What's in a Name?

The question, suggestion and perhaps request for consideration came out of left field and as these things go, it completely caught me off guard. I can’t remember exactly what we were talking about but Robert and I were probably having a wedding related conversation which then led to the issue of changing names to which I have always said no to with me being Korean and all and then, it came. The question. How about Kim Hawkins? My initial response was that it sounded good. Then, what would it mean to Robert if I added his name to mine? The answer was simple: it would make me part of the family. And I could continue to use my name professionally, as they say. The idea of making the change tickled me but I was equally hesitant. When I brought up the issue with Lizzie she told me she could not really help because it was too big of a deal. Pretty much every friend I mentioned this to had the same response as Lizzie. (I miss the times when friends would tell you exactly what you should do and get pissed off when you don’t but I guess it’s part of the growing up process.) So I spent the next few months confused and obsessed about what to do.

I’ve always liked my name. I feel it suits me, in my old life it was a good byline and at least in print, it’s uncomplicated. Being the daughter of Korean immigrants in Japan, with Koreans being forced to adopt Japanese names during the occupation, it also carries significance beyond my personal like or dislike for me. All that is to say that I never thought I’d change my name after marriage and thought most women felt the same these days. But alas, I found myself disappointed when friends would take their husband’s name, even if I liked the guy. As I mulled over my options, I wondered if time had come, much like with my engagement ring, to accept that some things that I though were important weren’t anymore?

Well, not so fast. At the height of the what’s-in-a-name period my darker side reliably roared its head. Why should I be the only one to change my name? Would Robert consider becoming a Kim Hawkins? Or Kim? And what, did he think my name was too short or something? Then, a couple of things happened. First, Heidi Klum applied to change her name to Seal’s surname Samuel. Not that Heidi gives a hoot but I was disappointed. Shortly thereafter we were having dinner with Liz when I brought up the issue again. As we were debating the pros and cons, Liz mentioned something about me needing to be myself. It was then that I realized that I don’t want to change my name. It’s not that I don’t see Robert’s point but there are parts of me that I need to preserve amidst the changes, adjustments and concessions I have made to become part of this family. Robert has been a little sad about this and as hard as it is to see him sad, I also know this is right. At the end of the day I discovered some beliefs that are not negotiable and feel good about standing my ground. After all, you better know your roots if you want to plant new seeds.

The Black Hole

So I fell into the hole called life with kids. I certainly knew from watching my sister and friends what happens once you have children but I guess I was under the delusion that things would be different since I was not tired from giving birth, the kids are older and they’re only with us half of the time. What can I say? I was young. Some belated realizations I’ve made:

· I am marrying Maya and Ari, too. Really, seriously, for real - we’re in it together until death do us part.

· Kids suck time out of your life. It doesn’t matter if they’re trying to kill each other or just sitting on the sofa all day long. For reasons that I cannot fully comprehend, they still need tending to. All the time.

· If cooking for adults is an enjoyable activity that slows down time, cooking for kids is a battle against it. What is it that they can’t wait? You know, it’ll be ready in five more minutes! That said the smell of great pasta can help a 13-year-old apologize to you.

I don’t want to insult biological parents out there but to quote my friend Michael it’s like I gave birth twice and out came a nine and 13-year-old. In some ways, all four of us gave birth to this new family unit and we’re trying to figure out what we want it to be. There are definite highs (getting that apology) and lows (catching myself sing the tune to Hannah Montana) but lest one of us turns out to be a serial killer, I think we’re going to be fine. Writing being such a time-consuming activity, among other things, I will now focus on getting a handle on this time thing. Or am I being delusional?

The Princess Inside

One of the rather horrifying aspects of being in a relationship has been to be confronted with the fact that not only am I so deeply conventional bordering on dull but that I could actually be turning into the kind of woman that I used to roll my eyes at. While I had always hoped to meet someone that I would truly fall in love with, I was also happy being single. When Robert and I started dating, it took me a year to let go of my need to be self-reliant all the time. And once I was able to do that, something else entirely happened.

