Computer crashed last week. I was up to 18,000 words on my novel. I had backed up in June. So now I have only 11,000 words. Ava and Josie, who have been closely following my progress, were bummed at first, for me. Then Ava’s face lit up: “Mom, now you can come up with something new!” The light in her eyes, the enthusiasm in her voice…well, it was sweet. Of course, my old, decrepit soul inwardly said, “but it was good! I don’t need something new, $#@*$&.”

I shall write in my trusty old notebook from now on. Hire a secretary to type it out, like Natalie Goldberg does. Yeah, right.  I have not been able to bring myself to sit down to write again. It’s so painful.

This afternoon, when the dismissal bell rang, my students found a gecko in my classroom, near the cubbies. It’s a wonder the little thing didn’t get smashed from the children rushing to get their bags. It’s a baby. I took him home, with the plan of setting him free in Usery Park. The girls squealed and named him “Limey” because he has a green band over his eyes. He’s very pretty. With such attachment, how can I free him?  We ran out and foolishly bought $68 worth of equipment for the little guy.  He’s hiding in his coconut shell right now and he’s eaten two small crickets already. The other three are hopping around and I check in to see if he’s eaten another or if a cricket has drowned in the small water bowl. They do that. Geckos and scorpions only eat live crickets.  Whenever I feel guilty for imprisoning him in his terrarium pimped out with fake – but very soft! – grass, small pond, coconut shell, temp and humidity gauges, and heat lamp, I counter my guilt with “well, no one’s gonna eat him in there.”

I hope he doesn’t get sick or die. We’re already so fond of him. Of course, that day will come. Tears will be shed, comfort will be spread, and things will start a new.  It is time to start again. I’ll jot words 11,001-11,400 tomorrow.

As a mother, I find myself reminiscing about my own childhood throughout the day. I feel a sense of deja vu: something I’m doing with my children (baking cookies), or something I am doing to my children (giving them a bath with Mr. Bubble) and even the dreaded what I’m saying to my children: “Turn that TV down, it’s too loud!”   Was that me or my mother?

One thing about being a 2nd generation Korean-American (or 2nd generation anything with war, famine or devastating plague during the 1st generations’ lives) is that no matter how bad it gets for you, it was always worse for your parents. When my first child was learning to walk and I was pregnant with #2, I would tell my mother I felt nauseous and helping Josie walk was killing me. “What about me? You and your sister, 11 months apart! I was in apartment, no car, no friends, you daddy work all the time, I have not so good English…just me and two babies.”

My parents made my sister, brother and me take all kinds of lessons in our childhood: cello, violin, piano, and martial arts. We took Tae Kwon Do when we had no interest in it. There was no such thing as quitting, either: we were relieved of lessons only after we earned our 1st degree black belts. “Ai goo! You don’t know how lucky you are! Your father had to take Tae Kwon Do then go to military school.” If we whined to our mother at all about having to do extra math homework given to us from our math-and-computer science professor father, we were told to count our blessings, that they did not attend any school for eight years due to the Korean War. “We were dying to go to school! You are lucky. Very lucky.”

Watching TV was a guilty pleasure. “Play outside! Why you watch so much TV?”  We’d watch “The Brady Bunch” and eat potato chips, laughing at Peter’s antics, sympathizing with Jan’s adolescent woes, and mimicking Cindy’s lisp. My mother was cooking lunch or dinner, washing dishes and even on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor while we relaxed. My mother could sew. I didn’t appreciate it then, but she made curtains and  tailored clothes effortlessly.

Decades later, I can’t sew and can make only the most basic Korean foods. What happened? Why didn’t she turn the TV off and teach me these things? Why didn’t I shut it off and ask her to teach me?

Too often, there is a gap, a chasm, a veritable abyss of communication between immigrants and their children. We speak different languages, hold dissimilar values and completely misunderstand each other. Some experts assert that this is a necessary loss in immigration, an unavoidable expense. However, I can’t help but think with just a little more effort on both sides, the losses could be minimized. To have the best of both worlds, now that would be a lucky thing.

So we’re driving home from Palm Springs. It’s Sunday, June 28th, our 12th anniversary. I want to get home. The car overheated when we drove to the tram. Willey and a new-found buddy from downtown Palm Springs worked on the car Saturday night and it seemed fine, save some slow leaking.

Then we break down. On the I-10, twenty-five miles east of Indio. Mind you, it’s Sunday, all mechanics are at home, watching TV, being with their families. When the car breaks down, it’s 110 degrees outside. We have plenty of water, but it’s hot! Willey and I stew silently. I call the tow truck guy we met at our last stop. I had had an ominous feeling and put his number in my phone.  He says he can “be there in 25 minutes.” 25 minutes?! We could be hit by a car, we could sweat our brains out, we could melt in 25 minutes.

