The Mother in the Manger

The stories have the bright star shining overhead, Baby Jesus gargling happily, and Mary royally beaming at the reverent wise men, angels, shepherds, and coalition of animals.

I wonder what Mary really felt.

Was she simply overwhelmed with emotion for her son, her first?

Did she watch closely, for the miraculous rise and fall of life in each inhalation, and unconsciously check under His nose with her finger when the next breath came a little late?

Did she know how to bathe Him? How to swaddle Him with her blanket by tucking one ear over His right arm and then gently closing the other over His left?

Was she exhausted because she had to entertain wise men and shepherds while waking up every three hours to feed her baby?

Did she feel the wonderful weight of Him in her arms and smell the earthy milk scent that bound Him to her? Was she nervous at His newborn fragility, especially in the large hands of the adoring masses?

Did she laugh when His eyes rolled around, with difficulty focusing on the light, and His lids twitched rapidly in his dreams?

Did she cry just a little bit because He was hers, but also because He was God's - and the world's - and for that there would be wondrous and painful responsibilities for them?

Did she marvel that somehow she had done something so right to be called the chosen vessel? Did she doubt herself at all because she was also aware of her own weaknesses?

Did she feel the full power of her femininity because of her essential role in the Plan, not only as a mother, but also as a role model, a nurturer, a protector, a teacher, and a supporter of the Christ child?

Whenever I watch Chelsea tenderly stroke the mop of black hair on newborn Liana's head, I am sure that Mary must have felt the similar emotional tug of motherhood.

And because of that, Christ was one lucky baby.

Baby Glow

Some women throw up. Some throw tantrums. Some throw their husbands out.

All in all, what this single girl observes from real life and the media, being pregnant is hard. As in, you're fermenting this bundle of cells and it's the happiest time of your life, but oh-my-gosh you just dissolved into tears because you can't control your emotions or appetite.

Um. Definitely puts a dent in my rosy five kids plan.

But my sister Chelsea defied that stereotype. She was the living cover of all those baby/mother magazines. She radiated the "glow" that many women pined for.

And the second birth in a row, she just laughed through it. Or maybe giggled.

I missed the first birth because I was stuck in a three hour final during my senior year in college. But my family, half way around the world in Shanghai, dialed in and participated in the birth on Skype. According to my mom, who also joked through her labor while holding my dad's hand, Chelsea smiled a toothy grin and said that "giving birth was so easy!"

Well, she had done it again. Two days ago, Chelsea gave birth to another cute little thing and looked like she was just chilling at home when we called in afterward.

7 pounds and 4 ounces.

Apparently the hip new thing was to buy a high-tech cooler space for your baby's fresh umbilical chord just in case medical advances in the future open up possibilities of saving its life with the cells from the chord. Sounded like a fantastic business plan to me.

A few things were clear:

1. Epidural was king. Forget all natural, midwife-induced birthing.

2. I better prepare a bomb joke in the delivery room just to live up to the family tradition.

3. Somehow, babies could pull off being pruny and adorable at the same time.

Welcome, Liana. I'm still helping grandma learn how to pronounce your name.

Ghosts of Christmas Past

Many Christmases ago, Casey grabbed his hard-earned car washing/ soccer coaching money and went to Kennedy Town. Alone. Even though us older girls were constantly having these unintelligible conversations with dramatic "Guess what happened?" "Oh my goodness," and "Uh huh," which left him completely confused, he decided that he wanted to surprise his older sisters with something extra special under the tree.

That year, like most years, we woke up early and dashed to the tree to divvy up the presents. Chelsea and I both opened Casey's present at the same time. He stopped his unwrapping and just watched us with the biggest grin on his face.

Wow. It was a fur ball masquerading as a lady's purse. It looked alive. And it seemed like something that a storekeeper could convince a little boy to hand over quite a bit of money for.

We did our sisterly duty and got ourselves super excited. We posed with the creatures slung across our chests. We gushed about them to Casey and messed up his hair affectionately.

Then we ran to our rooms and laughed about it. Casey was the cutest. But these little purses needed to be hid. Fast. So we buried them underneath our old stockings and pajama dresses and forgot all about them.

