The Baker Girl

Pain is love, love is pain. Whatever.

2009-12-08T00:04:00.001+08:00

On the day following a hard session of interval training, engage in these activities to aggravate muscle soreness and runner's knee:

1. Be 158cm tall and weigh 47kg. For steps 2 to 10, wear crappy rubber slippers with zero support and cushioning.

2. Make a trip to the mall with your 11kg child strapped to your body. Return home.

3. Within the next hour, take your 18kg child to the same mall.

4. Carry said child who claims to be tired after five minutes of alighting from the bus.

5. Stoop down to check out your newly developed photos with said child sitting on the thigh of your bent left leg.

6.Carry child who desires to rest his head on mommy dearest's shoulder.

7. Hang around toy department, squatting down a dozen times to "appreciate" and "marvel at" wheels of toy vehicles.

8. On return leg home (pun so very much intended), piggyback so-called tired child who informs you that ~~cutting off your air supply~~ clasping his hands around your neck is not easy. Cruelly force him to walk a hundred metres, then carry him the rest of the way home.

9. Pre-dinner, take your children to the park and engage in games of catching, racing and ball-kicking.

10. Post-dinner, go for a stroll and carry still-tired and mommy's-shoulder-loving child during the last hundred metres.

11. Plan for the next day's run with your expensive cushioned running shoes.

October 2009

2009-10-23T00:56:00.009+08:00

It's been some time since I wrote about James and Claire. They have grown and changed so much in the last four months that I don't think I'll ever be able to remember everything they've done and experienced.

Claire can really talk now. She says complete sentences like "I want to go there", "I want to do that" and "Open it. PLEASE!!!" She can address everyone in the family clearly and frequently lists them out when she's rolling around in bed trying to sleep. She's charming, sociable, sweet, adventurous, brave, affectionate, funny, and always enthusiastic. She knows exactly where everything is and how to get things to work. She also knows how to get people to do the things she wants by first kissing them, then weeping big fat tears when desperate.

She's so fast, so energetic, that we're almost constantly in a state of vigil and ready to catch her in case she hurls herself off the sofa or bed. She watches James closely when she touches his favourite toys, then quickly makes like she was going to give them to him anyway when he starts to grab it back. She has tricked him more than a few times when she wants something of his. Just last week, when she saw that James had a bowl of potato chips, she took his Thomas train. As he placed the bowl on the floor to reclaim his possession, she quickly swooped in on his snacks, leaving James in a state of fluster. This was of course met with peals of laughter from everyone who saw all this happen, followed by whispered praises for Claire's deviousness.

She's fiercely independent and can feed herself an entire meal. She uses a spoon expertly and insists on brushing her teeth by herself. When we're out, she snatches her hand away so that she can walk freely but quickly buries it in ours when she is wary of new places. She helps, occasionally on her own initiative, to turn off the fan and keeps her toys before leaving a room.

She loves playing with trucks and cars, just like James. She lies on the floor next to James and yells "Lie down! Lie down!" to anyone who will join her. She also likes to pretend-cook and will feed "soup" to everyone with the same spoon.

She's in constant motion and loves dancing and singing to herself. I frequently plonk her in a little tub of water with her toys where she will spend a long time playing by herself while I potter about the room. She loves playing shadow monsters with James in our bedroom. She is crazy about her brother and will laugh for him when everyone else fails to elicit even a smile from her. She especially loves it when he falls on purpose or dives off the bed onto his mattress. She frequently stretches out her arms and asks for "Korkor, bau bau." She pleads "Korkor... korkor" when she knows he's in trouble for defying our instructions. She asks for him when he's in school and gravitates towards him whenever they're in the same room.

James loves his little sister and asks "Where is my little sister?" when he can't find her. He calls her "my girlgirl" and "my teddy bear". That's not to say they don't fight. They take turns provoking each other and complaining to the authorities, hoping to get each other in trouble. But they reconcile quickly and resume playing nicely.

James has outgrown many of his obsessions and compulsions. He likes school, has a new best friend every month, asks for "bubbly chocolate milk" all the time, loves dancing to Hi-5 (still), takes his Thomas train with him everywhere and is a lot less shy now with strangers.

He no longer wears a diaper at night, thanks to his father who has gotten up countless times to check for wetness and at least once each night now to get James to pee. He will still not put his face in the pool and is learning to overcome his fear of having water in his eyes. We're thinking of starting him on swimming lessons next year.

When we're out, James ensures that no one has lagged behind and will always insist on waiting for everybody to catch up. He hisses sympathetically when we're hurt and will lightly stroke our wounds. He asks for us to "do ticklish" on his limbs, back and feet, which means light ticklish strokes which soothe him into wordless bliss.

He is still very much attached to us but a lot more willing to part with us when we go out. His best friend, aside from Boo, Claire and myself, is his Ah Ma who dotes on him and knows exactly how to make him feel as special as he has always been. She plays at his level and will not hesitate to behave silly to make him laugh.

James loves Chinese lessons in school so much that he's always reading his Chinese worksheets out loud. He rips open his folder as soon as he gets home so that he can show us what he has learned. He asks to practise writing his Chinese characters and tries to remember the sequence of each stroke. He has also mastered his phonics and can now read many words, though he says that "English is difficult, Chinese is easy".

He wants to be babied and, while perfectly capable of feeding himself and doing a lot of other stuff independently, would prefer to have someone do all these for him. He declares that he's full after only five mouthfuls of food. He asks me to assure him that I will help him put on his clothes if it's too difficult, though he dresses himself perfectly most of the time. He gets painfully shy when we ooh and aah at a new toy or outfit. Sometimes he gets so awkward he starts being nasty by hitting and yelling.

My in-laws drop occasional hints at our making a third child. As much as Boo and I love James and Claire, we silently think "Please, NO!" Because they are all we need and all we can handle, even with help. I heaved a huge sigh today after dinner because the kids were over at their grandparents' house and man, the house was so quiet and peaceful. Boo the ever smart-alecky one, said, "Who asked you to have two?" To which I replied, "They give me double the pain but double the joy."

A run to remember

2009-10-04T23:22:00.006+08:00

I woke up at 4.30am today to give Claire her milk. My alarm clock was supposed to sound at 5am so that I could drag my tired ass out the door before 6am for an 18k run. So all went as planned, and I headed out the door at 5.45am to plod along in the dark, still quiet. Despite how tired I am sometimes, these early morning runs have been vital to my sanity because they give me the solitude and peace that I crave so much. Since I stopped working (and I know daily how lucky I am to be able to have that choice), I've spent entire days with my kids most of the time, save for precious minutes here and there to read, take a shower, surf the internet, bake and all that stuff that I can't do with them hanging onto my legs. There are times when I want to cry Uncle! and hide in my room. Even taking a crap in the toilet with a magazine WITH THE DOOR LOCKED can be really uplifting in the midst of a particularly crazy and difficult day when I wish the clock would fast forward to bedtime.

This morning I forgot to thank the powers that be for the privilege of being able to step out the door for my run. I forgot all my privileges and blessings until I came upon a little old woman shuffling along in front of me. She had matted hair under a dusty black cap and was dressed in a cleaner's uniform. Her thin shoulders sloped asymmetrically as her clothes hung loosely on her tiny frame. I wore a Reebok running top, a pair of Adidas Clima365 running shorts, a newly acquired pair of New Balance 769 Stability shoes, WrightSocks, a Casio watch, a Nike running bra, a Cho-Pat knee band, a Puma cap. And contact lenses. And pearl earring studs.

In her hands were three plastic bags. I imagined that in her plastic bags were her meager belongings from her makeshift home. Maybe they were all she had because she could not afford a proper tote bag. Perhaps they held her food and drink. I had a New Balance fuel belt around my waist which held small bottles of Gatorade and two packets of Gu, my mobile phone, $4 and a house key. And I am entertaining thoughts of buying a Nathan fuel belt that doesn't bounce as much.

I wondered if she was heading for work or had finished her first shift of clearing the rubbish chutes in the nearby blocks of flats. If she didn't wake up this early to leave her home for work, she might not be able to feed herself or her family. Did she even have a home to call her own. If I didn't wake up this early to leave my home for a run, I might be grumpy for the rest of the day. Do I even appreciate my lovely home and all that have been provided for me.

Her body could be wracked with hunger and aches. I chose to subject my body to the physical stress of a long run. Her thoughts could revolve around sustenance, survival. My thoughts were about my running speed, when to eat my Gu, whether I had tied my shoelaces too tight. She could have resigned herself to poverty, toiling until she could toil no more. I yearn to fly to Seattle and Bellevue Square and Pike Place and Snoqualmie Falls, drink steaming mocha latte and run in the damp cool weather.

I have been thinking about this all day. Much as I'm filled with guilt and shame for the countless times I forget my privileges and blessings, I want to remember her. I never saw her face, but what I saw - her shuffle, her hunched gait, the things she wore and carried - was enough to give me a figuratively wake-up slap in the face. I remembered her when I saw the price tag of $2,588 on my sister's Swiss ironing board set. I remembered her when I washed my running clothes. I remembered her when I got annoyed at James for spilling a few drops of milk.

I want to remember that while she has to, I get to.

Running gives me peace, quiet and renewal. Today, running took me on an entirely new plane.

Ouchie ouchie waaa waaa waaa!

2009-09-08T23:21:00.006+08:00

I fell two Sundays ago. I was on my early morning long run where the light was too dim and I was not wide awake enough to remember that a particular manhole cover that I had run past many times before was sticking out an inch above the ground. It happened so quickly that I only realized what had happened after I picked myself up from all fours and barked a very audible F-word!, then felt the pain in both knees and my left hand. My right hand was saved by my packet of Gu. (I have absolutely no recollection of how I carried my bottle of drink because I don’t recall dropping it.) I knew I had an audience of one because I had run past her a few seconds ago so the embarrassment quotient (EmQ) didn’t soar too high.

I was only about a third through my run and the pain was starting to intensify but since I only had surface injuries that weren’t quite dripping with blood, I knew I could make it all the way. So after about an hour of running with wounds stinging and smarting, and blood staining my top, I jumped into the shower and howled silently with pain (didn’t want to wake the kids up) while a thousand red hot angry ants tried to burrow under my skin.

After three days of dealing with oozy, ~~pussy~~, ~~pussy~~, pus-sy wounds that were subjected to numerous accidental bumps from the kids, the wounds have crusted over and are healing well. It's hard to resist peeling off the scabs and admiring the new pink skin. Claire loves to finger the scabs and go, "Eeeee! Dirty!" James pats them and assures me, "Don't worry Mommy. They will be better tomorrow."

Then during my run during the evening rush hour today, had I not very skillfully and expertly swerved at the last nanosecond, I would have re-enacted the whole falling scene again, except this time the EmQ would have soared sky high and my F-word! would have reverberated thunderously through the still evening air and caused a thousand birds to flee their nests in terror.

Here. Pictures of the damage of August 30. The abrasions don't look too gory but they hurt like a MF. (I know - I have knobbly knees like the Gruffalo.)

I didn't do it, nobody saw me do it.

2009-08-12T22:29:00.003+08:00

Imagine a grown woman sneaking furtive glances around an art supplies store, positioning and adjusting certain parts of the merchandise, whipping out her PDA to document her work of art, then leaving the ~~crime~~ scene with perverse pride and wonder at her own ingenuity and inanity.

Evidence that in this 35-year-old body of mine lies a dirty-minded 15-year-old who thinks the middle finger is OH SO GLEEFULLY WICKED:

June 2009

2009-07-15T23:11:00.011+08:00

We’re done with the first half of the year 2009. So we have another six months before Christmas, followed by, hopefully, two whole months of cool and windy weather and sweat-free, no deodorant required days where we flit from cloud to cloud and say nice things to each other the whole day and drink eat breathe Happiness and Kind Thoughts. The weather has recently taken a turn for the better – and by better, I mean rainy and cool – even if it’s only for a day or two. (Then we all go back to hell.)

This June, after weeks of hoping for cooler weather and getting smacked silly everyday by scorching sunlight as early as 7.30am, we bit the bullet and took the kids to the zoo. We aren’t big fans of the zoo mainly because of the weather and the long drive but the abundant foliage provided us much needed shelter. Claire’s favourite exhibits were the butt-ugly warthogs. James’ favourite part was the series of slopes (slopes, can you believe it) leading to some dark enclosure of otters or something. We did not see any elephants, lions, snakes, bears, crocodiles, none of the big glamorous animals you normally associate with a zoo because, like we said, we aren’t big fans of warm weather and the kids were getting tired. Well, maybe next year we’ll take them there again.

James tends to get hung up on things. I don’t know whether it’s some sort of condition on the lower end of the obsessive-compulsive disorder spectrum, or whether it’s a phase he’s going through because of some deep-seated insecurity and need for reassurance that we all love him despite Claire’s existence. One day (or sometimes for an entire week), he would ask us repeatedly whether we will let him watch Hi-5 on our portable DVD player again when we go to the zoo the next time. Another day he may insist that we put the tray back on his high chair when it’s clean and dry. He would say, “Say yes. Say OK.” And after maybe five, ten times, we have to stop him by either distracting him or telling him firmly that we’ve already answered him. It reminds me of those times in the past where he used to pee repeatedly, stutter or smell his hands every other minute. He grew out of those strange habits and we’re hoping he’ll get out of this endless loop soon.

He says the funniest things that are really quite logical when you think about it. For example, my neighbour leaves her retriever, Shadow, for long hours at a time when she’s out so we like to say hi to him. One evening, I cooed, “Shadow, you have nobody to play with, huh?” James promptly strode over and said in a friendly sing-song voice, “I’m a body. I can play with you.” We are still tittering about it after two weeks. Taken in the plural sense where body becomes bodies, James would say, “There are so many bodies in the swimming pool.” On the other hand, I sometimes wonder if it’s a case of I SEE DEAD PEOPLE.

James has come a long way since he first started school. Long gone are the days when he would cling to my neck tightly and weep, or stare into space while eating his breakfast. He has many friends in school, changes best friends every week and plays with them while waiting for me to pick him up. He’s picked up quite a lot of phrases from them too, like, “Are you my friend? You are NOT my friend!” He uses his toys as make-believe guns and asks that we fill his snack box with potato chips because his friend has them too. He adores his Wang Lao Shi, Teacher Audrey and Teacher Sharon because they make him laugh.

