The New York I Knew

My family lived in Queens, New York, for three years. I was fortunate to be old enough to remember my time there: eating dim sum in Chinatown, seeing the Nutcracker at the Lincoln Center, visiting the beautiful, giant Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center, climbing to the top of the Statue of Liberty. I remember stepping on the cobblestones of South Street Seaport and feeling like this was “my town.” I loved New York; it was a city with a personality unlike any other.

This family photo (that’s me in the middle) was taken on Liberty Island either before or after we did the epic climb to Lady Liberty’s crown. I tried to count each and every one of the 354 steps, but lost track somewhere around 250. For me, it was just another summer outing with my family: making memories, searching for adventure, enjoying my time with my siblings.

But when I see this photo now, my happy memories turn to sadness. I think of how my children will never be able to visit the city of my youth. We will still be able to eat dim sum in Chinatown and climb through the head of the Statue of Liberty, but I will need to explain to my children why the two magnificent skyscrapers in the photo are no longer there. How could I have known that in my lifetime, a city could be so changed?

I think that, if I ever do have the opportunity to visit New York with my children, I would like to take them all to Liberty Island. We will stand in the exact same spot where I once stood with my family, and take a photo, to commemorate the New York I knew.

My Parents at My Age

A little something I wrote on Medium.com six years ago.

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It’s funny how our parents are always “old” in our minds. I have to remind myself that I knew the 30-some-years-old versions of my parents once, that it really wasn’t that long ago that they were young parents, just like me. There was a time when they were more carefree and energetic, before the solemnity of life wore them down.

But I still have a difficult time picturing my mom as a thirty-seven year old. And I don’t have very many memories of my parents laughing– really, truly, tears-streaming-down laughing. That’s why I like this photo. My dad is the one wearing the ivory shirt and beige slacks playing tug-of-war. My mom is watching from the sidelines with my little brother. We were at a camp retreat with our church, and the younger people must have talked my dad into showing off his muscles. Judging from the age of my brother, my mom is just about my current age at the time of this photo. And the smiles on my parents’ faces are contagious! You can hear my mom’s laughter as you study this picture. She’s always had a beautiful smile. As does my dad.

I wish I have more pictures like this one. Even more, I wish I have more memories like this one. Which leads me to my resolution for this year: laugh more with my children and don’t shy away from the camera. I want to give my children opportunities to remember their young, laughing mom.

My Little Man

Another of my writings from "A Picture is Worth a Bunch of Words" on Medium.com.

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This is my son. He was born with one working kidney. When I was 20 weeks pregnant, the doctor noticed in my ultrasound that one of his teeny-tiny kidneys was full of dark circles. The other kidney was a healthy, grainy-gray, bean-shaped mass. What were the circles? We wouldn’t know until the baby was born.

Thank the Lord the dark circles turned out to be cysts, not cancer. His right kidney still would never function, but his left kidney was twice its normal size to make up for its missing partner. Which was fitting, since my son was born with a personality twice the size of his body.

Sometimes I worry about him. He’s a real daredevil. 

"Watch out! You'll run into the..."

"That's pretty high! Are you sure you can do it?!"

He does things that people with two working kidneys shouldn't do. See the red spot under his eye? That's normal. His legs are covered with scratches and bruises, and his pants are full of holes to prove it.

This boy doesn't walk when he can run.

He doesn’t talk when he can shout.

He believes that he can fly, if he flaps his arms hard enough. And nothing is going to stop him– not his small stature, not his cystic kidney, not even gravity.

"Mom, I'm fine! I can do it!" he shouts back to me.

And then he does it.

Maybe I don’t need to worry about him as much as I thought.

Someday, this kid is going to take on the world.