Another year went by. Christmas rolled around again.

Chelsea and I found ourselves opening another big surprise from Casey.

This time, it was a fur ball hat.

You know, to go with our favorite purses.

-----

It's officially Christmas over here! I just got done wrapping the presents for the kids. They're all in bed already. I'm also temping as Santa this year. Let's just say that I'm delivering the goodies and the coal. Got to teach kids about taking consequences right?

Ms. Beef Noodles

If I was back in kindergarten and we were comparing sisters, then this would be my winning pitch:

My sister is better than your sister because she looks freaking gorgeous while eating a bowl of instant noodles.

Introducing Exhibit A: An ad for Sunrider beef noodles

p.s. I ripped this off an email that my BIL sent to my sister. I couldn't help but noticing that it was addressed to "Chelsea 'Your Love' Messick Chen." Ultimate cheese. Even worse than when they first got married.

Ole to you anyways

Growing up, I would watch Chelsea stain our floor with paint as she fleshed out the sketches in her head. I noted where she dabbled playful specks to capture life and where she rubbed graphite to build contrast. It was absolutely bewitching. I even practiced scribbling on the corners of my homework, hoping that some whimsical design would miraculously materialize. Then I finally realized my problem: Even scribbling didn't come naturally to me. So I gave up and tamed my longing to be creative.

But on occasions, I think about it. That beast, that desire to make something that people can resonate with, still lurks. And sometimes, I do wonder how it would be to let go of that overwhelming classification of "creativity" . . .  and just create.

Today, watching this video, was one of those times.



Gokce - I really appreciate you for sending this to me. I think our dinner the other night was the first time I truly tried to verbalize to someone how emotionally tied I am to writing. So thanks for not laughing.

Ex-Boyfriend & His CD

I rummaged through my stash of DVDs looking for Ella Enchanted so Jane, Dawn, and I could watch and share our mutual hatred for the movie (more like J + D hated on it while I somehow felt obligated to defend all the awkward kissing slash singing scenes).

Then I found a CD. From an ex-boyfriend. Well, Chelsea's ex-boyfriend, to be exact.

Let me explain the context. Once upon a time, Chelsea dated Boy X (think Idaho, well-combed hair, side parting). He was a model PP* and probably rescued a cat from a tree predicament, so she affectionately dubbed him "a heroic angel"  (don't know how to defend this one).

Well he liked her so he decided to burn her a CD. And think of an equally satisfying nickname.

This was what happened:

I don't know what kills me more: the fact that he continued the angel theme or that he felt the necessity of qualifying the gender of angels.

Oh, young sophomore love. 

---


* Peter Priesthood

Graduation Karma

As I stood in line at the Honors graduation banquet, I snickered at the thought of somebody tripping at the makeshift stairs. It just seemed like a movie-like moment that every graduation should have. My vote was for the girl with the ankle-length maxi dress.

She sailed right through.

And then it was my turn.

I walked confidently up the steps in my nude Nine West pumps. 

All of a sudden, my right foot felt cold. And it hit further down than it should.

I was momentarily confused. Shauna, the lady reading out the names of the graduate, gasped, "her shoe!"

I looked back. My right shoe was caught and I had left it behind.

After edging back down the steps and putting it back on, I smiled as big as I could and walked back up again as if nothing had happened.

The Honors program director squeezed my hand and whispered, "Congratulations, Cinderella."

I could have died.

--

Afterward, Casey proudly showed me the camera in his hand. He had videoed the entire thing.

Better yet, news reached my parents fast, and my mom left a voice mail saying, "We are so proud of you, Cinderella-graduator."


My feelings about karma has not changed.

----

On a separate graduation note, remember how I wondered about the whole throwing-your-cap myth?

Well, it actually happened.

Except, when the photographer told us to remove our caps and throw it up in the air, I had to frantically take out all the bobby pins securing my cap to my hair.

And I missed it.

So, I did my own.

The urban myth of graduation

Graduation is a loaded word for me. On one hand, it means accomplishment and completion (or not because I'll stay for spring to finish up the thesis). On the other, goodbyes and full-blown adulthood.