One night, after coming home from a party we wished we hadn’t gone to, I blurted out how glad I was that I didn’t have to go to these things by myself anymore. I can't recall hating going to parties as a single, but that muscle that helped me navigate large crowds of relative strangers has turned to fat. Gone are the days when I cherished solitude, instead I find myself roaming the apartment at a loss of what to do when I'm alone and need to remind myself to enjoy the quiet. Or take my engagement ring. Years ago, I seriously debated the utter nonsense of the issue with my dear friend Monika. We bemoaned the tiny blondes whose IQ and diamonds seemed to be approximately the same size. I can honestly say that we weren't bitter or envious but really could not relate. Why flaunt someone else's wealth and what does carat size have to do with love? Fast forward to September 2009: I am happily wearing my bling on my left ring finger. I have been in love and obsessed with it from the moment Robert popped out the box. I don't want anyone to throw up but I do look at it and it's like a reminder that Robert loves me. And while I can barely bring myself to write this, one day after work I told Robert that I had noticed an engagement ring on a colleague. The point of the story? I was proud and happy that my stone was bigger than hers. As bad as all of this is, the real shock came when I realized that my long-held professional goals began to be less appealing. Instead of looking up PhD programs or analytic training institutes like I used to, the activity has been replaced by fantasies about getting a cushy part-time job or early retirement while Robert with his PhD goes on to double and triple his salary. I know there's more to life than work but was I, for all these years really, secretly aspiring to pick out the perfect curtains and make mac and cheese from scratch?

This has been so disconcerting to me that I had to turn to my loved ones for counsel. Lizzie believes now that I have what I always wanted; some of what I'm experiencing was expected. Like, disturbing as it may be, I'm playing out deeply ingrained images of being a wife but I'll get over it. (This would be my temporary insanity defense). Robert, who more than anything is amused by my confessions, agrees but has also warned me that not working at my fullest intellectual capacity could be a deal breaker. I guess what’s on sale at the supermarket does not an interesting conversation make...Lizzie also pointed out that my life has gotten harder, which was actually a revelation to me. I might have been thinking about this the wrong way. It's not that the 50s housewife monster has taken over my brain but it's because my home life is overwhelming that I can't fathom taking on professional challenges until things have stabilized. So the daydreaming about home decorating is an escape from the hell-ish moments that currently pop up in my life.

But being a new stepmother doesn't explain my judging other women's engagement rings or the loss of certain “life skills,” of course. Blame me for being naïve but I tell myself that at least I don’t avoid being alone and I still don’t consider singlehood an affliction. Which leaves the ring. Clearly I have not been immune from fairy tales, media, and New York women. I’m not done processing all that it implies but I've always been shallow. And I’ve lived long enough to know that I'm a hypocrite. Maybe this is not so much of a change but an essential part of me? Maybe I’ve always been a princess trapped in a commoner’s body? It’s not exactly how I like to see myself, but at least I found my prince.

Reality Bites

The other day, I had what the Japanese call “Where am I? Who am I?” moment when I got home from work. The gist of the story is that Maya wanted to keep me out of the apartment but Robert eventually heard the door bell. Later the same evening, I almost laughed when I saw that Maya, who was setting the table, had given everyone white plates but had put a black plate at my seat at the table. So yes, where am I, who am I and what the f***?

The incidents were not altogether surprising and I should probably explain my relationship with the kids. Ari and I bonded and connected easily; we’re friends in the way that adults and children can be. Maya has always been more hesitant. In the first year of Robert and my courtship, she expressed how she felt by destroying my make-up, on other occasions she has stated that she hates me, though not to my face. Silence has, for a long time, been a standard response to my hellos. That is not to say that our relationship is always fraught with tension. When Michael Jackson died, the kids and I – Robert was at work and texted me the news – screamed, ran around the apartment, hurried to the TV, turned on the computer, ran around and screamed some more. There are the fun and uncomplicated times but even then, I wonder when her rejection of what I represent will surface again. Though we had achieved a pleasant equilibrium in the last year, it’s been disrupted by the engagement and my moving in. Just last night, Robert and I talked about how it’s “really started.”