The best part of his going to school (besides the time I can devote to Claire) is seeing his beaming face when I pick him up from school. On days when he sees that I’m dressed up and carrying a bag, he asks hopefully if we’re going out because it means he’ll have me all to himself. It’s on days like this when my doubts about staying at home full-time diminish, and I’m so very thankful to be able to do this for him and Claire.

He loves the colour “dark black”, his watch, his long bendy bus, his storybooks, his drumsticks that his daddy fashioned out of oversized lo hei chopsticks, his psychedelic ball and his bubble wands. He loves chocolate milk, Chocolate Drizzles, Coco Pops, dark chocolate, Milo powder in cold milk, Yan Yan, chocolate wafers. He takes reluctant bites of plain flavoured biscuits and hardly takes any fruit except for apples and papaya. He will eat yoghurt under duress. He loves going out so much that sometimes the only way he can express his excitement is to cry and writhe uncontrollably until we’re out the door.

He loves us deeply and is fiercely protective of his family. He reminds us to be careful, kisses us and says I love you countless times before going to sleep, warns us of potholes and oncoming traffic, soothes and blows gently on our bruises. He desperately wants to be loved all the time even though he’s showered with love every single day. He loves being loved and held, to have his hair ruffled, his cheek stroked, his hand wrapped in ours. He loves his little sister to bits and tries to make her laugh. He gets angry with her for touching his things but is learning to share because he’s seen how it makes her happy and that she will not destroy them.

Claire is a real fireball. She’s stolen the heart of her Ah Gong who goes weak in his knees when he sees her, as if he’s in love. He asks about her when he doesn’t see her and hints not so subtly at us to bring her over. She loves hanging out in her grandparents’ room and messing with their things.

She’s a feisty one, this girl. She can wriggle her way up the sofa and stairs by herself (under our watchful wary eyes of course). She doesn’t really mind water running down her face and will simply wipe or blink it away with a little whine, then proceed with her water play. She will try almost any food you offer her and has probably tried more types of food than James did before he turned two years old. She likes potato chips, tortilla chips, kiwi fruit, apple, water melon, juice, but draws the line at cheese. She prefers rice over all other forms of starch like pasta and porridge which are gooey and soft. If she’s hungry enough, she’ll use her fingers to feed herself individual grains of rice and morsels of meat.

When James annoys her, she scolds him by clapping her hands together once, glaring at him and uttering some fierce gibberish. Otherwise, she squeezes her eyes shut and whines until we tell James to stop. She pretends to be hurt and sad so that we can comfort her. She sticks her fingers and feet into the tiniest holes and biggest gaps then goes “Uh! Uh! Uh!” so that we can “rescue” and fuss over her. Then she’ll do it all over again.

She can vaguely say bird, airplane, ball, thunder, bear, and nose. She says daddy very clearly, pleasing her father no end. She likes to sign and say where before “finding” something. Since she’s picking up new words rather quickly, I’ve been rather ~~lazy~~ relaxed about teaching her sign language, though she does know how to sign dog, book and water.

She doles out kisses generously and likes to hold hands in that girly way that girls hold hands while walking together. She loves Shadow and closely studies pictures of dogs.

We joke about James and Claire being in a sort of role reversal – he being the sensitive, emotional type (I call him Emo Boy), and she being the adventurous, resilient type. It’s probably too early to tell what they will be like when they grow up, but they’re absolutely special the way they are and we wouldn’t want to change a single thing about them. James, though stubborn and proud, can be exceptionally vulnerable and timid. He needs lots of patience and encouragement. Claire’s personality is still emerging so we’ll see if she’s as positive and forthcoming as she seems to be. I tell myself everyday that I don’t want to screw this up, this parenting thing. I CAN’T screw it up. My children will not be perfect, and I am so terribly far from perfect, so imperfect that sometimes I feel I’m not good enough for them. But I want to try to be the best parent for them so that when they grow up and become parents, they won’t say that they learnt from me how NOT to bring up their kids.

May 2009

2009-06-11T22:58:00.009+08:00

This marks the end of my monthly letters to Claire and the first of my combined monthly updates on both her and James. I figure this would make more sense since my kids’ lives are so closely intertwined that to write about them individually would be an inaccurate depiction of how weird and perfect they are together and their daily attempts to maim each other.

Claire can now walk quite steadily but rarely do we leave her alone for fear of her inflicting serious damage on herself, or getting mowed down by James when he dashes about. She loves her newly found independence and spends most of her time walking around the living room. She especially loves playing with our entertainment devices. Both she and James are addicted to Hi-5. While she sits on her heels and bounces up and down to the music, James imitates their dance moves and actions. He has even turned our coffee table permanently into Nathan’s café and refuses to let us remove the seat covers and tablecloth. But that’s where we get our punitive power when James gets naughty because all we have to say is “Jaaames, TABLECLOTHHH.”

Claire loves greeting people. For some strange reason, she seems to think that Ah Ma! stands for Hey! So she’s been calling everyone Ah Ma! except for her Daddy and James whom she calls dada and keh keh. She can also say okay, up, out, I want! and apah (open).

James talks a heck of a lot. He says the funniest things. He’s long-winded and repetitive. He’s funny that way but it’s also tiring because we feel we have to acknowledge everything he says. If we don’t, he’ll say Mommymommymommymommymommy listen to me I said listen to me, which makes me want to tell him to mind his manners but which begs the question of why I didn’t acknowledge him in the first place, chicken or egg, et cetera.

He is perfectly adept at dressing himself, feeding himself and going potty but gets too lazy at times. He likes to be babied when he’s tired or grumpy. He says he’s too tired or old and that it’s too diffitote! He whines. He whines very well indeed and annoyingly too. He still needs his milk and Ribena in a baby bottle. He changes his identity as and when he sees fit – when he wants to do something himself he says he’s a big boy, otherwise he’s a baby by default.

Claire, on the other hand, wants to do what older people do – eat their food, walk independently, stay up late. She loves fried rice, French fries, chocolate, papaya, cold water, Goldfish crackers, saltine crackers, yoghurt and water. She yells for things impatiently. “I want, I want, I WANT!!!” Or demands that we open containers. “Apah, apah, APAH!!!” I’m thinking she got her cool communicative ways from me – “James, James, JAAAMES!!!” Way to go, mommy.

James has come a long way since he first started school. He’s a lot more sociable now and has made many friends in school. He has trouble sharing his favourite things with other children. I have trouble sharing my kids with other people. So, sharing schmaring, my things are my things.

My initial concern about his picking up Mandarin has abated, thankfully. James is blessed with having an enthusiastic and lively Mandarin teacher in school and absolutely loves the language, so much so that he belts out children’s Mandarin poetry and songs whenever he has the chance. He imitates his teacher and can recognize a long list of Mandarin characters. The next challenge would for him (and I) to use Mandarin conversationally at home.

Claire learns really quickly. She watches, she tries new stuff and she figures things out fast. She has her brother to thank for much of what she has learned. She carries the remote control everywhere and thinks it works on everything, including opening doors. She tries placing a Hi-5 DVD into the player then using the remote control to turn it on. She scours the skies for the moon in the evenings and squeals delightfully when she finds it. She greets strangers happily then buries her face in my shoulder shyly when they actually respond to her. She has a couple of friends – Isabella and Tasha – whom she loves hanging out and babbling with. She loves bubbles, balls, toy vehicles, animals, getting dressed to go out, drinking water, long sticks and pretending to feed us. She has a favourite pair of shoes and crawls over to the cabinet to get them when she wants to go for a walk. She loves being carried in the Ergo and gets so comfortable that she becomes drowsy after spending some time in it. She chooses her pink hair clips over all other hair accessories and stays still when we do up her hair into four little buns.

Claire’s generally an easygoing girl who’s happy most of the time. She watches in curious wonder when James whines and throws a tantrum but starts yelling when his mad episodes are prolonged. We think she gets quite disturbed and upset and simply wants him to stop.

James is fussy and particular. He has an eclectic collection of things du jour that he lugs around with him everywhere. Right now his security sack includes Patrick, a soft blue flannel blanket, my blue striped T-shirt and a small face towel. They go upstairs and downstairs with him and he can't sleep without them. Other days he gets obsessed with two pink stackable pots containing a ring, a black cord and metal ring binders. He insists that his and Claire’s high chair trays remain in place even when they’re not being used. He asks over and over again if I’ll help him with his café tablecloth the next day. “Mommymommymommy, tomorrow morning when I wake up and go downstairs will you help me put the tablecloth on the coffee table and I will do the rest?” He won’t stand to have his tablecloth and seat covers in disarray and gets all hot and bothered when they’re not in place, like it’s the end of the world oh no we’re all going to DIE and BURN IN HELL hot and bothered.

He can’t stand having his water bottle wet. He feels he must remove all mucous from his nostrils and is forever asking for tissue paper. He prefers snot because it’s fun and he can dig it out. He digs his nose a lot. He won’t eat biscuits or cookies that don’t contain chocolate. He will drink only his Milo, milk, Ribena, rosehips and water. He has an obsessive-compulsive tendency, thanks to his parents so I don’t blame him, but I try to help him see that it’s not the end of the world if his café linen or water bottle isn’t perfect.

James has been diagnosed with asthma and now uses a preventive inhaler and nasal spray every morning. While he’s inhaling from his spacer for 20 seconds, Claire never fails to scoot over to get a piece of the action. She and James fight over who gets to depress the canister of the inhaler, so there goes the first disagreement of the day. Good morning kids, but would you mind shutting up until the caffeine kicks in? Claire’s always getting in his hair, and he’s always getting in her hair for getting in his hair. Sometimes he provokes her by snatching stuff from her that he wouldn’t otherwise be interested in. The crybaby of the house is currently James but I tend to think that’s because he gets jealous and wants attention from me so I try to give him as much individual attention as I can when I sense that the floodgates are about to burst open.

These two kids, such monsters, such angels. They make me want to tear out my hair and ask, Why me? But they also make me smile and ask that very same question.

Claire - Month Twelve

2009-05-04T11:23:00.009+08:00

Dear Claire

(I'm sorry this entry is so late. I have no lame excuses to make this time, except for maybe, shoulder pain??)

You turned a year old on April 15. We celebrated it twice – first, a Sunday lunch at a Chinese restaurant with our relatives, then on your actual birthday a trip to the Botanic Gardens and Fidgets, an indoor playground which I wish wasn’t so far away but which is still fantastic. It was a special day for James as well because he got to stay out of school. As you may guess many many years from now, the lunch celebration was hosted by your grandparents because when they asked us how we wanted to commemorate your first birthday and we said nothing really, we meant we just really want to take both kids out for a fun-filled day without having to bother about the niceties of actually talking to people because we’re anti-social and lazy like that. We went along with the lunch idea because of the path of least resistance and all that. Your parents may be fussy like that with your kids so please learn to be as accommodating as us AHEM.

You are an absolute joy, such an animated little girl who loves to tease and be teased. You chatter so much it’s as if you were trying to hold a serious conversation with us. You love playing with trucks and tractors, spinning tops, bubbles, stuffed toys, keys, my bunch of metallic measuring spoons and anything with buttons and lights. You also like to flip through the pages of a book while you wait for me to wake up and take you out of bed. You crawl over to your shoes when you want to go out for a walk. You say “waw waw” when you’re thirsty, love diluted fruit juice, and want a taste of whatever we’re eating. When you want something but can’t get it (either because we refuse to give in or don’t quite understand your gibberish), you try to cry by squeezing your eyes shut and making whiny sounds. You look especially comical with your three little teeth poking out of your gums, like a really angry hamster.

We take you out all the time now. You wriggle with excitement while being buckled into your car seat, then beam throughout the car ride, chatting with your brother, gazing out the window, dancing to music and distracting the designated driver with your very loud “DEH DEHHH!!!” It doesn’t matter where we go; all you care about is that we get out of the house which is how I feel sometimes as well. We go out for our after-dinner walk around the neighbourhood nearly every evening with your brother standing on the rear footboard of the stroller. It’s become such a ritual for us that I feel lost without it sometimes. Otherwise I'd have to think about what to do with with you guys for the next 30 minutes before your nightly dose of Hi-5 and milk, during which I can plonk myself down on the sofa and not move for three whole minutes.

There’re only so many tops I can spin, so many Mega-Blok towers I can build, so much bending and stooping my old body can take to stop you from scaling the stairs and bashing your nose on the entertainment console. So no matter how tired I am or how busy your father is, we try to take you guys out for a stroll each evening. (Then come back grumbling about mosquitoes and the heat.) Speaking of mosquitoes, you’re especially prone and sensitive to mosquito bites. They leave angry red bumps on your body that you scratch furiously until they bleed so we douse you with mosquito repellant everyday and dress you in thin long pants. If there’s one type of organism I hate, it’s the mosquito. I. HATE. MOSQUITOES. After everybody has gone to bed at night, I prowl the house with a can of insecticide in my hand with intent to murder, hunt, annihilate, KILL KILL KILL…

We’re now teaching you to walk by holding just one of your hands. You’re awfully adept at cruising along to get from one place to another and will stand up wherever there’s any support at all. You can even stand up in your high chair and stroller so that I will die of fright.

We have a few months to go before deciding whether to take a holiday in Japan. Let’s hope the swine flu situation peters out so that our dream of going on a trip finally materializes. Next year we’ll talk about going to Seattle, Orlando or California. Riiiighttt.

Love,
Mommy

Quiet time

2009-03-27T23:05:00.001+08:00

She laid her head on my chest, then straightened up, resisting sleep. “Time to sleepsleep, Baby Claire,” I whispered, kissing her silky black hair. She gazed at the curtain fluttering gently in the breeze, perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of the outside world which might amuse her and delay her nap. Curious cat.

Her fingers, coated with a thick film of saliva, finally found the soft familiar fabric of her security T-shirt. Sucking on it, she slowly settled into the steady rhythm of my nap dance and the quiet hum of my voice. “Sleepsleep, baby girl. Mommy loves you,” I coaxed. The weight of sleep finally drew her eyes closed, her innate lust for play making them flit open momentarily.

I continued holding her, humming, rocking. I admired her long eyelashes, beheld the chubby contours of her rosy cheeks. Those contours will change. That youthful colour may fade. Give us time. Yes, give us time. Leave us be for a while.