Last week, the only thing I was really excited for during graduation week was the Tucano's luncheon that I've planned for my family. Emotional eater much?

But today, I woke up and thought: I'm so excited about graduating!

Well actually, the exact thought was whether we would get to do this:

Throw our caps.

Back in high school, when I was on the student council, I suggested that we should get cap and gown for our graduation. Ultimately it was shot down because the idea was too American (I went to a British school).

I've seen this done in movies so many times. But I've always wondered if it's real. Do people in America really just throw their caps in the air at the same time? Or do people just walk around under a cloud of thrown-up caps all day long? How do they really achieve that kind of hang time? How do you find your cap afterward? Should I put a sticker on mine so I can get it back?

Maybe it's just an urban myth. Evidence: Chelsea's cap didn't leave her head once during her graduation.

---

(update) I just remembered this:

I still haven't ordered my cap and gown. 

Epic fail.

Digesting Memories

Growing up, I've always hated eating boiled eggs. The yellowish-blue ball of hardened yolk would lodge in my throat and had to be washed down by gulps of water. When I left for college, I swore that I would never touch another boiled egg except during Easter. But every day during the summer in Beijing, I would wake up to sugared tomatoes, steamed buns, chewy wooden ears . . . and two boiled eggs. Waipo would faithfully repeat the secret to her father's longevity (he died in a traffic accident when he was ninety), and watch me patiently until I squirmed and ate everything on my plate.

But after the summer, when I returned back to America and had to figure out my own breakfast every morning, I would always reach for the eggs and start boiling my water. I still grit my teeth when I ate them, but somehow I wanted to keep doing it. To show her that I hadn't forgotten.

When Chelsea left for college, I also took it upon myself to continue her idiosyncratic habit of mixing cereal with yoghurt, even though I used to tease her about it.

Other times, I was obsessed with baklava, barbeque chicken pizza, subway chicken teriyaki sandwich and co. because each bite was a way of holding onto them and pretending that they're still there to force me to eat those things.

And right now, I would really like some Pear and Gargonzola.

Color-coded Identity

I was always meant to like pink. The kind of pink that makes you think of bunnies, babies, and soft cuddly things. Everything I had were in varying faded shades of coral, fuchsia, or carnation. And that's what I wanted.

Chelsea was always dressed in blue. Rich dark navy hues, brilliant Indian-turquoise, or baby boy blue. She guarded her color jealously too, protecting it from her pink-faced sister who was too embarrassed to ask mom for blue pajamas for Christmas this year. Sometimes when she left the house to hang out with the boys in the park, I would try on her clothes, feeling momentarily bold because I'd shed my pink pink clothes. And my introverted book-worm personality.

Meanwhile, because Chelsea loved blue and Sisi loved pink, my mom would stick to those hues when she went Christmas pajama shopping.

I've since accumulated my fair share of blue. But I still feel slightly guilty when I choose blue over pink in permanent furniture fixtures or wedding color palettes.

I went to Walmart, the day before my freshman year started, to buy some bed sheets and bed spread. I was at the bedding aisle for forty minutes. I was inexplicably drawn to the Tiffany blue and dark chocolate brown comforter. But I felt obligated to the cardboard brown spread with pink carnations splashed haphazardly over it. I finally grabbed the comforter and marched to the registrar.

The lady asked tiredly, "Is this all today Ma'am?"

I paused, chewed my lip and went back and exchanged for those wilted carnations.

We passed each other when the sky was pink

I once watched a boy run around the track. 

It was snowing outside so I huddled inside, tracing figure eights while talking on the phone with my sister.

I wasn't particularly attracted to him. And I doubt that I was the kind of girl he would like.

But lap after lap, whenever he would run around, we would just look at each other.

Sometimes he would smile, as if amused at the comment I made to Chelsea about freshman boys.

Sometimes I would nod, silently acknowledging his participation in my conversation. Or just his awesome neon shoes.

It sounds weird, but I think we could have been good friends.

But instead, because neither one of us said anything, we are reduced to hellos at random events that we both go to.

---

(photo cred: Missed Connections)

Have you ever had a "missed connection" with a stranger who you are sure would become a great friend if you had just commented on the stickers on his/her lap top? A whole ton of people on the New York metro have.  Check out this Missed Connection blog. It's absolutely beautiful.

