Letters to Luc: Giggles and Rolls (Month 3)

Dear Luc,

Your third month has been a delight as you transition out of your newborn haze and into a baby more aware of day and night, more awake than asleep, and as you show off to us your vibrant, developing personality. You smile more when prompted from us and have started to burst into the sweetest, laugh-eliciting giggles when we play with you. Your limbs are getting longer, and you hold your head up longer during tummy time. You're still my little guy, though, measuring at the 7th percentile for weight, and probably slipping down from there as you're a better sleeper than eater, sometimes refusing your bottles altogether.

Mommy takes you further now on walks, and we have several times visited the elementary school that you'll be attending when you're older. At first you didn't notice all the little toddlers playing on the playground, but as more things are coming into your vision and awareness, you like to people-watch all the action and take in their shrill child-play sounds.

You still scream on car rides, especially on the way back home from having gone somewhere as you can sense that all the excitement of "getting there" is over and all that's left is just "going home" and you're ready-but-not-ready to go down for a nap. Around now, I started to take you to Daddy's workplace. You met his coworkers, and Daddy would come out to take us to yummy places for lunch.

You are getting good at holding things that I place into your hands. You can now bring the objects to your face and into your mouth to explore colors and textures.

You can be a real ham in front of the camera, even though I'd have to catch you in an especially good mood or else you'd clam up and stare at Mommy's iPhone. Mommy teaches you the names of trees and flowers along our walks together now that spring has blossomed around us.

Daddy jokes that you look like Omi from Shaolin Showdown with your thinning hair and big, bald head. I say you're a bit too young for horse stance, but Daddy says why not start them young?

You've always been aware of Big Brother Odin's presence, sometimes even irritatingly pushing him away as he gets all up in your face to give you a good sniff, but now you actively look at him walk past you, and you can give him a belly rub with your feet. You seem to like the texture of his fur.

 And I am so proud of you for rolling over from tummy to back!

Letters to Luc: What's in a Name II

Dear Luc,

Once upon a time, we didn't yet know what we'd call you. You were a concept, a tiny cluster of cells working hard to grow bigger and stronger by the day. Your father and I gave you nicknames and bounced potential names back and forth after learning that we were expecting a boy. He wanted to give you a Vietnamese name so that you will always retain your roots. After having my Vietnamese name butchered through school before adopting an American one, I wanted your name to at least be pronounceable in English.

You were born in the year of the Sheep, a zodiac sign shy, mellow, and docile by nature. I wanted a name for you that would encourage you out of your shell. We settled on "Luc," which means "Strength," or "Power" and can easily be pronounced like "Luke" in English. I gave you the middle name "Aiden," from the Irish meaning "Little Fire," a spark of hope and warmth to light up the dreary winter in which you were born.

A lot of people think you were named after Luke Skywalker as Star Wars Episode 7 aired close to the time you were born. Others think of yet another Star reference, Captain Jean-Luc Picard from Star Trek: The Next Generation. Or that perhaps you were named after teen heart-throb Luke Perry from the 90's popular drama, Beverly Hills 90210. Or that maybe your father chose the name based on his preference for modern country music and the iconic singer Luke Bryan.

Well, maybe your name does have a little bit of fame persuasion. On December 12, 2015, about a month before you came into the world, your father and I were watching UFC 194, Aldo vs. McGregor. The Fight of the Night was between middleweight champion Chris Weidman, who happened to be fighting underdog Luke Rockhold. Your father was still tossing up names in the air for consideration as the fight entered the fourth round and Luke was declared winner by TKO. "See?" I said to him then, "Luc is a strong name." That's when we were settled.

In the end, maybe your name is not just from one thing, but a culmination of many things, complex as a human personality despite its simple three letters. Once, there was a time when I was afraid to voice your name, wondering with a new mother's anxiety whether you will arrive safe and join us soundly. Once, I only referred to you by nicknames and only in the secret chambers of my mind did I test out the sound of your real one, hoping it will infuse you with the strength of its meaning. And now we can finally call you by name, my little Luc.

Letters to Luc: White Gold

Dear Luc,

Some days when I am trying hard to console you while you continue to scream no matter if I hold you, cuddle you, bounce you, swing you, rock you, sing to you, play with you, or try to put you to sleep, I think about how you will not end up remembering the hardest parts of bringing you up in your infancy. You won't remember the spurts of sleep I get, never to have a long and complete stretch again, setting alarms to nurse you and bring up your weight. You won't remember how I watched you sleep, letting the precious hours eek by--hours that used to be filled with meetings and cranking out tech manuals for important project deadlines--content just to marvel at how I made such a precious, growing boy. You won't remember how it broke my heart to hear you cry, or how it hurt me to watch you pricked with needles for your blood tests and inoculations despite the brave front I keep up to tell you to be strong. You won't remember how I plugged my nose and downed bitter, rank-smelling herbal teas in an effort to conceive you, or how I ate chicken soup seeped in the same herbal concoctions in hopes of bringing in my milk to feed you. Not those fenugreek or blessed thistle pills I hurriedly swallowed to bring up my supply before rushing back to you as you screamed to be picked up; not those lonely hours chained to the pump to make milk to freeze, or the late nights that I sat slouched over with sleepiness, working the manual pump to relieve engorgement. Not the few times in the day when I am back at work, pumping in a small room with my laptop next to me, striving to feed you for a whole year on breastmilk, thinking of you and missing you.

