December 29, 2012

Dear Baby,

There is much to share with you. There is much to do and teach you.

I was once told, that having a child would be as slim as winning the lottery. I believed it. I believed it because for a long time, nothing would happen. I wouldn’t get pregnant.

I went to the doctors and they told me my body had issues, that my body had been deformed. They found problems in my body that they could tell me about but they could not tell with precision how or why they happened, those deformities. Bacterial infections. The human body doing what it does. I was not discouraged and tried in vitro-fertilization twice, spending lots of money only to think about how that money might have been used in a different way. Eventually I did get pregnant, three times without the aid of modern doctors and their interventions. But after all the sleepless nights of nightmares, ovulation kit and pregnancy test disappointments, miscarriages and self-worth pondering, over a period of more than 15 years, you are the first to come along this far.

I didn’t have to or want to cry when I first saw the image of you on the black and white screen in the ultrasound room, the tears just came. I saw and heard your heart beat and it was more powerful than I could have ever imagined. It was not what I had expected. It was unknown to me.

Until I first saw the image of you, I continued in disbelief. The beauty of the season’s first falling snow, as your father and I walked back to our car to drive home, added to the surreal feelings of motherhood. I returned home that day, sat at the kitchen table, cried, and cried, and cried. Our doctor said that you were doing well and congratulated us. The doctor was especially intrigued about my story and asked for copies of any records I had about my fertility history. I forwarded what I could to him.

~9 Weeks

Confirming words from the doctor and your image and your heartbeat gave me the realization of you. Worried thoughts inside of me became euphoric emotions of warmth, a new experience, a new reality.

It used to be that I would attend baby showers and try to not think about having my own. It seemed impossible and was better if not thought about. I would buy baby gifts for people and want some for me. I would buy an outfit or two, some toys, or a blanket, with all of their cuteness, and then give the items away later. What did I need those items for? All four harvested and transferred embryos did not latch on, they did not survive. The three pregnancies miscarried. They were all taken, for reasons that I do not know.

It used to be that I would have baby names ready for a budding baby, but the opportunity to use any would be lost. Each time around with each pregnancy, I would have new names prepared. They are all just memories now, the names and could have been babies.

It used to be that I would wonder if that day would come, if I would ever have a child of my own. For some people, there is no hurry. Having a baby can come to them as easy as preparing or ordering a meal. For some people, birth control pills are taken religiously because they have had one too many children. For some people, a child is not a part of any dream. In the beginning, I was not in a hurry. But after a while, I became curious when pregnancy was not happening and contraceptives were not being used. After extensive testing, I was told that my fallopian tubes were abnormal, that one of them had to be removed and that the best way to conceive was through in vitro-fertilization. And then I conceived, against the odds, after the two failed embryo transfers. But the babies didn’t make it, none of them. I had to learn to accept. I had to accept how things happened.

These days, at 17 weeks and progressing, I waddle a bit when I walk with my proud and prominent protruding belly. I am spotting and always have to line my panty with a guard but the doctor and nurses say it is nothing to worry about. They tell me that the spotting will go away eventually. I am always just at home, doing my best to protect you. If only all of my close friends and family can see me and how you are changing me, physically and mentally. If only my mother could properly see me.

These days, I listen and feel for your soft movements within me, little flutters that validate you even more. Just when I had accepted, at age 34, that I would only live to see bright beautiful children being raised by others, I am given the gift of you.

I cannot wait until June. I cannot wait to take you home. I cannot wait to hold you and watch you sleep. I cannot wait for your eyes to meet mine.

A journal entry from years ago, my son is 12 now.

His room had some paper on the floor around his study area. He was cutting words for an assignment, some first grade sight words for sorting. Somehow the words ended up on the floor. He had a small desk so maybe they fell off when he moved to get something from his backpack. Or, they might have fallen down without him knowing when he decided to move into the kitchen because of better lighting there. He probably didn’t realize the pieces of paper on the floor. Even if he did, he probably didn’t think it would be a problem.