Back on the Hunt

I snapped out of my post-graduation-planning lethargy today and applied for a job on a whim. I put on my black pencil skirt and best smile and handed over my fresh-off-the-printer resume.

Somehow, after sullenly despairing about it for months, I have find something that I will really like to do. For a year. In China. While being paid an expat salary (kind of). With housing allowance. And traveling subsidies. And medical insurance. And a moving budget. And free meals every day.

I will definitely trade my new creme brulee torch for this job (Sorry Chelsea).

What matters the most

Recently, I've been too wrapped up in my thesis/ PAS/ Golden Key/ Sigma Journal/ classes/ work/ Women in Politics panel/ missionary stuff/ future plans. Even though I was trying to hold everything together, I think I was falling apart at the seams.

Last week in Relief Society, somebody shared with us President Uchtdorf's talk "Of Things that Matter the Most." Here are some lines that struck me:

"It is said that any virtue when taken to an extreme can become a vice. Overscheduling our days would certainly qualify for this. There comes a point where milestones can become millstones and ambitions, albatrosses around our necks."

"love is really spelled t-i-m-e, time."

"If life and its rushed pace and many stresses have made it difficult for you to feel like rejoicing, then perhaps now is a good time to refocus on what matters most. Strength comes not from frantic activity but from being settled on a firm foundation of truth and light."

His solution for simplifying our lives? Focus on the four key relationships with God, our families, our fellowmen, and ourselves.

1. Relationship with God
I went to the temple yesterday. It's been too long. And sitting there, without looking at the clock, was absolutely wonderful. I learned some important lessons about myself. And on a less serious/ spiritual note, I also found out that I am now officially too tall for the size small and short baptism jumpsuit. It must be the vitamins.


2. Relationship with Family
My family periodically loses a child. And a sister. And a cousin. And a niece. They patiently wait for me to resurface from my piles of work. But while they've always been there for me, I haven't always done the same in return. Sometimes I call Chelsea when I'm rushing to school and she always sounds so surprised. So, this week I made a goal to call a family member every day. Soon, they'll be screening my phone calls.


3. Relationship with Fellowmen
I've made some really good friends this semester. I haven't done so well in hanging onto my old friends though. Last week, I cried when one of my closest friends shared about the depths of her loneliness. I cried because I've seen glimpses of it all along. And yet, I never really spent the time to just sit and talk to her. So then, I grabbed her and we talked. And talked. And cried some more. And then laughed at ourselves and danced in the bathroom.


4. Relationship with Myself
This one is the easiest and the hardest. I'll spare you.

Happy Love Day!

I don't understand why some people hate Valentine's Day. They mutter "Happy Single Awareness Day (SAD)" and wear black, determined to reverse the tide of romantic pinks or passionate reds. Awareness Days have a bad connotation in my mind - AIDs awareness day, Autism awareness day, Hunger awareness day . . . in short, somehow singledom has been designated a disease or a widespread phenomenon that the UN is supposed to eradicate by 2015. To me, Valentine's Day isn't only reserved for lovers and couples - it's for everybody. It is this wonderful day to celebrate love, in any form and with anyone.

I think this is the first year since eighth grade that I haven't had a boyfriend or received presents from boys on Valentine's Day. I suppose that's not a surprise when things end shortly before. Rather than feeling depressed as many of my friends, and to some extent even I, expected me to be, I ended up really enjoying Valentine's Day. In the place of romantic dinners and cheesy cards, I received long-stemmed roses from the Elder's Quorum, munched on wonderfully decorated sugar cookies (Ty!), and attended a fun Chinese New Year party. I also caught up with old friends and talked to my family. I felt loved. Very loved.

So in the spirit of St. Valentine's, here's a shout out to some of my favorite people:

The Triumvirate: Love these girls!
Of course, we're not complete without Bel.

You mean more to me than you probably realize.

These girls change my life. Literally.

I won't be much without them.

I miss you!
Come back soon - but not too soon :P

I still think you're absolutely wonderful -
Thanks for being my best friend!