I bent my head closer to brush my lips against her cheeks, to sniff at the sweet, sweet breath that she exhaled. I inhaled her scent, wanting to take it all in – the very air that had been drawn into her baby lungs and out again, the atmospheric molecules that gave her life and sustenance, that had just been into the core of her wondrousness. I breathed it into my own lungs, my body, my core. She gave me breath, gave me life. A gift from the heavens. I need her.

I placed her deeply slumbering form in the cot, her darling head cradled in a soft pillow so unlike the unforgiving floor that had, just over an hour ago, met her skull in a painful hurry. Please be well, my little one. I’ll see you soon. Today. And we will have lots of time to play.

Claire - Month Eleven

2009-03-21T16:58:00.015+08:00

Claire dearest

You turned 11 months old a few days ago and are hurtling towards toddlerhood. My shopping list for your first birthday present includes a pink tricycle, a foldaway tunnel, a pretty dress, girly cutlery, books and a duplicate set of the blue and yellow taxis and long bus that you’re always fighting with your korkor over.

You love taking James to school with me. Whenever you see me put your Ergo carrier on my aging body you’d writhe and whine until you’re seated in it, then you’d rock your 10kg self in it like you were telling me to giddyup what are you waiting for let’s get going. James loves for you to come with us too. You enjoy our walks in the Ergo and would rest your head on my chest while gnawing on one of the many security T-shirts that you sleep with every night. I’m not sure how much longer I can carry you in the Ergo because you sure are growing up fast and I’m not getting any bigger or younger. So I try to savour and remember the sensation of your little body snuggled against mine before we retire the Ergo which is supposed to be able to bear up to 40 pounds, which also means it should be able to accommodate your brother who’s only 35 pounds, but HAHAHA! AHAHAHA! AHAHAH! My back, my achy creaky back! You know those popping sounds that you hear in the middle of the night? Yes, those come from my 35-year-old spine. Also from my shoulder and knee joints. Ankles too. Growing old sucks.

We can no longer sneak out of the house without your making a fuss because you want to go everywhere with us now. You’re a lot easier to handle now at this age so we’ve been taking you out frequently. I especially like our girls-only Friday morning outings, even if the shops at Parkway Parade are mostly still closed. You love going out and discovering the world around you. You don’t mind sitting in the stroller for a long time as long as there are lots of sights and sounds to entertain you.

You’re somewhat lazy about walking and need to be motivated by toys, your brother or the sight of your friend, Isabella, walking. The funny thing, though, is that you sometimes try to shake us off so that you can stand and walk independently. You spend most of your time crawling around the house, playing with and chasing your brother while screeching at the top of your lungs. When the two of you get into the throes of delirious happiness, you send waves of joy rippling through our house until one of you gets hurt and/or starts hurting the other. You have learned to protest loudly and dramatically when James takes something away from you or tells you not to touch his things. You’d throw your head back and arch your back, let out the biggest scream ever and cry big fat tears that used to earn him a stern warning but I know only too well now that that is your ploy to get him in trouble. I’m onto you, baby girl. You can’t fool me.

This is only the beginning of a very long journey of spiteful squabbles and loving lulls that are the hallmark of growing up with a sibling. I hope ~~you two~~ your father and I will make it through without losing our minds.

You like to greet everyone around you, especially your father to whom you yell out “Ah Dad!” or “Dada!” happily. When we walk past our study when your dad’s not in there, you’d go, “Ah Dad??” and crane your neck to check again. You can say mama, ah dah (for korkor), ah ma, bah (bus), bear and mek (milk). Most of the time you chatter away in baby gibberish. You’re always pointing at things and saying “Breeghee!” as if to ask “What’s that?”

You like papaya, grapes, chocolate-orange yogurt and sponge cake. You try to get a taste of whatever we’re eating and like to grab your brother’s snacks from him. You still have only two teeth so that limits the types of food that you can eat.

You love music. You love dancing to it and moving your hands to rhythm. You like your maracas, tambourine and xylophone. You ask me to take you to the piano so that you can bang on it.

You now take two naps a day. You fall asleep with your head tucked under my chin, nibbling a soft T-shirt and holding your Minnie Mouse. Sometimes you doze off only to wake up briefly to bop to the Kenny Barron Quintet CD that I play to soothe you.

Sometimes I look at you with disbelief that you’re already 11 months old. Sometimes, with awe, that we made it so far without imploding. I knew that having to take care of two children wasn’t going to be easy but I didn’t know it would be so hard. AND WE HAVE HELP. But you make it all worthwhile because of the you that you are – animated, curious, adventurous, funny, loud, friendly, and most of all, so ever loving towards us all.

Your baby days are almost over. There are moments of relief when I look at how far we’ve come and how much easier and fun it is now. I look forward to the time when we can all finally travel as a family ON AN AIRPLANE without too much fuss. Then there are times when I try to hold on to the memories, emotions and sensations of the Baby Claire days that are so fleeting, so ephemeral. I am so very thankful that I have the honour of being your mother, of being with you, and I hope to be worthy of this privilege.

Love always,
Mommy

Anatomy of a train, wishful thinking

2009-03-01T22:01:00.006+08:00

Because I have a son who is somewhat obsessed with Thomas & Friends, I now know that the part shown above is called the HORIZONTAL ROTATORY SHAFT. For weeks, James asked us "What is this long thing called?" To which we always replied that we would look it up but little did we realize that it would be a bitch to find, even with the help of Google. Boo finally found it two days back. And I now have the perverse pleasure of training my three-year-old to say all nine syllables of it. After all, he did ask!

I also think it'd be nice to know this little fact, just in case, you know, our lives (or fortune) depend upon it. We could win some 400 million dollars one day just because we knew this one little piece of trivia. Now, $400 million would be, how much? If one million is six zeroes, then 400 million would be 400,000,000. Not quite $4 billion, but I guess it wouldn't hurt too much if we were short of one zero.

Claire - Month Ten (plus nine days, to be exact, so this post ain't late)

2009-02-24T22:16:00.008+08:00

Dear Claire

You’re ten months and nine days old now. I can’t believe it’s been almost a year since we first met. Almost a year since the doctor pulled you out of me and yelped at the knotted umbilical cord that had coiled twice around your neck. Almost a year since your brother pushed you in your newborn plastic ~~petri dish receptacle~~ whatchamacallit back into the hospital nursery while being videotaped excitedly by your father.

You’re often mistaken for a one-year-old because of how tall you are. You still have only two teeth. Please grow more so that we can feed you more stuff like muffins and apple bits but please do so painlessly and quietly hahaha as if the loudness with which your teeth erupt could be within my control. You no longer hurl yourself backwards while sitting up, hence the end of bashing your skull on the hard floor and sending me into a manic panic, I hope. Now we worry about the state of the front of your skull because you crawl so fast that you sometimes trip over your hands. The speed with which you cover our living room floor has earned you the nickname Salamander from your father which amuses James no end. Just so you don’t feel like the only victim of name calling in this household, I will state for the record that your brother was known as The Komodo Dragon because of his hefty, ponderous crawl. You can hardly stay in one place and would venture off on your own to explore the house and our various electrical appliances. You can pull yourself up to standing position now and are slowly grasping the concept of walking.

We are beginning to see the stark differences between your brother’s and your personalities – while he is more deliberate and cautious, you are more adventurous and free-spirited. Ironically though, you have so far exhibited a demeanour that is calmer than your brother’s. How long this will last, I don’t know.

You’ve been a little sick lately with a cough and cold. Your gag reflex is so sensitive that your medicine has to be administered very strategically. When you go into one of your coughing fits (due to crying, choking on medicine, phlegm or sticking your finger too far in), we have to get you outside or over to a sink or bucket or cup whichever is nearest.

You will fly into the arms of anyone who’s willing to take you outside. When you wake up at about 6am, you will play by yourself in bed until you start yelling for me to get you out of there. You really do yell, as in “EEHHHH!!! EEHHHH!!!” No tears, but you’re so awfully loud that your voice actually reverberates off the walls of the room. Then while we make our way downstairs you’d be talking and jabbering away so loudly I’m afraid you’d wake your brother. Where babies and toddlers get all that energy so early in the day is beyond me. For every pre-dawn, pre-caffeine sound that I mumble, you probably bark out 50 unintelligible words of babyspeak. By the time I reach our front door and fumble with the keys and stroller, you’d be wriggling crazily in my arms in anticipation of your morning walk. Then we’d walk and walk and walk. And you’d talk and talk and talk. You talk to vehicles, traffic lights, trees, street lamps, passers-by. Sometimes you’d hang your chin and forearms over your stroller bar and sometimes you’d sit back, but you’re always enthusiastic, always looking around you eagerly. You wave at people, you slap your thighs, you turn around to look at me and smile. You love to be out and about. Before 7am. Why?

You love steamed Japanese chocolate cake, rice crackers, Coco Pops and pau. You hate bananas. We haven’t tried that many kinds of food on you yet so we have lots of ground to cover where food is concerned.

Your brother gets terribly annoyed when you touch his toys. You always touch the very toys that he’s playing with and will not leave him alone. Sometimes you approach ~~cautiously~~ slyly and give him an indignant hrrmmppphh! when he yells at you to GO AWAY! or hits you. You love to play peekaboo with him and would squeal with delight whenever he pops up from behind the sofa. It is so obvious that you love your brother intensely. While he may not like to admit it at times, we all know he loves you too because he asks for you when he wakes up in the morning or comes home from school.

With you, I’ve done some things which I didn’t have the guts for when your brother was your age. I’ve taken you on the bus with a sling and lightweight stroller. With your brother, I doubt I even took him out in a cab and had to rely on your dad to drive us places. I haven’t taken you swimming yet though and I think a lot of it had to do with deterrents like the December-January rainy season, your cold and in general, bad timing.

You’re growing and learning awfully fast. I’m still marveling at how far we have come from the earlier days when your sleeping schedule was all over the place and you were so soft and docile. Sometimes I think that with your being a second child, I may have missed some of your milestones (or even taken you for granted) because of the time and attention that I need to split between your brother and you. Then I think not, because since I quit my job three months back, I’m able to spend more time with you in the mornings when your brother’s at school. Perhaps it’s because I’m so busy with the two of you that time seems to fly more quickly than it has ever done my entire life. Whatever it is, I’m enjoying my time with you thoroughly and I truly hope you know that.

Love,
Mommy

Tough guy, Ip Man

2009-02-04T22:00:00.008+08:00

This is the look that James adopts when we ask him to give us his Tough Guy look:

Not so much Clint Eastwood:

But closer to Donnie Yen, don't you think (without the pecs and abs of course):

Speaking of Donnie Yen, I'm not much of a Chinese movie fan, but we caught Ip Man (pronounced as eep mun) recently and it turned out to be one of the best wu xia movies I've watched in a long time. Plot was engaging and directing was artfully and tastefully done, but the best part was the fight choreography. It was so good that I started fantasizing about taking martial arts classes and doing that HURRRGGHHH! HAAAHHH! HURRGGHH! HAAHHH! fists-all-in-a-blur kung fu move that knocks the stinking breath out of my ugly villian-opponent while my glasses and ponytail stay intact and I go on my way as if ~~killing~~ incapacitating bad people were a routine activity for superhero understated me.

*slap*

I got terribly stressed out during the intense fight scenes because, PLEASE DON'T LET IP MAN DIE BECAUSE HE CANNOT, MUST NOT, DIE!!!!! IP MAN, LOOK OUT! ON YOUR DIAGONAL RIGHT! DUCK! BEHIND YOU! DON'T HAVE TO KILL, JUST WATCH YOUR BACK FIRST! I HATE YOU, EVIL ASSISTANT TO GENERAL MIURA, DON'T YOU DARE PULL THAT TRIGGER ON MY IP MAN!!!

*slap*

The fight scenes in Ip Man make the messy close-up (but enjoyably bloody) bathroom fight scene in The Bourne Ultimatum look like a catfight between two teenage girls. Besides the physical action, the characterization of Ip Man himself was excellent, portraying the man to be gracious, magnanimous, imperturbable and humble. Makes Jason Bourne look like a hormonally-charged angst-ridden teenager.

Funny thing is, when Boo first suggested watching this show, I thought it was some sort of corny futuristic show about the IT industry, as in I.P. Man, Intellectual Property Man.

Craziness is ...

2009-02-03T15:18:00.006+08:00

1. zipping around the supermarket and running the shopping cart over my big toe TWICE
2. lugging home four huge bags of groceries
3. whipping on my running attire
4. racing to the gym on my bike
5. dashing through my 30-minute run
6. speeding home on my bike
7. dumping my bike on the front porch and saying HiBye to Claire
8. sprinting to James' school just in time before he starts bawling

... all in the span of 2.25 hours.

Claire - Month Nine

2009-01-20T22:57:00.006+08:00

Claire dearest

You turned nine months old a few days ago.

We're seeing more and more of your personality these days. The first thing that comes to mind when I think about you is that you're a wonderfully sweet SWEET girl who loves to play with us and your toys. You have been incredibly good natured so far but we occasionally get little glimpses of the fire that burns in your belly. You have been rather cool about your brother snatching toys out of your hands but a couple of days ago, you surprised us with a gesture that can only be described as a retaliatory whack-and-scratch that said "Hey give it back!" I was secretly proud of you but that brief moment of pride and amusement was replaced by a feeling of an impending doom of having to spend the next two decades breaking up fights between the two of you.

You love playing with your brother's toys, especially his bendy bus and taxi. In short, you want to touch whatever he touches and it pisses him off majorly sometimes so we try to distract you with your own Mega Bloks train which you love pulling things out of and putting them back. You love to eat whatever your brother is eating and would always clamber over our legs and other obstacles to grab his food, only to be met with a firm "No" from James or get pulled back by us. But you gladly settle for Rice Krispies, Coco Pops or feathery pieces of raisin bread. Thank God for Kellogg's and raisin bread. Your brother tries to reason with you by telling you that "you can eat this when you're bigger and have teeth okay?" And I hesitate to tell him that you already have two little teeth poking out of your lower gums because then perhaps he would try to feed you stuff. Your brother may not be nice to you all the time but he loves you to bits. He may hug you too tightly or pat your head a little too roughly, but you will learn as you get older that your brother loves his family with a passion and ferocity that I could never imagine a boy his age could possess.