He was wrong. I saw it in how he stood, his staring without blinking as his dad yelled at him for not picking up the pieces. It wasn’t just the small rectangular pieces of paper on the floor, there was also a notebook, a handout or two and some other school supplies. 

My son stood unable to move. He refrained from answering his dad’s loud questions, they were too loud even for me from where I stood watching through the archway from the kitchen.

It was not the kind of yelling for attention, the kind where it is just a raised voice. It was the kind that had no control. Red faced, heaving chest, and hands ready to rip someone’s head off.

“At some point, on our way to a new consciousness, we will have to leave the opposite bank, the split between the two mortal combatants somehow healed so that we are on both shores at once and, at once, see through serpent and eagle eyes. Or perhaps we will decide to disengage from the dominant culture, write it off altogether as a lost cause, and cross the border into a wholly new and separate territory. Or we might go another route. The possibilities are numerous once we decide to act and not react.” -Gloria Anzaldua, Borderlands: La Frontera

My dad was a yeller. He seemed to always be in some kind of mood. There were some times when he was content. He even smiled when he played cards with mom. I remember us playing as a family, too, not all of us but some of us would play cards with mom and dad. It did not matter for me who was winning. I liked seeing my parents enjoying each other’s presence. I especially liked seeing my dad content. He would be relaxed and in a good mood. At that time though, I did not know why I enjoyed those moments.

My dad yelled at me though not as often as he did to my siblings. My brothers and both of my sisters got more yelled at than me. I was not rebellious. I also was one to not speak much. I might have been least yelled at as a kid but it set me up for being disowned the most as an adult by my dad.

Our defaults were our faults. It was a Hmong way to learn through observation. You watch and you learn by practicing. Either dad was not a very good teacher or we were not good students because we were all disappointments to him. At one point, dad told mom that if us girls did not turn out right, it was her fault. Like we were being baked in an oven, if we didn’t come out fluffy enough or moist enough or rich enough or pretty enough, our imperfections were not his fault. The boys’ imperfections would be his fault. My father took pride in his boys. Both of my parents treated them better than they treated us girls. When mom and dad died, us girls received no inheritance.

~~~

*Below is an excerpt from my MA theses:

At age 16, I was the last to get home but the first to clean. She’s pregnant, you’re

not, you do it.

Weekday mornings, at 4 AM I made breakfast, packed lunches and finished

homework to be at school by 7:30. After school, I tutored children for 1.5 hours. The

dishes, pots and pans, counters and floors, they usually waited for me. Once-in-a-while

maggot-rice were swept off the floor, too. Weekend mornings I reported to work at 5

AM, helped to open a restaurant for minimum wage.

One day, I tried voicing an opinion. We ended inside our bedroom, the smaller of

the two in that apartment. You do as you are told. He’d already broken the lamp; there

was nothing else to break because he needed the alarm. He swung at me.

Stupid or not, I cleaned.

The next time, he hit me in public, in a parking lot. We had been looking for our

missing nephew at our local New Year festival. Two children were with me from the split

for the search, one at each side. I held their hands, a boy and a girl. Or was it two girls?

The missing nephew found, the search called off, the two children and I reached

the car. Where have you been? Showing off your cunt? His arm was quicker than his

questioning. The two children, in awe at his rage did not hesitate to get into the back seat

of the car. People saw, people including his brother, sister-in-law and the two children. It

didn’t matter.

~~~

*You can find my complete theses on the CSU Sacramento online library in the public portal domain titled AUB LUB NTUJ (DOG’S WORLD).

*All photos are mine in this blog and in all my blog posts. Any music shared via YouTube belongs to the artist, I do not own rights to the music. Please respect and give credit to the artists where credit is due.

If you are on Twitter/X, you can ask Grok to make an animated version of you. They are hilarious and range from interesting to not-even-close, although I do like the one where I look like a Sailor Moon character. My son likes the Lego version.