It is sobering and confusing to be to be confronted with a 13-year-old’s acting out and to feel powerless. I recently likened my existence as a stepmother to that of being a Korean immigrant in Japan: you have all the responsibilities but no rights. So while I cook and partake in general caretaking activities, I can’t tell Maya to go to her room because she’s hurt my feelings. What is so challenging is my emotional responsibility that I, as an adult, have toward her. Until now that has taken the form of not taking things personally and putting myself in her shoes. But the humbling reality is that unless you’re Jesus that really doesn’t work. I'm pretty sure taking the high road adversely affects your health. One of my go-to ways to cope with my frustrations is having endless conversations with Maya in my head where I put things straight, which is not productive, to say the least. I am incredibly lucky that Robert gets it and intervenes immediately and unambiguously when Maya acts out, yet there’s a part of me that would like to defend myself. I feel silenced which makes me want to scream. When I moved in, Robert and I talked about that it’d be great if, in the right moment, I can signal to Maya that I know what she’s doing. The million-dollar question then is, when is the right time? Two weeks into living together? Two months, years? Or just, while I can speak calmly?

Since I’m in the thick of it I have no idea where how things will turn out. This week, I found sanity when I read Tuesdays with Morrie. (I know, I know, I’m a decade late on this). Somewhere in it, Morrie says that love always wins and I instantly felt at peace. Not because I love Maya and Ari and love will conquer all. (When asked if I love my stepchildren, my immediate answer would be a pause. I’ll say that I love Ari and that I can teeter between affection and resentment for Maya within a span of ten minutes. Now that I think about it, I guess those are not unusual feelings to have for anyone living with a teenager?) No, it reminded me why I’m here to begin with: I love Robert. It made me realize that when I feel lost in the web of stepmothering, this is the place I need to return to so I don’t lose sight of what matters. Because despite everything, this relationship is what I want. And this is where and who I am.

Bye Bye East Village

Today, I said good-bye to my home of nine years and will go from East Village to West Village resident. My apartment is a typical East Village railroad with slanted hardwood floors and a bathroom that is the width of its full-size tub, with no separate sink and a toilet added as an afterthought. But the apartment itself is spacious, and the two brick walls and two fire places, albeit non-working ones, give it just enough flair. I fell in love with it immediately when I first went to see my former friend and roommate who was its original tenant.
My love for the place started with having the front door key thrown at me in a sock since the place has no doorman or buzzer – impractical, yes, but so very, old New York. After walking up four flights, the door opened into a cozy kitchen and when I turned around, the rest of the apartment sprawled out in front of me. How much I wanted to live in a place like this! New York is the kind of city where you’d push a pregnant woman under the bus to get a good apartment you can afford. Luckily, I didn’t have to resort to such drastic measures to get what I wanted. A couple of years after my first visit my friend and I became roommates. It seemed like a great way out of our respective problems: financial on her part, bad roommate situation on mine. Our relationship ended in friendly estrangement but perhaps more importantly, I got to take over the lease when I my roommate moved out to get married.
This is the place where I experienced the excitement of feeling free and being the queen of my castle. This is where I felt truly afraid and vulnerable in the days, weeks and months following September 11, 2001. And this is where I also learned from other challenges: Having a job I hated, getting laid off from that job, staying afloat as a freelancer and ultimately, changing careers. On the romantic front, let’s just say, I would not be able to explain some of my choices to Maya when she’s older and looking for dating advice. Come to think of it, I am already having a hard time explaining my choices to Robert, but I guess that’s altogether a different story. That said my apartment is where I transformed from a chick into a human being.
Then, along came Robert. Truth is, being in my apartment has not been the same since we’ve been together. Going back and forth between two places has the effect that you’re never truly settled in either. Since his place is much bigger than mine there was never a question where we’d live. His digs also come with some great perks including a doorman, elevator, straight floors, an a/c in every room, cable, dishwasher and washer and dryer. (Yes, sadly I am the kind of New Yorker for whom these are perks.) While I am seriously upgrading, there are some things that I will miss dearly about my downgrade life: Having a supermarket on my block. View of the Empire State Building and spying on neighbors from the kitchen window. Weekend mornings spent kvetching on the phone with my friend Lizzie and/or my sister. The list goes on but I’ve also felt that I have outgrown the apartment and what it represents for some time. In many ways my apartment was a training ground where I learned what kind of life I wanted to live. I’ve been ready for the next step and you cannot plan to and actually share a life with someone while at the same time running your own, separate household. At least, I learned that I can’t.
When I left work yesterday, I thought I’d spend my last evening in my apartment reflecting on life, take pictures, and perhaps even write down a few thoughts. What I ended up doing was watching Entertainment Tonight and So You Think You Can Dance, but I’d like to think that given how many hours I have spent watching network TV in the last nine years, it was an appropriate farewell activity. At the end of the night, perhaps not surprisingly, a perfectly peaceful phone conversation with Robert turned into a tense discussion, which took five more calls to resolve. Conclusion: When your significant other tells you that he doesn’t know why you’re fighting because he agrees with you about the things you’re complaining about, he’s on to something. This morning Robert asked if I thought I needed more time before I moved. I said no, because I realized I only needed this one night of pre-move jitters and I don’t think I can be any more prepared then I already am.
So, as Lizzie put it, ‘Welcome to the rest of my life.’