But maybe, just maybe, you will remember that when all else failed to console you, my milk usually would. My milk that took 4 days after you were born to come in while I cursed my body for being slow and incompetent, before marveling at just how much it's been through, and continues to go through, to provide for you. Maybe I will tell you about my pride, after having been able to give you the smallest drops of colostrum, to feel the white gold coursing through my breasts on the first day I was able to pump enough to fill a small bottle halfway.

I read about the benefits of breastmilk, its anti-viral capacities, the way it subtly morphs in enzymes to give you exactly what you ask for as you create a vacuum with your suckling and silently communicate your needs with the source. Higher fat content past the first few weeks so you could pack on those baby rolls. Elevated levels of melatonin at night as you cluster-feed to help you sleep. A magical something to help you fight off fevers and germs. It became an addiction to pump between your feedings to freeze and store.

I navigated different pump parts, hacked a fit with different sets of bottles, navigated different flange sizes for best output, baked and ate lactation muffins, and gradually increased the amount I was able to produce.

I thought I finally had it made with my supply until I decided to test-feed you one of the frozen batches of milk. Whereas before you gulped down what we gave to you from breast or from bottle without complaint, you fussed and spit out the milk and gagged. I discovered my frozen milk was too high of lipase, a enzyme in human milk that helps break down the fat. This causes some women detect a soapy smell from their milk; others say the milk smells metallic. I know it smells different from the milk you are used to, fresh and warm from me, and that is why you turn it away and dribble it out when your mouth fills with it. Almost 200 ounces of saved up milk, and you don't want to have anything to do with it. I had to get creative with how to feed it to you for when I'm back at work. I mixed ratios, first half frozen with half fresh, then a 1:3 ratio, frozen to fresh, which you seem to tolerate.

I read up on scalding the milk to neutralize the smell and watched YouTube tutorials on how to do it just right, turning the stove to 6/7 and watching as tiny bubbles formed on the surface.

Then the quick cool-down, pouring the milk into a glass jar--burning my fingers more than once from inexperience and bad aim--and dunking it into an ice bath before measuring and pouring it into milk storage bags, labeling, tallying the total stores, and tucking them away into freezer Ziploc bags.

I marked the bags from oldest to newest and the scalded batches, yet another step in my quest to keep you on breastmilk and not succumb to formula.

The top shelf of our Frigidaire freezer became stuffed with your milk stores. I sent a batch to Grandma after a few power outages taught me the value of insurance and not tucking all my eggs in one basket.

You still favor fresh milk as of today, lazily holding the bottle nipple in your mouth without sucking, a coy smile playing on your lips as you play a game of chicken to see who would outlast whom during the feeding game. These days I indulge you and top you off from the breast so that you'd gain weight from your measly 7th percentile ranking in growth.

All this you will not remember, how my dedication to you pours out in the form of this white liquid gold. As you grow up, we will be at odds more than once, when I will not let you have your way with toys, games, and social outings. You will be mad at me, thinking I am unfair to you, slamming your door and protesting dinner as you protest your meals now, playing a game of chicken. You will more often remember the injustice, the anger, the resentment. I know this because those are the searing memories that come to me now that I am grown, for all those times I thought my own parents were being unfair as they were raising me. But I hope that you will remember the love, too.

Transformation

I gained a total of 28 pounds in pregnancy, keeping up daily walks and going to the gym almost every weekday for light exercising up to the last few weeks. Here's the transformation across 9 months:

First Trimester

Second Trimester

Second Transitioning to Third

Third Trimester--Almost Time!

Labor Day! Induction on 1/6/16, 37 weeks + 3 days

What goes up must come down. Here's the progress after the birth. By March 1st, 7.5 weeks postpartum, I had dropped back to my pre-pregnancy weight. Exercise only includes daily walks with the stroller and the dog, and breastfeeding/pumping, which consumes 20 calories per ounce fed or pumped! Also hauling around the infant car seat + infant, which totally counts as weight lifting.

~1 Month Postpartum

~2 Months Postpartum

~3 Months Postpartum

As of 3/15, I was a pound below pre-pregnancy weight.

Letters to Luc: Courage and Fear (Month 2)

Dear Luc,

You turned 2 months this Monday, March 7. I put the 2-month sticker on your onesie and did the obligatory photo for  the collage I will make when you turn a year old.

 I haven't been your mommy for that long yet, but already you taught me so much. On your birthday, you taught me a special kind of love. In these first few months of your life, you redefined for me courage and fear.