You are rather calm and measured in your approach to crawling. You're learning to crawl by taking very careful, tentative steps. Each time you get too far from your starting point, you'd stop and sit down again, as if to tell yourself to rest and take it one step at a time. When you sit back on your bum, you'd bring your legs back in front of you slowly, one by one, so that you could maintain your balance, then smile at us when we clap and cheer. We're not comfortable with leaving you alone on the hard tiled floor yet and are always ready to cushion your face in case it slams into the floor, but we'll get there soon. Then we'll worry about your scaling the stairs and/or getting knocked over by your brother. Then your trying to stand. Then your grabbing things off the dining table. Then everything else. You're adventurous and very determined to get something once you set your mind to it.

You detect music really quickly and bop to it vigorously. You love the theme songs from Hi-5 and Thomas & Friends and dance to basically any kind of music you hear. You are especially thrilled when your brother sings to you in his tuneless, catchy way and when your dad plays the drums. Ironically though, the latter helps you fall asleep really quickly when you're tired.

It's getting a lot more challenging changing your diaper because you refuse to stay still and would twist and turn every which way to get back up to sitting position. You love to grab your, uh, genitals, just the way we would expect a boy to do so. In fact, just yesterday, after a huge and sticky poop job, you tried reaching down south to touch the nuclear waste but was stopped by my very strong and capable hands. So you got pissed off and thrashed about, giving your legs a good coating of poop all the way from ankle to thigh. Guacamole dip on fried chicken drumlets.

You get jealous at times when I'm with your brother and are getting a bit sticky, especially when you've been in somebody else's arms for some time. You'd reach out to me and call out woefully, "Meh meh! Meh meh!" I was skeptical at first that you really meant to call me but the general consensus among those who love you is that you really are calling out to me. Wow. To be loved crazily by one child is already an enormous gift; to be loved crazily by yet another child is a miracle.

I think about how small and helpless you were in your earlier months and how quickly time flies. I try to hang on to the memory of the way you feel in my arms, the sounds of your cries, your smell, your weight, the essence of your babyness. Each day I ask myself how you got so big and learned so much, how we all got here, did I miss anything, will I forget any of this? A few years down the road when (if) your aunt Eunice asks me for baby advice, will I say I can't remember? I will miss these baby days, Claire, but I'm so looking forward to your growing up and living a rich, exciting and playful life.

We love you, little Claire.

Love,
Meh meh

Late night creation

2009-01-18T23:20:00.010+08:00

I made this just minutes ago when I should've been in bed already. It's not much but I think this is my favourite creation yet. I like the vintage-ish look, thanks to the brass parts. The big blue beads are Fire Polish glass beads. The little light blue ones have a slightly iridescent, pearlesque quality but I have no idea what they are made of because when I asked the lady at Haji Lane who sold me the bracelet in which they came, she just spoke some Chinese that sounded something like "it's a stone" which I am doubtful about. Also, my Chinese sucks so it could be some sort of recycled nuclear substance for all I know.

I'm not much of a creator - I know what I like when I see it but I can't really visualize a design in my mind and make it from scratch. Most of my beaded accessories are made after an agonizing time spent positioning beads in a mind-boggling number of permutations then throwing my hands up in the air and finally threading them (beads, not hands) onto the wire because otherwise nothing would get made. That's why I take such a long time deciding on and creating each piece. And that's why I should do this more to train my eye for design and discipline my indecisive mind.

(Note to self: If favourite beads are used up for one particular creation, YOU CAN ALWAYS BUY MORE OF THE SAME DESIGN.)

Over(mis?)heard

2009-01-15T20:45:00.005+08:00

I thought I heard James mutter "Damn!" earlier today when his toy kept toppling over. I wondered (guiltily) at first if he had picked it up from me but concluded that he couldn't have because my expletive of choice is SHIT! and occasionally, a well-disguised ahemFUCKahem!

If all things could go my way, AND THEY SHOULD, so that I could choose which expletive (or for lack of a better word, exclamation) he could use without getting scolded, it could be any or all of the following:

ASS!
SHOOT!
DANG!
ARGH! (my favourite when I'm not feeling particularly vulgar)

Two peas in a pod

2009-01-13T22:22:00.005+08:00

My kids, so alike yet so different in so many ways. But they definitely come from the same gene pool. Let the pictures speak for themselves.

Claire, at nearly nine months old (picture taken January 2009):

James, at eight and a half months old (picture taken July 2006):

It takes a village

2009-01-09T15:37:00.011+08:00

Lest I had given you the wrong impression with this post that I do most of the work in our home, let me state for the record that it couldn’t be further from the truth. Though I have been a stay-at-home mom since last November, I still rely a heck of a lot on the people with whom we have been blessed to share our lives.

Jenny, our helper, does almost all the cooking and cleaning in addition to taking care of one of the kids when I need to concentrate on the other. When both kids are with me, I can count on her to step in and help out, like when I'm feeding Claire and James needs to pee. When James attends school in the morning and I’m busy with groceries, errands and other stuff, she takes care of Claire. While I’d prefer to do without a helper (because I like the privacy, independence and the uncomplicatedness of not having to manage an employee), I have to admit that Jenny is a great help to us all at this stage of our lives when the kids are still so young.

My mother-in-law takes care of and plays with James most evenings while I tend to Claire before bedtime. While she took some time initially to learn how to play with James peacefully, her effort alone speaks volumes about the love and devotion she feels towards her grandson and I am deeply touched by how magnanimous she is, especially since I can be rather fussy at times about the generational differences in childrearing. She’s young at heart, has wonderful EQ and doesn’t take herself or life too seriously, and though she is known to have a quick temper, I can sense that she controls it and chooses to maintain her silence to avoid any unpleasantness. She steps in to help whenever she can and sacrifices the time that she would otherwise have devoted to her other activities (outside of work). It is evident that James is very much attached to her despite his occasional childish outbursts while playing with her.

My father-in-law has shifted most of his focus to Claire because of the very fact that she’s, well, The Baby Girl. But in his own gentle and naggy ways, we all know that his love for James runs deep. He is not as mobile these days and gets tired more easily so he doesn’t run around as much as my MIL does. Still, he makes sure we are all well taken care of and tries his best to keep the family ties strong.

Lucy, my in-laws’ helper, takes great care of my in-laws and loves the kids. She’s enamored with Claire and sometimes needs to be reminded of her first love for James. Together with Jenny, she helps take care of both kids when Boo and I need to go on dates. She’s also a great source of gossip so that helps provide me some much needed entertainment (though the veracity of her gossip is at times questionable).

Last but not least, we have Boo, the source of the superior genes that run in the DNA of my kids. Though he was a willing participant in the process of making both kids (I mean, he has to be willing doesn’t he, otherwise how would they have gotten made), he was initially a reluctant father. He wanted (and still wants) me all to himself and couldn’t get used to the fact that I was no longer his exclusively. I was and still am terribly busy with the kids and all things kid-associated but I needed him to see that my love for him did not get diluted when the kids came along. Rather, my heart just made more room to accommodate my love for two additional human beings and because of that, I think my love for him has matured into something deeper, something more concrete.

When James and Claire were still tiny infants who knew only how to cry, sleep and eat, Boo was rather clueless. He left most of their care to me. As each of them got older, less fragile and more interactive, his love for them grew and transformed into a more fatherly kind. He’s beginning to enjoy Claire and her mischievous ways as more and more of her personality emerges. As he shared with me this morning his prediction of the kind of person she will become, I could sense a sort of fatherly pride and love for his little girl.

Since Claire was born, Boo and James have become a lot tighter. He puts James to bed after lights out, takes him out on Jenny’s day off and in general, spends a lot more time these days playing with him. I listen to the faint sounds of their singing and chatting after lights out and wish I had shared that kind of closeness with my parents in my childhood. Father and son recap the events of the day and talk about what they’ll do the next day. Boo soothes James when he’s awoken by nightmares. He disciplines the boy when he’s carried away by his childish willfulness, then in his tender manly way, assures James that he’s still perfectly loved.

Boo performs “M&M magic” for James by pulling M&M’s out of Claire’s ear. He delights James with the disappearing hanky and broken thumb tricks. He tries to scare the living daylights out of the boy with stories of imaginary monsters in the cupboard despite my repeated warnings that the boy will end up sleeping with us until he’s 18.

James is crazy about his old man and yells out “Daddy! Daddy!” as soon as his dad goes into the study to do his insane, neverending work of being the sole breadwinner of the family and to surf the internet for drum-related stuff. Boo tries to work from home as much as possible so that he can be here with us. When he drops us off somewhere, James will watch longingly until he drives away, then turn to me, sometimes tearfully, to ask, “Mommy, where is Daddy? Where is MY Daddy? Mommy, I miss Daddy.” To James, Boo is the superhero, the protector. He feels incomplete without Boo. James says, “I love Daddy” even when his father isn’t around. He even has the same self-conscious, nonchalant look that Boo adopts when he does something nice and deserving of praise.

James longs for his father to carry him but understands that this cannot happen because “Daddy’s back is painful.” You see, Boo suffers from a certain degree of degenerative back disease that prohibits him from straining himself and carrying heavy objects (or persons). Because of the abnormal fusion of his L5 vertebra to his pelvic bone, the stress that has been placed on the rest of his lumbar vertebrae over the past 37 years has caused the nucleus of the disc between his L4 and L5 vertebrae to become ineffective and bone spurs to form. In short, Boo has the back of a 50-year-old. With therapy and regular spine-specific exercises, our best hope is for Boo’s condition to stop worsening and for his body to learn to adapt to less stressful ways of coping with his lifestyle. It isn’t even advisable for him to run or sit for long and frequently needs to do his exercises to “decompress” his back to release the tension in his spine. I can’t relate to the pain that he experiences but will try to help him as much as I can.

How do you explain to your three-year-old son that you can no longer carry him when he only thinks that “When Daddy’s back is not painful anymore, he can baubau me.” How do you make your child understand that you still love him, perhaps even more than you can ever express? By being a confident father and one who will assure and hold him when he needs comforting. By being one who will appreciate the child for who he is and wants only for him to be happy and well-adjusted. And that is what Boo is. He may not change diapers or rock the baby to sleep (not because he doesn’t want to but because he thinks we ladies do a better job), but he has become the sort of father that I wish many kids had.

Boo frequently reminisces about our life before the kids came along and announces at least once a fortnight that we’re going on a trip to Seattle WITHOUT THE KIDS. He says he loves me most but I know that his love for our children is growing exponentially each day.

There is a saying that goes: It takes a village to raise a child. Being the loner that I naturally am, I used to believe we didn’t need that village. I didn’t want to have to deal with interpersonal complications, unsolicited childrearing advice and loss of privacy. But having seen the positive impact of the village people on our children and the support they lend to make our lives easier, I don’t think I could ask for anything better.

I may talk about the other village people one day (my parents and siblings) but that's a bit more complicated.

Claire - Month Eight

2008-12-25T22:52:00.009+08:00

Dear Claire

You turned eight months old many days back and by the way, Merry Christmas baby girl!

This month you seemed to get a lot bigger and cut your first tooth. It popped out without much ado - no swollen gums, no fussing, no extra drooling. But you did chew a lot, and I mean, A LOT. Sometimes you would put something in your mouth and chew it so hard you whole body shakes from the force that your gums exert. I love it when you gum my shoulder but at times you manage to get a grip on a tiny portion of my skin and let me tell you this - it isn't a pleasant experience. It's like getting bitten by a tiny crab with powerful pincers that won't let go so you don't know whether you should endure it or pull away and so scream silently while hoping it'll all end soon. (Not that I've ever encountered a tiny crab with powerful pincers, or even an average-sized crab that hasn't already been tied up, helpless and ready to be stabbed in the heart and steamed in the pot.)

You can now say bye bye with your little hands. The way you wave is so unsteady, so deliberate, so intensely adorable that we ask you to do bye bye just so we could DIE from your cuteness over and over again. You can also clap really well now and talk to us like you really have something to say. You do that "Ehhh!" thing with your mouth wide open and a crinkle in your nose, then wait for us to say something so that you can "Ehhh!" again while flapping your arms.

You're trying really hard to crawl and have banged your face on the floor a few times which makes you a little apprehensive about venturing any farther, but you're slowly getting there. You've also discovered that by jiggling your body back and forth, you can scoot around quite a bit on your butt. There's also that belly crawl that you sometimes use when you want your Mega Bloks (or anything that belongs to your brother) desperately enough.

You had a brief bout of gastroenteritis this month. There was a lot of puking, farting and burping. You drank and ate little but you continued to laugh and smile a lot. Then there was a lot of crying when we forced your medicine down your throat. I'm glad you're all better now. Babies shouldn't have to get sick you know. It makes for a lot of worrying and unnecessary stress.

You are at times clingy and prefer to stick to me. You call out "Mehmeh" when you want to be carried and say "Mek" when you're hungry for your milk. You get jealous when I tend to James but unlike him, you're more willing to share your mom with others and are easily distracted by your toys and walks outside the house. You're shy with strangers and would tuck your head into your chest quietly. You wriggle with joy when I open up your stroller because you know what it means. You sit really erect when we head out in your stroller and would watch the traffic and people go by. Our early morning and evening walks are especially nice this time of the year because the weather is cool and windy, even so chilly at times that I have to wear a cardigan.

You're such a lovely little girl, my dear Claire. You so adore your brother and become more animated whenever he's around, even if he's snatching toys away from you and basically being a territorial little mutt. You're perfect the way you are and we all love you so very much.

Love,
Mommy

One of the many reasons why I wish I lived in a temperate climate

2008-12-18T23:03:00.003+08:00

So that I can wear this on colder days. (And look like a monk or a Jedi Master.)

But seriously, how cool is this? Wish I had thought of something like that.

Our James

2008-12-17T15:21:00.012+08:00

Dear World

I am pleased to share with you that James slept on his own for the first time today. Well, not exactly alone alone, like the only one in the room alone, but he fell asleep without having to have anyone lay down next to him. We were both in the same room so he could see me and talk to me but the basic rule was that I would not lay down next to him. After getting up and coming to me with various excuses like needing to drink water or clean his nose, checking if there was anyone at our gate(!) and giving me a few loving pecks on the cheek, more than 15 times in all, I issued him an ultimatum which got him plastered to his mattress and asleep not long after, but not before chanting "mommymommymommymommymommy" as if the very act of calling out for me was a source of comfort.

I am immensely encouraged that he will one day sleep in his own room. Not that we have the logistics all planned out and ready, but, HE WILL SLEEP ALONE. ALONE IN A ROOM. ONE DAY. SOON I HOPE, NOT WHEN HE'S 18. Then Boo and I will have the room all to ourselves for whatever it is that we do at night, like snore and flush the toilet and watch TV with the volume turned all the way up. Whatever do you think it is we do at night when the kids are asleep?