But we wait. A homeless couple of guys in a rented U-Haul truck stop. “We can save you money! It’ll cost you $100 easily with the tow…..we’re good Christians, we help everyone out. But we don’t have any tools. We can fix it for you if you have tools.” We don’t. I make a mental note: keep a tool kit in the car. The guys seem harmless enough. The skinny guy, I could take him. Should we be attacked, my Tae-Kwon Do will kick in (pardon the pun), and a swift round house kick to the gut, he’d fly into the freeway. The other guy, Willey can take him, they’re both over 55. They have an adorable puppy…is that a ploy to get unsuspecting people to trust them? I can hear my mom’s voice “Ai goo, shut the door Caroline! Lock everything!” But I don’t. I play it cool. I watch them with one eye, my other eye on the girls. They’re smiling, watching “Hotel for Dogs” on Willey’s laptop, totally oblivious to the doom and gloom of my mind. I have to smile looking at them. It’s at least 110 in the car and they’re not complaining. They know what’s going on, but they choose to entertain themselves with what is at hand. They laugh. “Look mom! Look at this…” something silly is happening in the movie. The homeless guys leave empty handed. They couldn’t fix it. They return 15 minutes later, with wrenches. They try. It doesn’t

work. I give them $20 for trying. The tow comes 5 minutes later.

We stay in the Holiday Inn and order pizza. The girls go swimming and have more fun. I dry their clothes on the air conditioning vent and unpack toiletries again. Willey loses one day at work and I miss a doctor appointment. The car is fixed by lunch time the next day. The time flew once we began solving a crossword puzzle in the paper. We arrive home at 5:30pm, relieved. Home! We love our home, even with the dining room project covered in plastic, the walls dusted with concrete powder. Maggie jumps up and down and runs in circles.

Happy Anniversary darling.

Staying at home is dandy

Though I’ve gained weight from

Boredom and candy

Still fun to play – my way – each day

Instead of preparing for work, it’s vacay!

I desire to write, and perchance to dream

In solitude, replete with silence

Three cups of coffee with Splenda and cream

A perfect day for creative thoughts

Yet I can hear the girls’ giggles and talks

My days are busy, it’s true

The dog wants to play – she follows me

But it’s hot! At sunrise it’s 102!

Monkey mind is everywhere

Like the dirty dishes, floors and underwear

Still, I cannot complain

It’s the lack of focus on my part

my utter laziness I disdain

for the blank pages in my notebook

are second to my decision to cook

instilled in my family’s life

are love, fun and connections

I’m a mother, a teacher and wife

Published or not, I know this

I am loved and my life is bliss

Went to an Indian restaurant for Father’s Day. Indian cuisine is one of Willey’s favorites. Ava pouted because she loves Mexican – Chilero’s to be exact. Oh well. It’s FATHER’s DAY, we pointed out to her. We’ll go to Chilero’s another time. “The next time,” she made us promise. This 6 year old holds us hostage to her desires. Our children have a way of doing that. Although there were only three tables of guests, the food was slow in coming. Josie complained that she perused my entire book “The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian” in that time. At last, the food arrived and we weren’t disappointed. It was fantastic. Lamb vindaloo, chicken kabobs (both too spicy for the girls), jasmine rice, and wonderful garlic naan. The girls enjoyed the carb fare while Willey and I feasted on all dishes. It was getting late and the girls are super busy this week with summer school (ceramics, painting, writing (with me) and math (with me)) in the morning and then Boredom Busters in the afternoon until their swim lesson in the evening. Whew! They are loving it though, sure beats watching TV! I had to tear Willey away from the waiter who was listening to how our brother-in-law is Indian and how Willey’s father grew up in India and how Willey could absolutely live on this food forever.

Ava pouted until the dinner arrived (which, I just mentioned took a looooong time in coming). So we gave her the camera and free reign of the place.

She held a smile back (couldn’t give her parents satisfaction) and started snapping. Willey and I silently worried that she’d drop the expensive camera on the concrete floor, but she didn’t.

Been dealing with serious monkey mind. Practiced yoga the other day and that helped, but I need to get out of the house in order to write. There are too many distractions here at home. It does not help that I’m trying to simplify the house and so my eyes are constantly surveying things around the house that need to be picked up, organized or disposed of.

In the end, what does it matter? What does any of this matter?

Perhaps I need to stop reading the news. It’s getting me down.

I’m fortunate to have a beautiful family. Willey and I are both employed. We have a home. We have a great dog. Things are wonderful.

So we have JiMin, who is a wonderful taste of Korea right in our home. We have conversations regarding Korean customs and her family and the stresses of academic life. We explain things on a daily basis of “The American Way,” and I’m realizing something disconcerting: I want to go to Korea. It’s been 10 years. It’s a real challenge now what with the hubby, jobs, and children. But I really want to go as a family and for a period of time, like 6 months. I’m writing a novel and although it’s wonderful to have JiMin here to ask questions as I conduct research, I need to be there, to smell things, to hear the noises and the language, to sit in on high school classes and drink it all in. How can this happen?