It's different now that you are no longer a part of me, riding in my belly. I jumped at your cries the first few nights in the hospital, desperate to soothe your discomfort. I watched you get passed from family members to friends, feeling pride but also sometimes a sense of jealousy, that I must share you now that you are your own entity. I did not intend to co-sleep with you, sharing your father's and my king-sized bed as you have your own tasteful, expensive crib and a nursery furnished and decorated with care and love. But as it is the only way you'd fall asleep calmly, with minimal fussing, I succumbed. I got to know you 24x7 since you are constantly by my side, spending very few hours apart. It is not the way I envisioned raising my children, least of all a strong and independent, non-clingy son. I tried to crib-train you for naps. The first few days I put you in there and staggered back to my own bed for some much-needed sleep, I ended up laying there, curled into a ball, straining to hear if you'd cry, feeling the emptiness inside me where once you had filled me to such large proportions.

There are days when you'd cry inconsolably.

Colic, they say, but when your lips are stretched wide in a scream and your face turns red, I wonder what might be ailing you. I wonder if there's a hurt inside you I'm not aware of or can't fix. In my quest to do my best by you, I am bound to fail many times; I hope you'll forgive my mistakes, made from my best intentions. I think about your future, when you start crawling and then walking and then running; I won't possibly be able to keep you from inevitable injuries--your first splinter, scratch, bruise. I can't protect you from all the bad in the world--people who slander you, bullies, thieves. I can't enmesh your heart in iron and steel; the heart is glass, the heart can break. The girl who first holds its fragility in her hands and carelessly shatters it without a second thought is someone whom I cannot stop you from meeting and falling for.

There are days when you'd break into a smile.

A social smile, they say, not just a muscle reflex flashed as you are dreaming, but a gift given freely for my sleepless nights, my aching muscles. I am reminded of courage I forgot I possess. I will stand in the way of anyone who physically tries to hurt you. My body stretched for you; I bled for you; I'd fight for you. In a fickle world of inconstancy, one thing remains true: I am your mother, for now and for always. The world can be ugly, my son, but it is beautiful, too. One day I will show you. The searing heat of Viet Nam, its endearing people, its sweet, delicious fruits. The fresh, frigid air of a Canadian spring. The simplicity and colors of Mexico. The awe-inspiring architecture of England. The artwork and romance of France. The azure waters of French Polynesia. The diversity and freedom of the United States.

Mothers live in constant fear. They read stories of stillbirths and SIDS and hug their babes to their chest just a little harder. They strive to breastfeed but second-guess their ability. They map out a plan for how to raise their children and fail on Day 1. They think deeper about lost children, kidnappings, sex offenders, murderers. They give it their all and cry and cry when it's not enough. They are irrational, whiny, paranoid, downright crazy. They become afraid of everything. And they are the strongest and bravest people I know.

Letters to Luc: The Swing of Things (Month 1)

Dear Luc,

You are one month old. Mostly you are fussy in the evenings. You sleep a lot as you don't yet know day from night. But we are getting into the swing of things, past our chaotic hospital days together, when you've had a chance to explore our home. The first thing that caught your attention were the chandelier lights; you'd often stare at them and even gaze at them before you close your eyes to sleep.

I love cuddling your small, warm body, especially in the middle of the night, and nursing you. I love how you pull away from the breast, milk-drunk and sated.

You had a really good Lunar New Year. You're already so loved by all your aunts, uncles, great-aunts, great-uncles, and grandparents.

Do you look like Mommy?

Or like Daddy?

Your brother Odin has taken a great interest in his new little human. He checks up on you often and comes get us when you cry. It stresses him out, so he paws at us if we don't tend to you quickly enough. In the middle of the night when you are awake, he walks in to check on you and make sure we are changing and feeding you. He paces the hallway and often posts guard in front of your nursery door.

You like it when Mommy reads to you. Here we are, reading Brown Bear, Brown Bear.

You've taken an interest in high-contrast pictures and like staring at your Black & White accordion book. Maybe it looks a little like Big Brother Odin?

Mommy took you out for walks for the first time around our neighborhood. There is more rain this year, so the creek near our house has some water running through it. Mostly, you sleep through the walk to the soft sounds of flowing water, chirping birds, and cars swishing by.

The first place that Mommy drove you to on her own was Togo's to get herself a sandwich for lunch. That was her first lesson on how cumbersome it was to get your safely buckled in the car seat, snap it into the base, set up the stroller when we reach our destination, snap in the car seat, wheel you in, order, pay, and repeat the steps to load you in the car again before driving home. Mommy felt like she really earned that sandwich.
 

Mommy was also excited to be able to cook again as Daddy watched over you. I hope you've been liking the taste of our cuisine as you get tastes of it through my milk. I wonder what your favorite dishes will be.

You like to hang on Daddy's arm like a little monkey. I guess what happens on the floor is more interesting than the plain, white ceiling.

Mommy and Daddy also started having date days again on the weekends as we leave you with your paternal grandparents and auntie to look after you. Here we are, ready to go out.

Luc's Newborn Pictures

Thanks to my brother Johnny for capturing these early precious moments under the stress of Luc screaming his head off for most of the shoot!