So this week, James' other milestones are as follows:

1. Going to school without a diaper on. Even though he has been toilet trained in the day time since he was barely two years old, his teachers asked us to let him wear a diaper while in school because he might be too afraid to ask to go potty. We acquiesced for the first three months, and I ~~obsessed~~ thought about it everyday until just last Sunday when I announced to James that "tomorrow you're going to school without a diaper. If you need to pee pee, just tell any of your teachers or lao shi's."

Next goal: to make him sleep without a diaper.

2. Accepting that he will no longer drink anything other than milk or Milo from his bottle. James can drink perfectly from a cup, straw or sports bottle but prefers to suck from a teat. Sucking from a teat soothes him and allows him to loll in bed lazily. And I thought since he has mastered drinking from a cup/straw/sports bottle, I didn't have anything to be too concerned about. But all this while, I knew that he would have to give it up one day and isn't three a little too old to be using a teat? So I have decided to gradually limit his teat-sucking to milk and Milo only. In any case he still has Patrick's ear to fondle while drinking so that shall remain a constant.

As much as we love to indulge James' whims and fancies, we're trying our darnedest to cultivate some independence in him and toughen him up a little. He readily keeps his toys after playing with them, throws rubbish into the bin and feeds himself most of the time. However, he hasn't been good at being left alone in a room or even waiting downstairs while we run upstairs to fetch something. He's gradually growing out of his aversion towards heat and sunlight (which I hate as well so guess where he got that from) by using his favourite red cap. He begs to be carried in our arms after being put in time-out which is perfectly fine, except that at times, his cries of anguish and melodramatic bawling are disproportionate to the severity of scolding or punishment that has been meted out, or the injustice inflicted.

At three years of age, James hovers ambiguously between being a little boy and an overgrown baby. He seems to be on the brink of entering boyhood where he roughs and tumbles around and catches bugs and throws water bombs. At the same time he wants to hold our hands most of the time, be carried when he's tired of walking, needs our help to get dressed or go potty, and fights back his tears when we say goodbye to him at school. He talks non-stop with people he's familiar with but can get painfully shy, even rude, with strangers. He looks for his friends Evie, Jake and Zack but runs away when they come out.

We want to let him grow up a little, wise up some, yet we want to baby him, indulge him, spoil him a little sometimes. What we know for sure is that he has a mind of his own and can get pretty stubborn and defiant at times (which is reassuring because we'd rather he be that so that he can stand up for himself). But he's also terribly compassionate and sensitive when you appeal to his softer side which we hope will never be taken advantage of.

He gets unreasonable at times but listens when spoken to calmly and logically. He responds very well to advance notices and countdowns and does not insist that we buy anything when we visit the toy store. He loves his junk food but understands when we say there's a limit to how much he can eat and will even stop us when we give him more than what we earlier agreed upon. He is territorial about his toys but tries his best to share them with his little sister because he doesn't want her to be sad.

He loves to find out how things work and once he knows the facts he won't stop talking about them. He doesn't like change and can eat a Nutella sandwich at snack time in school every day. He will only eat apples of a certain sweetness and crunchiness. He will not let bananas, papayas, grapes or any other type of fruit touch his lips no matter how much you beg and cajole.

He loves his mom, dad and little sister dearly and fiercely and thinks the whole world of us. He says he loves these "three bodies only"; all others are outside of our circle, though we know he loves his relatives and titas. He kisses us all over, many times and hugs us with that little patpat motion of his grubby hands.

He loves to go out and he loves to stay at home. He wants to be a big boy but he wants to be babied. He has a big heart but he hurts us to test our limits. He wants to be left alone but he wants us to be around. He wants us around him because he's afraid to be alone.

Dear World, this is our James. Please be good to him.

F is for Fonics

2008-12-04T22:03:00.002+08:00

We've started James on phonics (again), spelling and reading and try to make learning as fun and real as we can. Just last weekend after we had placed our order at McDonald's (including his favourite French Fries), I placed James on the counter and chatted with him.

Me: James, we're waiting for our food. We ordered your favourite food.
James: McDonald's!
Me: Yes we bought food at McDonald's. Do you know what we bought?
James: ???
Me: It's your favourite. And it starts with F.
James: FracDonalds!

Solution for the economic downturn

2008-11-28T22:14:00.004+08:00

Now this is a great way to annoy your creditors during these bad economic times.

Claire - Month Seven

2008-11-19T22:01:00.009+08:00

Dear Claire

You’re now seven months plus a few days old. As I write this I’m so hating the fighter planes that fly overhead every few minutes. These planes ~~which I shall shoot down one day given the right equipment~~ tend to make their presence whenever you’re taking your nap and it’s so totally unacceptable that our country’s defence system should be any more important than your sleep. Same goes with the fast cars and motorcycles that rev their engines as they zip along the street outside our house. What I don’t understand is why they have to rev their engines so hard only to have to slow down or stop after 150 metres at the traffic junction. The neighbourhood dogs OMG they drive me nuts, and oh yes so do the ~~monkeys~~ kids next door. Sometimes when their crazy parents quarrel they slam doors and punch walls. Okay enough ranting. This is what you get for living in an overcrowded nation – there’s no escaping the noise, stress and heat, but more about the heat another day because this post is supposed to be about you, not my pet peeves but that’s your complaining mother for you.

You are such a joy to be with. Whenever you see someone familiar you break out into a beautiful smile and sigh contentedly as if to tell us you’re so glad to see us. Like your brother, you spend lots of time being shuttled between our house and your grandparents’ house which is just across the street. We do this to avoid cabin fever. Whenever you go over you would look at the television and grunt to indicate your desire to watch your Sesame Street Dance Along video which you happily flap your chubby limbs to. Your grandparents and titas are so enamoured with you that they can’t wait to hold you and take you out for a walk for some solo bonding time, as if they all wished you would love each of them more than you love anyone else.

(DAMN THOSE PLANES!!!)

We switched you to soy formula because regular formula causes rashy redness on your bum. I can’t even give you yogurt now which is a sad thing because yogurt is SO GOOD for our bodies. We started you on solid food. So far you’ve had strained carrots, peas, pumpkin, sweet potato, spinach, apple, pear, rice cereal and oat porridge, each on its own and in exotic combinations. You hate banana on its own but don’t mind having banana multi-grain cereal for breakfast.

(The rain has come. I am appeased.)

You’re sitting up quite well now and can be left alone for a while in your playpen with your toy collection. When you do a face plant I just sit you back up and go about my business, thank you very much and you’re most welcome. Most of your toys were passed down from your brother who sometimes still tries to claim them as his own, even those little rattles that you chew on and leave your drool all over. He hates that you gum them because they get “all wet!” and is especially fearful that his Patrick may become one of your victims as well. I am so not looking forward to the day you start grabbing his toys and running away with them or messing up his Mega Bloks creations. But you know what? You absolutely adore James and I can sense that you love to just sit with him and play together with him. When you try to make contact by touching his face or arm, you can’t help but make that grabbing motion that babies tend to make and so end up scratching him sometimes. When I explain that you do not do it on purpose he’s generally okay with it. The good thing is he simply moves farther away and doesn’t retaliate.

You babble a lot and you can bear your weight on your legs really well, especially when I try to place your dripping wet, slippery fish of a body down to dry you off after your bath. You love the tags on your toys and clothes. The Taggies blankie that we bought for James has finally come in handy. It keeps you occupied for a long time as you gingerly and studiously finger the colourful satiny tags and chew on them.

You go to sleep each night hugging and sucking on the soft t-shirts (Old Navy’s are the best) that I’ve worn for a few hours and saturated with my ~~body odour~~ Mommy aroma. Don’t worry, I only give you the non-sweaty shirts. What’s a little sweat anyway but a combination of H2O, sodium, potassium, urea, lactic acid and dead cells, okay that’s gross.

I’m so blessed to be your mother, Claire. Even though I don’t spend as much time alone with you as I did with your brother when he was your age, you can rest assured that the intensity and constancy of my love are the same, if not more, because as a second-time mom, I am more confident, more well-informed and more relaxed. You can count on me to be here for you and to make sure that you know you’re as precious as you deserve to be.

Love,
Mommy

Help me

2008-11-17T22:44:00.005+08:00

Hi Internet, I don't know what to do with myself until tomorrow morning because James is running a fever and although he's been medicated and sponged down and taken care of I shouldn't go to sleep because I should run in and check on him every few minutes because you never know how his fever may decide to spike anytime hence necessitating emergency medication and/or medical help et cetera oh how I hate it when my children get sick because they're so small so fragile so dependent so innocent that this kind of thing shouldn't happen to them and it just kills me to think that I could be irresponsible enough to do anything like SLEEP so please dear God let James recover so that we can breathe a sigh of relief and not lie awake in bed at night worrying about him and how his little body suffers the ravages of a fever that shouldn't afflict him but us instead because we adults can communicate pain and the need for help and be able to lie in bed all day while a restless toddler can't do that despite endless nagging and Madagascar and Ribena and head massaging and I've even laid out his fever meds so it's within quick and easy reach just in case now what else can I do to help him and soothe him my poor baby so I say it fucking sucks that James is sick please don't let Claire catch the virus too.

James - Month Thirty Six

2008-11-12T16:34:00.005+08:00

My dearest Jamesjames Boyboy

You turned three a couple of weeks ago. Sorry about the late update. The usual excuses abound – lack of sleep, busy, lazy, distractions etc. But seriously, your little sister has been keeping me up at night, so whatever spare time I have after saying goodnight to you, I use it to catch up on my sleep. Anyway, I had kind of already written this entry in my mind but just never found the time to turn it into words.

We celebrated your birthday by taking you to the Singapore Flyer. Funny thing is we only walked under the Singapore Flyer instead of paying through our noses to get ourselves stuck in a Flyer capsule with a restless toddler and an unpredictable baby for the next 40 minutes. Maybe next year okay, or when we become less frugal, whichever comes first. On this note, please don’t ever be as cheap as your parents who flew all the way to Seattle four childless years ago, paid a visit to Seattle Center but couldn’t bear to part with a few freaking dollars so that we could go up the Space Needle which we now gawk at longingly and guiltily whenever it shows up on Frasier or Grey’s Anatomy. What we did instead was we paid more than a few dollars to watch an Imax movie on ants or some sort of insect, only to sleep right through it all.

What a year it’s been. One minute you talk like an adult and the next minute you’re throwing a fit over having taken too long a nap. You say things like “I almost fell” and “Don’t play with your mouth, it’s not a toy.” One day you’re an only child, and the next day you’ve suddenly become an older sibling. Your world which once comprised only your parents, sister, grandparents, aunts, uncles and Titas now includes a whole new world of teachers and friends, a world in which neither mom nor dad can be a part of.

You’re big for your age. Some people mistake you for a four-year-old. You try to show your authority and seniority over younger kids like Claire and your one-year-old cousin by pointing at them assertively and barking some unintelligible command. I guess you’re imitating how we admonish you when you get naughty, but really, could you please stop doing that because ~~it reflects badly on your parents~~ it’s getting on my nerves.

You can drink really well from a cup now but will still only drink your milk and Milo from a bottle while curled up with old blue Patrick. The reason why I specifically mention “old blue” is that you have an “old red” Patrick which you reluctantly settle for when Old Blue is in the wash, and also because your indulgent parents got you a whole set of new Blue, Red, Green and Yellow Patricks to complete your collection and to build a supply of replacements should your two Old Blues, bless their hearts, one day expire.

You are now an expert negotiator and will say almost anything to get your way. When your craving for junk food hits you, you would clutch your tummy and wince pitifully, “Imma hungry. I need to eat Cheezels!” Or when you haven’t had enough of water play or whatever else that holds your attention, you would hold up your fingers and bargain for “one more minute, five more minutes.” I have learned that the best way to ~~win~~ get you to comply is to gently ask you to help me put your toys away while promising you that you can play again the next day, then distract you with some slapstick accident like stubbing my toe or pretending to forget something. Most of the time you fall for my tricks, or at least you're smart enough to oblige me before I start threatening.

On your first day of school you screamed and cried horrifically. Despite your father’s and my desire to yank you out of your teacher’s arms and take you back home and cuddle you tightly, we could only say shaky goodbyes with brave smiles on our faces and slink our way back home. It was something we three had to go through and we knew it would make us all tougher, but we felt terrible for throwing you into the deep end. Over the next few days we would slither by your school compounds to try to catch a glimpse of you during playtime or snack time. I think you spotted us a couple of times but weren’t quite sure because we ducked behind some cars. You will one day (hopefully) learn that parenthood reduces one to indignities like ducking behind large objects, showing you our half-chewed food at your request, and hoping that the other lift passengers know that it’s you and not us who farted. Speaking of the last indignity, saying things like “James, it’s not nice to fart in public,” would definitely be misconstrued as our blaming the poor kid for our own ill manners. There’s just no winning when it comes to kids, is there?

My little James, you are, in essence, a wonderful little boy. You are always talking, always in motion, always seeking our presence. Your dad and I love how you love us. Your happiest moments are when you are alone with us at bedtime. It doesn’t matter whether we’re pottering around the room, sorting our clothes or brushing our teeth – the only thing that matters is that we are with you. You love snuggling up to us when we read to you. When we watch cartoons your hand would linger on our arm just so we remain connected. Since time alone with us doesn’t come as freely as it did before Claire came along, you are especially contented when we take you out for a walk and would grab our hands and look at us from time to time while beaming shyly.

One of the best things I did was to learn to share you with others. During your first year I was quite possessive of you and wanted you by my side most of the time, and if you were away at your grandparents’ house I would pop by every few minutes to check on you. I was, to put it simply and honestly, afraid that you would not love or need me as much as I wanted you to. I learned to let go when I admitted that you had to learn to love others, and that by doing so, you would in turn receive a whole lot of love and thrive on it. I had to learn to trust that you would still come back to me and I’m glad that you always do. You always come back to your dad and me.

We know you love us with your entire being but we also know that you will gradually find your own identity and forge your own way in this increasingly complex world that you were born into. The day will come when we are no longer cool to you, when we are no longer the first people you run to for love, comfort and reassurance. The day will come when we will have to let you go, and we can only hope that we have given you an excellent headstart in life that will make your brightest moments even brighter and see you through your darkest days.