Hey babe

It seems that when you get married - at least for girls - not only do you have to change your last name, but you lose your first one as well.

After my sister got married, she's known simply as "Honey". Coincidentally, that's her husband's name too. There's something sickly sweet about it when the two-syllable word is dragged out for an extended period of time - that's when you know they're either extra lovey dovey or one is trying to convince the other to do something (i.e. get more dessert).

Then there's "Babe". I have never called a baby a babe. But somehow it's oddly complimentary when somebody calls me one - although why it is flattering to be called a baby-like creature slash famous pig I do not know. I've heard variations of this one too: AngelBabe, Baby face, Baby girl, Baby doll. Sadly, baby boys don't seem to make the list. I guess they just don't do the job when it comes to condensing your unconditional love into catchy monikers.

"Sweetheart" makes me think of wrinkly hands, construction paper, pill-looking candy and hospitals.

I guess at the end of the day, calling your loved one something else is an insurance policy. I have once introduced a date to a huge group of people without realizing that I've been saying the wrong name the whole time. He took me home early that night.

Romeo once asked Juliet, "What's in a name?" Well I guess when it comes to lovers, the answer to that is babies, sweet tasting stickiness, and a whole ton of store-bought candy.

Lack of farmer blood

I used to have this lofty illusion of being the busy-bee early-riser (a.k.a. Chelsea), who somehow manages to do all her laundry, bake some bread, and dust down all the counters before 9 a.m. So I ambitiously signed up for 8 a.m. classes my first semester at BYU. Boy, was I in for a rude awakening (most of the time quite literally). Like all respectable freshman, I partied hard till 4 in the morning, dancing on our mattresses that we had pulled into the hallway, sneaking out to belt out happy birthday to the embarrassed individual, and delivering goldfishes to the boys in our ward. Needless to say, Physical Science first thing in the morning just kicked my trash. I would stagger in midway during class and sleep through the rest of the clicker quizzes. With a habit like mine, even Edison's brightest bulb would struggle desperately.

Eventually I caught on. The next semester my earliest class was at 12.

Then the next semester my Tuesdays and Thursdays schedule started at 2.

And now once again, the night before school starts, I'm sitting in front of my computer, trying to figure out my schedule for the next four months of my life. Can I handle philosophy at 9:30 every morning? Even though I know myself pretty well, so in this case the answer would be a no, I'm still tempted to hold onto my pretensions to be an early-riser. There is just something so refined and I don't know, almost lady-like, about the concept of waking up when the first rays of morning light hit your eyes. I would imagine that Jane Austen stretched contentedly on her bed and came up with new ideas for her books every morning without jerking awake when her sister pounds on the door because she was late for class once again. No, women like Virginia Wolfe, Condoleezza Rice, and Snow White all sound like early-rising go-getters.

Looking back at the BYU screen, I sighed and dropped my philosophy class. I guess there will be no Emily Bronte aspirations for me this time, I'll just have to face reality and settle with being a Marie Antoinette.

Things you should never say to somebody who just broke up

Hong Kong doesn't have a lot of distinct seasons. But we do here at BYU. There's Spring (the meeting), there's Summer (the dating), and then there's the Fall (the breaking up), and of course there's the Winter (hibernating at home and gearing up for Spring). While talking to my friends the other day, I realize that a lot of couples that I know recently broke up. Some of them are glad, some are broken hearted and some are just plain angry.

So just to laugh about it all, and to poke fun at myself a little (most of these things were said to me!), Chelsea and I came up with this list at 3 am some random morning:

Top 10 things that you should never say to somebody who just broke up

1. Who did it?
2. Interesting. I don't think I've ever met anybody who got engaged and broke up before.
3. Can I have your number then?
4. What on earth are you going to do on Friday nights now?
5. Did she burn you a love CD? You put it into the microwave right now and put it on high for 30 seconds! (This one is actually a good idea)
6. Good. I never liked him anyways.
7. Oh that makes sense. I saw him yesterday with this other girl.
8. But you guys were perfect for each other!
9. That sucks. We broke up last year and I'm still not over it. I totally understand how you feel.
10. I just heard that you got engaged!