Accidental Stepmother

I never liked dolls as a child, mostly because I didn’t know what to do with them. I did own a few but theirs was a sad existence – abandoned in the corner of my room for years and, uh, I don’t even remember what happened to them afterwards. The dolls that are still stuck in my mind were Christmas gifts from my German aunt when I was in grade school. They were almost the size of a real infant, had eyes that opened and closed, the girl, Christiane, had long hair and her brother Florian came with an accompanying baby bottle. Christiane and Florian were adorable but they bored me to death. Christiane’s hair was long but too coarse to brush and braid and feeding Florian was no fun either – he wasn’t really eating anything, after all. So after two short weeks of intermittent attempts to be their mom, I gave up.
Whatever IT is that makes women and men want to have children, I don’t have IT. I'd like to think that I'm not completely un-maternal. I like kids, am fascinated by them, have worked with them and if I may add, am pretty good with them. And if being maternal is related to caring, well, I am a social worker. Yet when I speak to my friends who really, really want to have children or had children because they really, really wanted to, I realize that I don’t understand them. At all. What I can tell is that their desire comes from a very deep place and it’s natural and normal to them. And while a deep place exists in me, IT is not there. Robert, my fiancé, put it best when he said that I like other people’s children.
So it’s only natural that I’m going to be a stepmother to his children. Even my former therapist commented on this perfect expression of my ambivalence when Robert and I went to see her to get her blessing. She and I talked about how I would say things in session like, “maybe I will meet a man with a low sperm count like Tom Cruise.” (Those were the pre-Suri days). Or maybe I would meet the love of my life when I’m too old to have children and if we ultimately decided we wanted kids, we’d perhaps adopt. See? Be careful what you wish for. Next month, I will move in with Robert and the kids. A part of me is genuinely excited about a life with Maya, 13, and Ari, 8, who stay with Robert half of the time, but another part is equally freaked out. My hesitation has always been not so much about the actual birthing process but about parenting. I never wanted to parent. There, I said it. And no, I won’t be parenting M & A but I am a caretaker. To my mild horror, I also realized recently that I am afflicted with what I call the parent disease – the kids’ mood dictates mine! Never having raised anything except my two cats, and I am the first to admit that I hated them as kittens, I have no clue what being a stepmother will do to me. Or the kids. I haven’t made plans to send M & A into the forest to die or making stew out of them … yet? … but, I’ve already fantasized about putting all their junk, or at least what I consider junk, into a big trash bag and throwing it out while they’re at their mother’s. I’d tell them it was their dad who did it while I begged him not to, of course. Reading books on stepmothering has helped a lot but had the unexpected side effect of scaring the bejeezus out of me. Like, wait, I’m going to clean, cook, chauffeur kids to soccer practice, piano lessons, get a second job because dad got laid off and pay for their private school and then be called a bitch because I forgot to buy their favorite cheese?! I calmed down when Robert gently reminded me that he is gainfully employed, the kids are in public school, don’t play soccer or the piano, I can’t drive and he’d never let the kids call me a bitch. And though I cook, he cleans.
Ready or not, a stepmother is what I will be. So far, I’ve made three decisions around this new role I will take on: I will keep my sense of humor; I will focus on the positive; and most of all, I won’t give up.