Don’t grow up so fast okay, Baby James?

All my love,
Mommy

Claire - Month Six

2008-10-25T22:34:00.005+08:00

Dear Claire

You turned six months old a few days ago. It’s hard to believe how quickly time flies, how fast you grow. How did you get from this soft, wormy little thing to the cheeky chubby chatty old girl you are now?

I have a good reason for the long delay in writing this month’s update – up until a few days ago, I hadn’t had more than five hours of sleep each night for at least two weeks, and I was starting to lose my mind a little. You would wake up every two hours or so every single night, demanding to be carried and rocked. There were even a couple of nights on which you would cry as soon as I put you down, resulting in my carrying you for four hours straight, by which time I was desperate and almost crazy for it was 3am and I had been on my feet all this time and rocking you nonstop. You wouldn’t even let me sit, for goodness’ sake. I thought you were a mean, mad and murderous little girl, attempting to kill me slowly with sleep deprivation. I had hoped you had a good reason for all this fussing, such as teething, reflux or general discomfort, but no I don’t think so – YOU WERE JUST ABUSING YOUR PRIVILEGES.

The solution? I shall not talk about it. I do not dare speak of it. It is imperative that I utter not a word about it.

You’ve started that cackling laughter I looked forward to for a long time. You laugh when we make funny sounds and jump around. You laugh when we laugh. Your laughter is contagious and makes your entire body shake.

When we ask you if you would like to go out for a walk you would start looking toward our front door and leaning your body in that direction. You even look at our key press expectantly for you know that we would need to get our keys first. Once we’re out of the door, you wait for us to open up your little blue umbrella then grab its handle the entire time we’re outside.

You love talking to Whiskey and Scottie (in case our memory fades with time, they’re your grandparents’ dogs). You love watching Hi-5 and Sesame Street’s Dance Along video, just like your brother did when he was smaller.

We can no longer leave you alone on the bed because you flip over really well now, and if left unattended, would flip your way off the bed and well … BONK and PANIC and ALL THINGS UNMENTIONABLE.

Your hair is much longer now so it lays rather flat most of the time. I’m thinking of giving you a haircut but will ponder over a small decision like that and procrastinate until I can put it off no more.

I have to keep this entry really short because I have to catch up on my sleep so that I won’t have to depend on coffee so much to keep me awake. But before I end this update I would just like to say how much you are loved by everyone in this family and how we’re all captivated by your big round eyes, your beautiful little smile, the way you gaze at us when we’re talking and generally, your extreme adorability (yes there is such a word, I know coz I just checked it out).

Mama loves you, Claire.

Who would've thought?

2008-10-03T22:21:00.014+08:00

Just when I thought I could perhaps find some peace and quiet on the summits of Mount Kilimanjaro or Mount Everest to mull over whether I should quit my job and stay home with the kids, I find out this (courtesy of Wikipedia):

(Click on the above image for an enlarged view.)

I mean, REALLY?! As in, I could actually make a phone call to my credit card company from atop Mt Everest and, in between oxygen-poor gasps of air, demand, in an asshole tone of voice, a waiver of my annual membership fee otherwise I'd cancel my account dammit? Or send an SMS to Boo to remind him to put socks on James before bedtime? Or would I have to tap on the shoulder of the climber next to me and ask him if he would mind not yakking so loudly on his handphone coz the air's so thin up here you're sucking up all the oxygen and uh, kinda deafening and basically being a public disturbance?

How far do we need to go to be unplugged?

Read this and weep

2008-09-30T22:23:00.002+08:00

The Cab Ride I'll Never Forget

As much as I've been trying my darnedest to live a deliberate life, I need reminders like that to knock some sense back into my head. You can never underestimate how great an impact a casual action or word can have on a person, possibly for the rest of his or her life.

My little barista

2008-09-29T09:54:00.008+08:00

Old coffee makers make great new toys for kids - they're free and terribly exciting for toddlers who love nothing more than scooping and pouring, even if it's just pretending to do so. Here's James hard at work, training to become the next great barista, sans shorts.

Checking if he has enough coffee powder to last the day:

Enter the Regular Drowsy Customer:

"How may I help you, RDC?"

Filling the RDC's order:

Coffee powder goes into the filter. Doodeedoodee dooooo:

A satisfied customer:

Pots of pleasure

2008-09-24T22:12:00.010+08:00

James now possesses the much dreaded formidable combination of height and curiosity. If not for our constant nagging and watchfulness, he will now grab almost anything off our kitchen counter, fling our fridge and oven doors open and bang them closed, play with knobs on our electrical appliances and stick his hand in the fire. He tends to believe and listen to us only ~~if we say Gruffalo is in there~~ after finding out for himself that something is dangerous. If we owned a pizzeria he would probably crawl into the wood-fire oven, then yell at us from in there that it was "Hot! Hot!"

So this was the result of his curiosity yesterday. See the jagged crack?

Now we have ~~an excuse~~ a reason to get a brand new coffee maker because I doubt we could find a replacement pot for our six-year-old model. (Yay!)

After removing James' water play privileges for the day and fending off his tearful impassioned pleas, I contemplated our looming coffee crisis over the next few days until we got ourselves a new coffee maker. We could subsist on loads of instant coffee and still lumber about like zombies. Or we could walk out to the nearest kopi stall to get our fix, but we're lazy people. Or we could use a kopi sock to make our coffee. That is, if only we had a kopi sock.

Then I remembered we had this somewhere in the far recesses of our kitchen cabinet, which, lo and behold, yours truly managed to find:

It's relatively easy to use and gives our kitchen (or at least the stove part of our kitchen) a sort of whimsical quality. It was given to me by a friend over 10 years ago who thought it cool to use such stuff because he thought he was quaint and purist like that. If he could have it his way he would lament the state of the human existence while lounging in a dimly lit room smoking a hookah. He was deep and philosophical like that, or so he would have liked to believe.

Anyway, this contraption is called a moka. Despite the slightly grainy texture of the coffee that it produced (which may be related to the fineness of the grounds I used), I'm rather pleased with it and intend to use it regularly, provided James doesn't break it.

Claire - Month Five

2008-09-19T22:23:00.006+08:00

Dear Claire

You turned five months old a few days ago and are getting more and more adorable by the day. I have never seen a baby who smiles as much as you do. You love being around people and beam when you are brought into a room where the whole family is, especially when they all turn to you and break out into their usual chorus of adoration. You wriggle with delight and kick yourself into a chubby squirming fit.

You try to sit up each time we lay you down. Staring at the ceiling and lights is no longer enough for you; you want to look at what’s going on around you, be where the action is. Better yet if James is hanging around you, for you love looking at him and reaching out to touch him and occasionally grab his cheek and sink your razor-sharp fingernails into his skin, prompting him to say, “Meimei, please don’t do that.”

Whenever we go out now and leave you at home with Tita Jenny, you look sad and forlorn. Guilt strikes me right in the core of my heart every time this happens so we try to take you out more often, especially when we go on our Sunday drives or weekend visits to Daddy’s office where there are no crowds to jostle with, no tricky terrains to maneuver your stroller over, and no strange viruses to pick up.

You have grown somewhat attached to me and sometimes fuss when I hand you over to someone else or when I take over from Tita Jenny. Being the ever insecure mom, it pleases me secretly when you do that because something in me needs to know that you know I’m The Mommy, that I’m the one who loves you the most and would do anything for you.

You still go to sleep fairly consistently at night between 8.00 and 8.30pm and wake up at around 6.45am, way too early for my liking but perhaps it’s for the best so that I can spend some time alone with you before James gets up for the day. I give you a dream feed at around 11.00pm, do a quick diaper change and put you back to bed. There was a time when you woke up at 2-something am over a few days, with subsequent wakings every one and a half hours. It drove us nuts because I would rush to soothe you for fear of waking James up. On the other hand, James sleep-talks, no, sleep-shouts is more like it. When that happens, your dad would spring up awake to soothe him back to sleep before you get disturbed. One desperate night at 4am, we decided we had had enough and so now you sleep in a spare room on the third floor with me on the nights before James’ school days so that you can learn to self-soothe and so that everyone can have a less stressful, jumpy sleep.

I have a feeling you’ll be teething really soon because, The Drool! The Drool! There is so much of it we’re almost constantly wiping your chin and hands. Sometimes when we don’t catch your drool in time it falls on the floor with a loud splat, like a fat rain drop. A fat viscous one because good luck to anyone who steps on your drool – it’s slippery and smooth and icky and gooey. Sometimes after I’ve put you down for your nap I catch a whiff of something musty and realize the smell is wafting over from my right sleeve which has turned a darker shade from being soaked through with your saliva.

You have two small hemangiomas just below the inner corner of your right eye, one smaller than the other. We hope they’ve reached their maximum size already and that they will regress very soon. Our biggest concern is that your vision doesn’t get obstructed by them. James sometimes gets a little curious and sympathetic about them because perhaps he thinks they hurt. “Meimei’s eye red red,” he says. Your brother, he loves you dearly despite his reluctance to share his toys with you unless he feels bad. You adore him and could sit quietly watching him for a long time while he plays and dances and frolics around the room.

Your favourite game is peekaboo. You fall asleep most quickly to shushing sounds (which can be rather annoying because they turn my lips numb after a while). You love your Freddie Firefly and the hanging toy bar of your rocker. You wriggle restlessly when I wash your hair but start kicking and smiling as soon as I put you in the bath tub. You don’t have a voracious appetite and usually don’t finish your bottle. Sometimes you will only drink when you are rocked at the same time, a feat which is totally unhealthy for our wrists because you must be, what, 8kg now?

I’ve taken you out shopping a few times, just you and me, strolling the aisles and being girls. Shopping. Just don’t ask me for princess stuff okay? Books are fine, but you will have to work hard at convincing me to buy you princess-y, Dora-ish, Hello Kitty or pink stuff.

You can be fierce but are mostly good-natured. Your grandparents and Titas are smitten by you and look forward to seeing you each day. I could gaze at you for a long time and appreciate your beauty, especially when you sleep because you look so peaceful, so perfect and look so much like James. You’re a good girl, Claire. If I were to liken you to a flower, you would be a periwinkle - wee, demure and oh so sweet.

Love,
Mommy

Nose and arse output

2008-09-05T00:08:00.002+08:00

As it turns out, the fatigue that I felt during Monday's run was a precursor to the sudden honking cold that hit me hard on Tuesday.

It started with a couple of sneezes and that familiar nasal tickle as I got myself and the kids ready for a short trip to town with Jenny. I downed some vit C and hoped I wouldn't be hit with a sneezing fit while I drove. I was spared that, but what followed during the next couple of hours were numerous sneezes, nonstop nasal drip and close-y eye-ness that made me want to curl up in bed and DIE for a while.

Once we got home I took a Piriton and a Decolgen and crossed my fingers that I wouldn't die from Mixing Medicationitis which, obviously, I didn't but what I felt was something akin to having drunk three shots of alcohol in close succession. I had a disturbed nap and woke up with a dry nose that started dripping again as soon as I stepped out of the room which made me think I probably didn't have a virus but was suffering a sudden episode of allergic rhinitis.

I took another dose of the aforesaid non-lethal cold medication mixture and woke up completely healed the next day, reinforcing my guess about that allergic rhinitis thing.

I haven't run since Monday, which is just as well because I had the runs this evening.

Night run, mind crap: 3rd edition

2008-09-01T23:32:00.003+08:00

New route. Leaden legs. Hint of side stitch. Cooling system malfunctioned. In short, the run sucked. But that's okay. I take what I can get. Pain is weakness leaving the body. Tomorrow's another day. ~~Life sucks, then you die.~~

When my run ended I muttered grumpily, "Sucked like f**k," and thought about having some Cheezels. Then I stepped into the house, saw James lying on the sofa sucking his milk and my mood lifted. "Mommy went to the gym!" he sang. "I went outside for a run," I replied, trying to look untired.

I want my kids to see me work hard at something and keep at it. And that it's okay to suck because I'll try again tomorrow and the next day and the day after. Until I suck less.

Boo is definitely sucking less at the drums now, even with his limited practice time. Because he has set his heart and mind to it and he won't let up until he can confidently play in front of an audience.

Sucking less isn't what I would encourage my kids to aim for though, for it hints at mediocrity and settling. I want them to shoot for the stars and fight for their dreams. And I want them to know that we will be behind them fully, even if it may mean going against convention or moving to another country with a more conducive educational environment. But this is where Boo and I will need courage and conviction to carry it through because we grew up in a society where non-conformism is frowned upon and in families where academic achievements were the be-all and end-all.

Not much mind crap today. I was too busy suffering and cursing. And thinking about the new Asics GT-2130.

Night run, mind crap: 2nd edition

2008-08-29T21:38:00.005+08:00

I ran again last night - same distance, same weather and faster time despite feeling more sluggish. This time the tune from Toto's Rosanna kept playing in my head, thanks to Boo who has been playing Toto in the car and raving about its late drummer, Jeff Porcaro, and his invention of the Rosanna beat, especially the use of ghost notes on the snare.

As I ran past a row of unoccupied bungalows, I did my usual thing of not looking in the direction of the houses, training my eyes straight ahead of me only. It was particularly important that I did not cast my eyes on the houses, lest I... um... saw a face in one of the windows. (I'm getting goosebumps as I write this.) Last night as I ran past those houses, I detected a strong floral scent which probably came from the wet and fallen flowers of some tree (frangipani? pong pong tree?). My mind, ACK MY MIND! went a step further and entertained the possibility of the presence of spirits. Some say that when there are spirits around, one smells the scent of flowers.

Talk about ghost notes. How apt. I ran on and tried not to think.

I plan to run regularly at night. Treadmill runs in the daytime just don't do it for me, even though I do them at least once a week. Running on treadmills is so boring it actually makes me feel more tired than I should be. Also, after the 30-minute limit, I have to interrupt the Cool Down mode and stop the treadmill completely before starting it up again so that I can run past the time limit. It's also too freaking hot to run in the daytime, even when I manage to tear myself away from the kids. So night runs are the best alternative. I have always loved running at night anyway. It's cool, it brings me to my quiet place, and it gives me a sense of anonymity.

Night run and mind crap

2008-08-24T17:13:00.012+08:00

I went for a run last night after putting Claire to bed and kissing James goodnight. The former went to sleep without a whimper. The latter begged me to stay at home even though he knew his dad was going to put him to bed as usual. I assured him that I would be back soon, then steeled myself and changed into my running gear. After handing the baby monitor over to Jenny, I was out the door for my me time.