Somehow, in February and March of 2025, my nature photography on Twitter/X were getting over millions of views. Meanwhile on Facebook, my fitness posts and data stats were getting its usual 1-3 likes, maybe 5. I don’t post for likes but I am sure they get glossed over. Seldom does anyone care about health maintenance until it is too late or some other or-else situation arises. On Instagram, I had not posted anything in years. I have had to log in but primarily to see what the Reiki community is like there.

My followers on Twitter/X continue to grow. I get DMs to which I usually do not respond to anymore. At first I did. I would follow some folks back and I would get a DM, “How long have you been a fan of me?” Excuse me but you followed me first.

I have only met a few Twitter/X folks. I interact daily, 99.9% not via DM. I have seen folks come and go in a span of about 8 months. Some return after a period of breaks or if algorithm shows them in my feed depending on how active they are and or if they still engage with my posts. I like sharing my photography there with many talented others at a global scale. I have been called Lady of the Lake or Fungi Queen. I post my fitness posts, too. I am consistent and glad to know that there are others alike who inspire me with their active journeys.

On Facebook it is different because the majority are actual family, friends and colleagues or acquaintances, folks that I knew at some point in my 3D human experience. Some have also become inactive. Many do not interact with my posts.

Whatever the platform, it does not really matter, it all seems shallow. Most people are cordial. Some are genuine. There is no real social media etiquette. On Facebook, there is an option to react. Someone can react out of care and concern but not ask why or check in via a phone call or a text. Someone posts some good or exciting news or actually has a valid response and another person or the person who posted the original post reacts with care and concern. How does this promote sincere engagement online and offline, as if the mental health crisis is not already an issue? My son likes to have multiple devices running at the same time. One for each ear hole and eye? Multitasking, dividing attention to detail, that is not my preference. I like noticing details. Tiny details matter, too. I am selective of who and what I give my attention to. And if I do not get back to someone as fast as they had wanted, it does not mean that I do not care. If I never respond to a DM, because I choose not to, it does not mean that I do not care about their feelings. I do not engage because I choose not to open up that kind of relationship. Boundaries are important. Maybe I should make it a thing to respond to DMs, “Thank you for your DM but I am not looking for a soulmate.” Which is less hurtful, to interact or not interact?

You are more than the labels that have been placed on to you. Your complexities and multiple dimensions make you unique in a human experience.

You have within you the ability to set yourself free.

Choose to believe. Choose love.

You are there, at the top of that hill. I have been waiting and wanting to see you there. That hill looks a bit dark but there is a winding road to get there. There is a way there that I had forgotten about. I was looking for that way to get there but I remember now. You are closer than I thought. There is a way. I saw the way there in a vision last night.

~~~

Re-member. You are a member, familiar. To re-member and re-see you has been a blessing.

I like when the moon is visible when I am out hiking, running, jogging or just walking. The moon is not following me but it is there, as if saying hello, letting me know, it is there.

You are so pretty.

The moon is there. It is always there. We just do not always see it. The moon shares itself with all who connect with it. And no matter how tiny I may be in this grand universe, it confirms. I am part of the vibration.

I love Mother Nature. She speaks to me.

Yesterday I completed 85 days into year 6 of putting my health first. I made me a priority and it was the best decision.

I read back to when I first started my “fitness journey” that my goal weight is 150 and my dream weight is 145 with a toned body. I actually got down to 128 and stayed at 133 for a good while. Right now I am 140. I have been focusing on tone for the past year. I no longer calorie count or count the miles on the trails. My apps tell me how much I ran or walked or jogged, how fast and how far, but those stats do not sit on my mind. What stays on my mind is that I am still active and feeling my best. I have become food conscious as well. I am not picky. I am selective. I will not pollute my body with unnecessary toxins such as cake or soda.

Staying grounded in this way has been helpful in my becoming of who I am today. I know who I am. I am complete. I am the best version of myself and will continue to foster this ascension. I am a vessel of light and energy.