I saw a clip of Donald Miller talking about one of the benefits in becoming a parent later in life. He said he’s gained greater perspective and wisdom to care for his kids in the right way.

Specifically, he spoke of developing the “eulogy virtues over the résumé virtues.” So early and often in his younger days (as a single man) he would prioritize his career. Building success, achieving results, ascending the ladder and salary scales. In many ways, he was looking to proverbially pad his résumé as he figured it would result in fulfillment and self-worth.

As he entered his early 40s, he settled down and got married and started a family. And he realized, soon enough, that none of that really matters. Especially not to your loved ones.

He talks about death and dying, and how those who will remember us will not speak of us in terms of our achievements (“Wow he made $5 million dollars over his lifetime” or “He became CEO at such an early age). No, they will always share about how we were to them as a human being. Did we treat them out for coffee often? Did we spend time by their side when they were sick or grieving? Were we a good listener? Did we show kindness and love in ways both tangible and not?

It’s been almost two months… but I still feel the pain. The loss.

I know we’ve been through this before. (I’ve honestly lost count at this point.) And I’m usually quicker to get over it and just move on.

But this one feels different. Maybe because I had every hope and expectation that it was going to be different. In my mind I had it all mapped out one way, that this would be the “redemption baby.” That we didn’t have to work through multiple miscarriages again until we arrived to our son or daughter. That this would be the one to go smoothly for once…

"Mom, are you and Dad going to Timmy's for dinner on Thursday?"

"I don't know. We need to talk first, then decide what to do after," she replied. "Right now I don't feel like going." 

So, this is what it’s come to. This might really be the first Thanksgiving without my folks, I thought. I didn't want this whole thing to be the reason the holiday was ruined.

My heart wanted to move forward, but there was an obvious impasse. Since our blow up over the phone, we hadn't talked for a week. After, I had exchanged some texts with Mom. Thinking I was clever, I used Google Translate to ensure my texts got across in her native tongue. Write in English, translate into "Chinese (Traditional)," then copy and paste into iMessage. My mother can't misinterpret this in any way, right? 

My sister, of course, texts me a few hours later. "I think things are getting misconstrued via text/email and some things just don’t translate well I’m assuming." Translation: bro, you're an idiot. Did you really think text messages via Google Translate is gonna get you out of this mess??

The weekend started with such joy and anticipation. 

It was Saturday morning, and I had just finished teaching a church membership class. As I was driving back home to round up the fam, as we were to attend a birthday party shortly after, I got the following message from the wifey:

"Mommom cut mm’s hair. I’m pissed."

Uh oh. I've never heard her use those words before in a text. A few seconds later, I see a stream of exploding angry face emojis. This was bad. I pushed on the pedal, hoping to catch things before it erupted.

I got home and went straight to the bedroom. "How bad is it?" 

Micah turned around, his bangs were gone. Just like that—with some unthinkable, impermissible, god-forbidden snips—he went from the K-pop mop to looking like Lloyd from Dumb & Dumber. 

"Oh boy, that's bad." A lot of words ran through my head, most of them four letters containing F or S. (Go ahead and buy some vowels! says Pat.)

It was Carissa's first day of preschool. I wasn't sure what to expect, but all I knew was that I had to brace myself for tantrums and tears.

After 12 minutes or so on the road, we pulled up to the parking lot. The building was attached to a church that was hidden by a cluster of trees. As we passed the playground and entered through an olive-colored gate, I was preparing myself for resistance.

How loud will she scream? How much will she cry? The number of limbs she'll be clinging onto…over or under three? With every step, I was smarting over the fact that Mommy had somehow passed this burden onto me.

When we entered the classroom, it was bright and lively, full of faces and voices. One of the teachers walked right up and introduced herself, taking her by the hand. "Hi, I'm Ms. Liz. What's your name?"