Identity crisis

Two paths diverged in a long, white hallway, and sorry I could not travel both. One led to an open door in the architecture lab, and the other to an open door in the assistive technology lab.

Architecture is the love of my life. She and I have spent years, beautiful years, together. Broadly, I know her every gesture. Openly, she calls to me, arms outstretched, and whispers: you can perfect me. And I know I can. I know I can squeeze 5% more efficiency out of her. I know I can come to know her not only well, but also intimately. I know that we make a time-tested couple. A gorgeous couple.

For the past year, I have been biding my time in the assistive technology lab, waiting for a spot to open up for me in the architecture lab. I was promised that if I hang out for a year, the following year there would be a Ph. D. spot, and funding.

But in the past year, something unexpected happened. I have done significant work towards a Masters degree, and mobilized dozens of people across different sciences --- because I am doing real work. Because I can make a difference, and it is not just about efficiency. It is about people's lives. And what I am doing barely feels like work at all: it just feels right.

Now, that time has come. It is time to make a choice. To both labs, the door is open, and here I am, standing at the crossroads of two engineering fields. This is the identity crisis.

On the one hand, there is the architecture lab. This is the field that I have identified with; that has defined me. I am an architect; I have wanted to be an architect. I teach architecture. On the other hand, there is the assistive technology lab, where I have been working (and which funds me). Can I come to identify with human-computer interaction? Can I become an HCI expert?

Do I give up on my dream, on my true love, to pursue this project that has become more than the sum of its parts?

The answer is obvious.

The rest of my milk

I gave away the rest of the milk in my freezer.

Half went to a gal with an adopted baby, and half went to a gal with low milk supply, with her second baby. Thanks to an anonymous tip from the lactation center, a match was made and both babies are doing well.

Meanwhile, my baby has graduated into a toddler. Yup -- he's turned a year, he walks, he points, and he babbles.

But he still nurses.

A little tingly, and awkward

I feel like an eighth-grader that just sent a love-letter to a boy I like. I guess it is not too far from the truth.

The mom of our milk brother, the baby who had been taking our milk until he was six months old, gave me this huge gift basket before she left town for the holidays. Her name is Lucy and she gave it to me out in the parking lot behind the cafe where we had lunch together. In the basket, there was chocolate, cookie mix, organic wine, a gift card, a thank-you letter, and a few other things, and the basket was wrapped with clear plastic and tied with a ribbon. I had my son on my back and mist in my eyes; she got in her car, and I got on the bus, boy on my back and gift basket in my arms.

Lucy and I have a tumultuous history, which I will not go into here. Suffice it to say, like a fox and a hound, we make an unexpected duo to be friends.

When she was pregnant, and we had lunch together with my then-little baby, who knew it would become so much more? I found out a week after Lucy's son was born that there was too little milk. I had been donating my extra milk to the San Jose Mother's Milk Bank for about two months by then, so it was automatic that I offered the extra milk to her. She accepted, and thus formed our bond.

Even after that, it was a little strange to hang out. Lucy is one of the strongest and most determined women I have ever met. I cannot seem to shake this shyness and awkwardness when I am around her. My limbs suddenly seem too lanky; I bump into stuff; my balance is off; that filter between my brain and my mouth which keeps me from spouting nonsense stops functioning. The first time I ever met her, I made a pyramid on the restaurant table with the utensils, glasses, and condiments. While cackling. I am a little better now, but not much.

Months passed; she would pick up milk at our house, or I would bring it by to her. It was not much: maybe half a serving or a serving of milk a day. When her son was six months old, we met for lunch and told me they were weaning him off my milk. I knew this day was coming, and I knew my milk was not their staple, because there was so little of it, but it still made me sad. My son was about ten months old. "Who will I pump for now?" I thought. Preemies from the milk bank need preemie milk, not milk intended for ten-month-olds.

Lucy and I met for lunch once more before she left on an extended vacation. That was when she gave me the gift basket.

I wrote Lucy a letter in which I said how much I appreciate and value our intimate bond. In writing the letter, as in receiving her gift, I was touched. And like an eighth-grader confessing her love to a boy, I felt a little tingly, and awkward.

One of my mother's friends has a saying: "Who would have thought that I, a plain Russian Jew, would be watching New York from the top of the Empire State Building?" or, "Who would have thought that I, a plain Russian Jew, would be dancing Flamenco at the New Years Eve party?" or some other unpredictable event. It means it is a surprising turn of events, given the background.

Who would have thought that I, a plain Russian Jew, would be friends with Lucy, after all these years?

I still have about a hundred ounces of milk in my freezer.