It turned out to be a great run. A little short (6K) but better than nothing. There was a light drizzle. My breathing was easy, my strides brisk, and my limbs loose, not really what I had expected after the recent disruptions to my running - postpartum hair loss, mom guilt, plumbing problems (as in house plumbing problems). After all, I had adopted an attitude of I'll take what I can get. When you set your expectations low, you keep disappointment at bay and satisfaction within reach.

On my return leg I caught a glimpse of the fireworks above Marina Bay and quivered with goosebumps and feelings of serendipity. I was running against the direction of the traffic with a silly grin on my face and must have looked like a crazed woman.

Then I started a small conversation with God, something that I'm wont to do when I run in cool, wet conditions. I gave thanks for Boo, James and Claire and thought about how they were all that I'd ever need. As usual, my thoughts turned morbid and I asked myself What if I died right now? What if this run was so great because God wanted me to have a last great run as a bonus before I kicked the bucket right here? What if I was to become one of the growing list of victims who succumbed to that Sudden Runner's Death Syndrome that has been making news over the recent years? What would become of my babies?

I then started saying individual, personalized prayers for each one but stopped short when I realized that perhaps the most important prayer would be for Boo to find a great and wonderful woman to replace me, because Great and Wonderful Woman would love Boo and make him happy, ease his burdens and enable him to continue being a good father, and GaWW would love James and Claire so much that they would very promptly stop pining for me and get on with their lives to become the sterling individuals that they were meant to be. And memories of me, the original wife and mommy, would slowly fade away and become a mere face in the photo album.

And then I got a little sad and felt ridiculous. My mind, it wanders and it imagines, it paints scenarios and goes off on all tangents. My mind, it kills me sometimes.

When my run ended, I resolved to get a RoadID, not that it'd save my life, but at least if I met with a life threatening situation and couldn't speak, the RoadID would speak for me. I'm torn between two mantras that I would like inscribed on my RoadID:

What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger

or

Pain is weakness leaving the body

Oh, oh, howzabout this:

My Beloved Monsters three, I've always loved you and will continue to love you always. I will watch over you constantly. Until we meet again.

Damn! I'm getting teary all over again!

Claire - Month Four

2008-08-19T22:53:00.003+08:00

Dear Claire

You're four months old now and becoming much more interactive and fun to be with. Your feeding and sleeping patterns have become a lot more predictable and manageable and I'm starting to see some semblance of sanity back in our lives again.

You've discovered your hands and love to grab your toys and chew on them. When your toys aren't within your reach, you like to suck on your hands noisily, sometimes even inserting an entire index finger into your mouth while I watch in horrified anticipation of your gagging on your finger and barfing your entire feed down your shirt. Sometimes you even try to stuff your fingers into your mouth during a feed, sending milk dribbling down your chin and distracting me from the very riveting Oprah show that I watch almost everyday now, causing me to have to take my eyes off the TV and actually concentrate on feeding you properly and teaching you some, uh, table manners.

You barfed quite a few times this past month. Full-feed, heavy-duty barfs. Drench-your-entire-outfit type of barfs. Coat-your-neck and soak-your-face type of barfs. Send-mommy-to-Google-furiously type of barfs. I narrowed down the possible causes of your barfing to pyloric stenosis (which requires SURGERY!!! Waaaaahh!!!), overfeeding, badly timed burps and an oversensitive gag reflex. I went to sleep one night thinking about the pyloric whatever and why you had to be among the 0.3% of babies who were afflicted with it. And I thought to myself Nah, it couldn’t be, because you weren’t exactly projectile vomiting nor were you vomiting during consecutive feeds. Then the barfing went away. We also now know I wasn’t overfeeding you because you’re within the 75th to 90th percentile for weight, and in the 75th percentile for height. Whatever it was, I’m glad it’s over for now.

By the way, just so you know, middle of the night barfs are the worst ever. In the dim light I can hardly tell when you’re going to spew and so get caught unawares until I hear that awful tell-tale gurgling sound in your throat and that gush of liquid that follows. Your dad and I would scramble about in the dim light to clean up the mess so that you can get changed as soon as possible before you cross over into real wakefulness and so that your brother won’t be roused from his sleep. When all is settled and peaceful, we would rinse and soak the soiled laundry. I would then wash the sticky throw-up from myself and go back to bed smelling faintly of the sweetish sour smell of your cocktail of gastric juices and formula.

You can sort of flip over to your tummy now and raise your head real high during tummy time. You also try to sit up a lot while in a reclining position. You smile a lot, especially in the mornings after you’ve woken up. You flirt with us sometimes and raise a single eyebrow before breaking into a huge toothless grin. When you try to talk, you sound like a lion cub with a bad sore throat, “Aaaahhh, aaaahhhh, aaahhh.” It gets a little creepy when you wake up in the middle of the night and start talking because it sounds kind of like that character that spews green bile in that show that got some people fainting in cinemas when it was released a few decades ago. The good thing is, after creeping me out for about 10 minutes, you go right back to sleep.

After using the CIO method successfully on your brother and having it fail on us after one month, I was quite reluctant to do the same thing to you. Your brother, poor guy, he cried a lot, he did. So did I. To this day. I still feel sorry for having put him through hours of crying and vowed never to do the same to you. You don’t require as much effort to soothe and generally wake up only once or twice a night on average. One time to feed, another time for the fun of it.

Your dad mentioned to me one day that I should sleep-train you before you got much older, and I thought, “You Hitler, you!” So I crammed part of a sleep bible into my wee head one evening and started that very night. And it worked! You went to sleep after 10 minutes of dry-eyed fussing and slept right through for the next 12 hours, save for the two feedings I gave you. I now put you to bed between 8 and 8.30pm every night, whisper a few reassuring words to you, then sit in the dark and wait with bated breath for your kicking, fidgeting and the occasional brief crying to stop. I’m crossing my fingers for you to continue sleeping independently because it lets me do my stuff for the next two to three hours and spend time with your brother and your dad. Oh yeah, it also teaches you, a four-month-old infant, to be INDEPENDENT.

I love that you’re such a sweet and patient little girl, my Claire. After you wake up each morning, you would stare out the window and wait for me to come get you. Sometimes you even fall back asleep. Your dad and I are already planning our next holiday but I doubt it will be anytime this year because I’ve exhausted all of my leave already, unless I call in, you know, sick on a Friday. But we all know I’m joking, don’t we??

When I come home, you would start to fuss and complain until I pick you up. I’m looking forward to my one-on-one time with you once your brother starts school. I’m so very sorry for not spending as much time as I did with your brother when he was your age, but I’m trying my best okay, little girl? I’m thankful for all the love that is showered upon you everyday, and I know that you are thriving because you hardly ever cry and love to be around people. As your name suggests, you really do “Add Happiness” to our lives. Thank you so much for being born.

Love,
Mommy

Smart ass

2008-08-12T17:21:00.005+08:00

I have several pairs of men's boxers in my cupboard, thanks to Boo who somehow can't seem to fit into the XXL size of certain brands after they've been put in the wash. Once in a while I get confused over which pair of boxers still fit him and so place the wrong ones in his drawers (clever pun intended).

Last night, pulling at his boxers and doing that leg thing that spreads his ass cheeks apart and opens up his crack, he asked, "Did you put the wrong boxers in my drawer?"

"No, I don't think so. Why? Butt got too big?"
"No. Cock's too big." (smirk)

Seriously? I just think his head has gotten too big for comfort.

All we need

2008-08-07T14:49:00.016+08:00

James has Claire (and hence my extended leave) to thank for our frequent outings. Over the past few weeks, we've been to so many places and done so many things it would have taken us several weekends to have accomplished this level of activity.

Today I took him to Raffles City for the main purpose of hanging out at the Reactrix interactive light display but ended up doing a whole lot of other things. First (after I had tortured him with enough minutes of shoe and handbag shopping during which he was extremely patient and well-behaved, thanks to his miniature Comfort taxi toy), we went across the street to Saint Andrew's Cathedral for his brief introduction to God, grace, gratitude and the concept that there is a greater power out there that watches over us.

We walked among the pebbles in the garden, admired the koi in the pond and gazed at air con fans before entering the chapel. I spoke to him in whispered tones and he responded likewise. "This is a church, James. People come here to pray and talk to God. God makes good things happen." (And also lets bad things happen but that's for you to think about when you're older and have other people, wiser people, to ask.) Then I sat on a pew, carried him onto my lap and asked him to clasp his hands together, close his eyes and repeat after me. He did exactly as he was told, repeating after me as I gave thanks and asked for all of us and our loved ones to be blessed. After we said our amens, he looked out the window and said "I want to wook at air con fan outside far far away."

At the Reactrix spot was a boy slightly older than James, clutching an orange bus in his hand. James' initial mild interest in the bus slowly grew into an all-consuming raging desire to own it.

"Mommy I want my orange bus," he pleaded.
"Why don't you ask your friend to let you touch it?" I reasoned.
"Friend, can I have my orange bus please?"
"James, I don't think he heard you."
"Friend, can I have my orange bus PLEASE?"
"James, maybe you should let your friend play with your blue taxi so that you can play with his orange bus."
"NO! I want blue taxi! I want orange bus!"

So on it went, with both boys refusing to part with their respective vehicles. I eventually decided to remove James from the situation before it turned ugly. He writhed vigorously in my arms and wept as we walked away to get the french fries and chocolate milk that I had promised earlier. Orange Bus had set his heart on fire and there was nothing else he wanted. THEN he saw the cereal aisle and started pointing out cereal boxes that he recognized while reminding me about Orange Bus intermittently. Toddlers. How easily smitten, how promptly distracted.

After lunch, since James was still pestering me about Orange Bus (but now without tragedyjuice pouring from his facial orifices), we walked towards Robinsons to find him an Orange Bus that he could take home and call his own. On the third floor atrium there was a fitness fair with trampolines. That was when his inner monkey heard its calling and took over. Orange Bus was promptly forgotten and Blue Taxi quickly deposited in my bag for safekeeping as James bounced up and down on the trampoline to his heart's content. He looked at me while he jumped and told me, "Mommy's so happy!" That he values our happiness and approval so much both touches and frightens me. On one hand I want him to be motivated by us to be a good boy. On the other hand I want him to be guided by his own value system and grow up confident and self-assured. As his parents, how we help him strike a right balance between the two is one of the most important tasks we have to deal with.

There is nothing quite as priceless as seeing your child laughing and playing, thinking about nothing else but living in the moment and looking at you with silent, unspoken gratitude for being there and sharing his joy.

All this, I know, would not have been possible without grace.

My all-time favourite joke

2008-08-02T15:49:00.002+08:00

A man decides to have a party and invites lot of people, telling them to bring their friends. On the invitation he puts "Theme Party Come as a Human Emotion"

On the night of the party, the first guest arrives and he opens the door to see a guy covered in green paint with the letters N and V painted on his chest.

He says to this guy, "Wow, great outfit, what emotion have you come as?" and the guy says, "I'm green with envy". The host replies, "Brilliant, come on in and have a drink."

A few minutes later the next guest arrives and the host opens the door to see a woman covered in a pink body stocking with a feather boa wrapped round her most intimate parts. He says to this woman "Wow, great outfit, what emotion have you come as?" And she replies, "I'm tickled pink". The host says, "I love it, come on in and join the party."

A couple of minutes later the doorbell goes for the third time, and the host opens the door to see two blokes from Jamaica, stark naked, one with his penis stuck in a bowl of custard and the other with his dick stuck in a pear. The host is really shocked and says, "What the hell are you doing? You could get arrested for standing like that out here in the street. What emotion is this supposed to be?"

The first guy replies, "Well mon, I'm fucking discustad, and dis here my friend has come in dispair."

James - Month Thirty Three

2008-08-01T16:44:00.002+08:00

Dear James

You turned 33 months old a few days ago. Your dad and I frequently talk about what a big boy you are now and how tall you have grown. Your legs have become much longer and leaner, the cuffs of your pants hang above your ankles and your sandals need to be upsized yet again. We now find it harder and harder to keep anything out of your reach and have resorted to stacking stuff up really high on other stuff that you can’t possibly drag off the table for now. We talk about how small and babyish you were just, oh, two, three months back. Then a few months later, we look back upon this time and realize what a baby you still are. Sometimes we forget you’re only two and give you a hard time about behaving and controlling yourself then we feel all sorry about it and realize it’s mostly because you’re crazy about your parents that you act up to get our attention. Other times, we think hey you’re almost three so what’s up with all that noise and tantrumy behaviour, enough with that already. Most of the time we cut you some slack and let you shriek and jump around the house and ignore our pleas and reasoning to be quiet and eat and keep your toys and not throw things around until we realize you’re nowhere near stopping your monkey business and start barking threats at you. Threats, oh how I hate them but seriously, sometimes they’re the only tactics that work.

You can now do many things yourself, like wearing your sandals, taking off your briefs and shorts, and climbing up and down the stairs. You insist on your independence and push us away, saying “I want James to help.” Yes, you refer to yourself in the third person. You are also somewhat confused about pronouns. You say, “I want Mommy to sleep with you.” I’m finding it quite a challenge to teach you the concept of pronouns. After I heard myself say this to you today I decided to let you get the hang of pronouns yourself: “James, when you talk about yourself, you say I or me. When you talk about Mommy, when you talk about me, you say you. Do you understand? When James wants to drink milk, you say I want to drink milk. Okay?” Seriously, I would’ve stabbed anyone who tried to explain pronouns to me this way because, WTF?! I suck at all this teachy teachy stuff. I’ll stick with telling you about the red man and green man and the stuff that ants do in their nests. Ants’ nests are ants’ houses. They eat and live and sleep there, just like us, in our houses. But you know what? Ants’ nests are made of sand only, I think, and our houses are made of concrete and steel and won’t get flooded when it rains.

The last two months were some kind of crazy. You went through a stammering phase that got us so worried we Googled about it and found out it tends to happen when a child is undergoing stress or significant change and that it happens to boys predominantly. It took over a month for you to outgrow it and the more we asked you to relax and speak slowly, the more it distressed and frustrated you. Eventually we learned to ignore it and as hoped, it disappeared.

