn’t. Those nights, I had to sleep next to his crib with one hand through the rails.

I remember one particular night in which Tov woke up at midnight again and was in such a state of separation anxiety that he would not let go off my hand. I laid next to him in that awkward side-position with one hand in his death grip. It was pitch-dark in his room, but I could sense his presence, his warmth, his force of life– just a barely 17-pound baby, but man, how he marks his existence, how he’s shaken my world. Even in that moment, with my night disrupted and my body exhausted, his cries– which would have annoyed anyone else– softened my heart, like butter under the afternoon sun. What flowed out of me wasn’t irritation, but tenderness and deep, deep love.

I thought then about Diane Langberg’s book Redeeming Power: Understanding Abuse and Power in the Church. Langberg is a Christian psychologist and an early pioneer talking about trauma and abuse within the Christian world when such issues were either hush-hushed or considered secular, anti-biblical psychology. In that book, she defines what “power” is– how power can be a source of blessing when used the way God intended, how it is inherent to being human, and how every human being, as image-bearers of God, wields some kind of sacred power, however weak and vulnerable one may be. Power, when used right, can be beautiful and transformative.

Tov has power over me. When he cries in the middle of the night, when he coughs like a dying old granny, when his body breaks out into hives, all those things affect me and David as his parents. When he smiles and laughs, our hearts melt; we laugh and smile with him. When he’s sick and hurting, our hearts bleed; we drop everything and inconvenience ourselves to take him to the doctor.

“The power of the vulnerable infant to express her needs exposes the hearts of the more powerful adults,” Langberg wrote. “Over time, their habituated response to the infant shapes not only the personhood of the infant but the hearts of the adults. Our responses to the vulnerable expose who we are.”

I read this book way before I became a mother, but I highlighted that part in the book because the simple truth of this statement moved me. It reminded me of the nature of God’s relationship with us as His children. God is all-powerful, and He is the only one whose power is wholly good and just. And yet, we as mere human beings also have the power to touch God’s heart, to move Him, to grief Him, to gladden Him. That God will willingly and joyfully create such creatures who have the power to influence Him exposes who He is, and what divine power is.

For Tov’s dol (first birthday in Korean), I began preparing weeks ahead. I bought a 25-pound bag of flour and lots and lots of butter. I made multiple batches of three kinds of cookie dough and froze them. I ordered a dozen Amazon packages full of cake-making and party supplies that I’ll probably not use again. I looked up countless recipes looking for the best cake recipe, and tested them out so I can find the best lemon olive oil cake recipe. I watched dozens of YouTube videos on how to make a naked tiered cake.

It wasn’t just me. My parents spent thousands of dollars to fly out for his dol, and so did my father-in-law. My mother made a huge pot of japchae while my father tried in vain to put Tov down for a nap. My mother and I spent took much time trying to arrange flowers I had bought at Trader Joes that didn’t really work well together. The day off, David and my father-in-law hauled boxes and boxes of stuff to the park to set up for the party. David’s uncle and aunt and cousins all helped me assemble everything together while I barked orders and ran around like a stupid chicken all stressed and frazzled because Tov had been crying nonstop and everything was still in boxes when we had 15 minutes until the party starts.

To be honest, I did not have all that much fun. I wasn’t able to hang out with anyone very much because I had to hold Tov most of the time, which also meant I wasn’t able to eat much of the food I had prepared, either. I was cold and tired and over-touched and over-stimulated.

All this backbreaking work, for a one-year-old boy who couldn’t give a crap, who didn’t want to wear his traditional Korean hanbok, who cried and fussed because he missed his nap, and eventually passed out on David’s shoulder.

Oh, the things we suffer through for a child. Oh, the things a child suffers through for us adults.

But there was one redeeming thing to this whole affair: Except for Tov, we all willingly did it. People willingly sacrificed several hours of their Saturday afternoon to drive a far way down to us. Parents and grandparents willingly gave up time and money and energy to gift Tov a special celebration that he’ll not remember, but will hopefully bless him in immeasurable, invisible ways because it is a reflection of our love for him and each other.

Another redeeming factor: For his doljabi, Tov picked a globe! He shall be a globe-trotter! I was thrilled, though David was a bit sad he didn’t even give the baseball a glance. I cannot wait to take Tov around the world and let him see and experience the peoples and cultures I meet as a journalist.

Happy birthday, Tov. Even if you don’t remember the details of your dol, remember this: Even at that age, you had the power to bring together all these people to celebrate and bless you. That power is love. You still have it. You’ll always have it.