Then the frequent peeing started. You would ask to use the potty up to eight times an hour and each time produce only a trickle of pee. After two weeks we thought there was a remote chance you weren’t just trying to get our attention but that you were suffering from a urinary tract infection so we took you to the doctor. After a gentle examination of your boy parts and a urine test, the doc looked at us and declared, “You are right. He is showing signs of A.S.S.” What the heck is A.S.S. we asked. He explained that it was Attention Seeking Syndrome and that the best way to handle it was to let you pee when you want to and not mention anything about going so frequently. The next few days we tried a variety of tactics, including letting you wear your diaper all day, distracting you when you asked to pee frequently and praising you when you peed a lot after a long time. Apparently the last one worked because you got over it in a couple of days and now when you need to go potty you would say “I want to pee A WOT!”

Interspersed with the stammering and peeing fiascos were other attention-seeking tricks like deliberately peeing on the floor or into your shorts, playing on the stairs despite our strict orders not to and faking cries where you almost effortlessly squeeze tears from your eyes and become so immersed in your acting that you fool yourself into believing you’re actually sad and end up inconsolable.

Much as all this annoyed and exasperated us because we had already taken all precautions to assure you and shower you with extra-strength love, we saw that you were still trying to cope with not being the only child anymore and that despite all our actions and words, you could not quite handle the recent changes in our family structure, our routine and our lifestyle, so we will keep on helping you to adjust until you (and we) have settled into a comfortable groove.

I’ve taken extended, unpaid leave until the end of September partly to be able to spend more time with you and Claire, and also because you only start school in September so who better to stay home and take care of you guys. We spend lots of time together, you and I, going out on bus trips and train trips, to places like the airport, shopping malls, the club, the pool, parks. I especially loved that trip we made to the supermarket a few weeks ago where you grabbed a loaf of chocolate bread off the shelf, pressed your nose to the package and inhaled, then looked at me, smiling and nodding your head. “Nice,” you said, then hugged the bread to your chest and walked around the supermarket, smelling it from time to time. At the general goods section you played with a suction pump and to the amusement of other shoppers, thumped it repeatedly on the floor after I demonstrated how it was used. While we paid for our stuff and the cashier handed you your M&M’s, you informed her righteously, “Must pay for it first,” earning you a proclamation of “clever boy!” from her.

Sometimes the bus or train is a destination and treat in itself. You love to hear stories recapping what we did for the day and would add in your two cents about how fast the train went and which bus we took to the airport. It doesn’t really matter what we do as long as we’re with one another and I’ll be sure to miss this time when I go back to work.

You’re still as obsessed as ever with your toy trucks and cars and would lie prone on the floor to observe how their wheels work. Recently though, you’ve added a new dimension to your play by running them over water. You’re fascinated with wet wheels and the trail of water they leave behind. When you want us to allow you into the bathroom to play with water you would look at us with a glint in your eye and with a lilt in your voice, tell us, “I want to make the wheels ALLLLL WET!” We also take you occasionally to the construction site nearby so that you can see the “cement truck taking a shower” before leaving the premises. We get strange stares from the workers because hardly anyone ever pays any attention to them and their equipment.

We love the way you talk and boy do you ever talk non-stop. You say stuff like “Daddy don’t go there. It’s very dark and dangerous.” When I’m angry, you would wave your finger at me and say, “Mommy don’t shout. Meimei is sleeping downstairs.”

I’ve never in my life known anyone to talk so much and make so much chitter chatter as if a minute of silence would kill you. It gets too much sometimes because we can hardly have a proper conversation with you around, and you can hardly find the time to chew your food properly. You insist that we acknowledge what you say so ignoring you doesn’t really help. We want you to know that what you say matters but we also want you to learn to wait for your turn, and that sometimes you don’t have to say anything because we see what you see outside the car, and we don’t need a running commentary of what everyone is doing at any given moment. But we just leave you be and let you talk in the hopes that perhaps one day you’ll know that we hear you, we’ve heard you all along. Maybe you really need us to listen and assure you that you still matter to us, even if you’re not the only child anymore. If that is what you have been subconsciously seeking from us all this while, maybe we just need to try a little harder at reassuring you, and maybe we just need to be a little more patient with you and wait for you to catch up with us.

I go to you each night when you’ve fallen asleep to whisper goodnight and I love you in your ear. I touch your cool cheek and smell your little-boy scent, that musty sweaty scent that I’ve always loved. I will the love in my heart and soul to diffuse into you to make you feel more secure, to strengthen you and to remind you that you will always, always be my little boy. Sometimes I tell you I’m sorry for having been hard on you for misbehaving, for not being able to spend more time with you, for my impatience or for what you may have to go through in this deteriorating world we live in. I want to wake you up and hold you close to me and tell you that the time we shared together was truly special and that no one will ever take that away from me. But I let you sleep and hope that you dream happy, sweet dreams of your favourite things like Oreos and Cheezels, trucks and buses, Hi-5 and swimming pools and sand, and most of all, being embraced by Mommy and Daddy and laughing yourself silly with our staccato kisses.

Love,
Mommy

James - Month Thirty Two

2008-07-16T23:02:00.006+08:00

I have decided to write a quarterly update for James instead of a monthly one. Reasons for the change include (but are not restricted to) the following:

1. lack of time
2. laziness
3. lackadaisical attitude towards anything that requires a deadline (aka procrastination, but for the sake of alliteration, "lackadaisical" it is)
4. loping around the neighbourhood (aka running. Again, alliteration.)
5. lack of sleep (which explains my irrational love for alliteration)

So the next update will be posted ~~way~~ after Month Thirty Three has lapsed.

Claire - Month Three

2008-07-16T22:27:00.006+08:00

Dear sweet baby Claire

You turned three months old yesterday. It's hard to believe that just three months ago I was lying in the maternity ward recovering from your delivery and getting up every so often to waddle to the nursery to get you or sneak a look at you.

You're no longer a soft and squirmy little newborn who sleeps almost all the time and needs to be held constantly. You're such an angel, such a peaceful and calm little girl that you hardly cry at all except when you are hungry, tired or desperately bored. Even when you do cry, you cry like a little lady, gently and daintily, and are easily pacified. When you wake up each morning you greet me with a bright smile and a sparkle in your eyes. You love it when we talk to you and would coo and gurgle fervently as if you had something really important to say to us. When we're too busy to play with you, we can leave you alone in your rocker or cot to amuse yourself for a considerable amount of time. You're willing to leave us be and you let us leave you be, and that alone is a great help to me and I am grateful beyond words for your independence. You smile when we come into your field of vision and love to sit on our laps to watch TV or simply just be.

You can now sleep for up to eight hours at a stretch at night before waking up for your milk. That doesn't mean though that I can get eight hours of uninterrupted sleep because during that time, I would stay with you downstairs and wait for your big brother to fall asleep before transferring you to your cot upstairs. So I use that waiting time to catch up on my own activities such as reading, watching TV, surfing the internet and the occasional session of abdominal crunches. Sometimes I spend the entire time holding you in my arms because I'm afraid you'd wake up when I put you down then pick you up again. So I hold you and wait and wait and wait until I can no longer feel my arms and my elbows freeze up.

You have sort of discovered your hands and would suck on them noisily while you drool all over your chin or clasp and twist them together as if you were contemplating something evil. Tummy time is your main nemesis but you're getting the hang of it and can hold your head just above the mattress before you start to lose it.

I have been struggling to be as fair to you as possible in terms of spending time with you. If I spend most of my mornings with you, I would concentrate on James in the afternoon, and vice versa. At this tender baby-age, you haven't started to identify me as your mommy (or main carer) yet and so I've been taking advantage of this time to take James out or play intensively with him before he starts school. I can't wait for you to get old enough so that we can all go out together and cause a ruckus everywhere we go.

We've been out alone, just me and you, a couple of times. You would sit quietly in your carrier until you fall asleep while I shop. I like to think that you know it's me you're with, that person whom you see first thing every morning and who puts you to bed every night, that familiar smell and voice that you can associate with comfort and love.

You love to observe your brother and would stare at him in wonder with your big round eyes as he hangs around you and alternates between showering his love on you and threatening to beat you. The few times he has actually hit you, you sobbed softly and broke my heart. Your brother, he loves attention and though he doesn't realize it yet, he gets jealous when our attention is on anyone or anything else but him. So I'm thinking this could be one of the bigger challenges you'll have to face as you grow up - vying for a piece of us while your brother attempts to hog the limelight.

You love to be taken out in the evenings for a stroll when the weather is cool and breezy. I would hold you and walk with you up and down our street countless times, singing to you, talking to you and smelling your hair while you suck on my arm. Since your grandparents live so close to us, they spend time with James until your dad takes him upstairs for bedtime. This allows my evenings to be solely for you. I hope to build a bond with you that is as strong as that which I built with James, and I want you to know that you can be secure in my love for you, that even though you're second-born, you are as special and much loved as your brother.

Love,
Mommy

Glowing examples of tolerance

2008-06-18T21:37:00.005+08:00

I love my kids. Other people's children are quite okay in general. They're mostly cute and funny, though a little noisy at times, but they're tolerable most of the time provided they don't get in my face too much or behave like little monkey brats on a sugar high with ants in their pants.

Boo has never admitted to liking kids, and I'm pretty sure he really doesn't like them much. Before we had our own offspring, he would try to scare kids who dared to even glance his way. Pity the little kids who happened to be in front of us in a queue, at the neighbouring table or in the next car. Boo would either give them his Bulgy Eyed Stare with his tongue sticking out (like the intimidating stares that the Maoris typically employ during their dance rituals) or growl under his breath like a ravenous rabid dog. When their parents turned around he would pretend to be totally oblivious to the kid but I would be shrinking in my skin if I had not already scooted off somewhere else.

With James though, we're entirely different creatures altogether. We think he's the sweetest, funniest, most adorable kid that ever existed. When we're about to take a drive somewhere, I'd be in the back seat wondering why it's taking so long for Boo to put James in his car seat. And I'd look out to see Boo holding James in his arms, hugging him gently and stroking his back with his eyes closed, as if he were saying a prayer of thanks for his little boy. Then he would catch me watching him and immediately regain his typical tough-guy demeanour. Same thing happens when I "ooh" and "aww" at that look of bliss on his face after James cuddles up to him in bed and tucks his little head under his chin.

Some time back, while we were at the Reactrix display at Paragon, a kid of about seven to eight years old got carried away with the flashing lights on the floor and started playing roughly and banging into other kids half her age. James was, as usual, standing at the side, observing, warming up. One of the other kids’ parents tapped Violent Kid on the shoulder and politely requested that she cool it, to which she nodded her head before promptly resuming said atrocious behaviour. Polite Parent maintained his cool and kept a watchful eye instead. Boo and I, on the other hand, muttered curses under our breath: "Punkass. Stupid kid. Let's see if she likes it if we stomp on her toes and shove her stupid head. Damn annoying."

Maybe that's where James gets it from - he doesn't like in-your-face behaviour and prefers some self-restraint in a person. Like that time when a female ~~fan~~ toddler ran towards him while we were at the park, and he hastily retreated, declaring, "I don't yike this one." Well done, son. We're proud of you. Just don't curse like us.

Claire - Month Two

2008-06-18T16:19:00.010+08:00

Dear Claire

You turned two months old on Sunday. You’re growing at an amazing pace, putting on weight, getting taller and filling out your clothes. I have to start putting away some of your newborn clothes soon and decide whether to give them away or keep them for your future cousins. You and your brother are now still the only grandchildren on both sides of the family so you’re both still enjoying all the love and attention that your grandparents shower on you guys everyday. I’m thankful for all the help that I can get because it isn’t easy taking care of two small kids. Your Ah Gong and Ah Ma (with Tita Lucy and Tita Jo-Ann) have been tirelessly helping us every single day, stepping in to play with and take care of you guys when we need help so that your Dad and I don’t collapse from exhaustion.

That’s not to say, though, that we don’t enjoy our lives with you. You’re a joy to be with and I love that you’ve started to respond to us with smiles and whole-body wriggles when you’re amused. You would sit in your rocker and stare at our ceiling lights, smiling to yourself and sometimes even laughing silently. You coo occasionally and sigh contentedly when you’re relaxed, especially after your feed. Your nap times have not really been established yet but you’re generally going on one morning nap, one afternoon and one evening nap. Sometimes you can nap for a long time, and at other times you would nap only intermittently and insist that we carry you in between naps. You love to fall asleep while being carried in our arms in a certain position such that you're seated almost vertically with your butt on one of our arms, your back is supported by the other arm, your legs straddle our waist and your head falls back. We shush and shuttle you downstairs and upstairs for your naps to avoid having your naps disrupted when James gets gregarious, which is almost all the time. Your brother lives his life with such passion and joy that we hope some of it will rub off on you (and on us too).

I’ve weaned you off breastmilk, though it wasn’t without some wistfulness and regret on my part. You see, I don’t think I’m that selfless a mother that I could dedicate a huge amount of time breastfeeding my baby and expressing my milk. Also, I got tired of the pain that came from the engorgement in my boobs each morning and the dull ache that resided in them throughout the day. I hope to have given you enough antibodies though, and I hope you will be as close to me as your brother has grown to be.

You’re turning out to be a lot more patient than your brother was at this age. (I know we’re not supposed to compare but humour me just this once or twice or countless times okay?) When you’re left alone, you would entertain yourself or do whatever it is you do until we get you. What do babies think about anyway? Philosophize? Think about how good their last bottle tasted? Wonder about what their appendages are doing, flailing about uncontrollably? When you get bored, you would let out a small but sharp “Eh!” to remind us you’re still there. You’re also more tolerant when it comes to tummy time and would grunt gently and suck on the bedsheet for a few minutes as you try to lift your head until you decide that grunting isn’t enough to get Mommy to turn you over so that’s when you start making those pitiful cry-ey sounds that babies make that turn their faces all red and looking like they’re going to combust.

After your last bottle for the night I would rock you in my arms and wait for your brother to fall asleep before I dare to enter the room and place you ever so gently in your cot because I want to avoid all the work we would have to put in all over again if you should yell and wake your brother up. Your dad and I, we are lazy people. We want our offspring to shut up and shut down after 10pm and not bother us again until 8am the next day. If you guys could sleep until 9am, all the better, because your dad and I, we have things to do. Not those sort of things, if you know what I mean. I’m talking about things like watching TV, reading, surfing the internet, playing our digital drums and digital piano, and most importantly, SLEEPING.

Anyway, back to your sleep. You now wake up twice a night for your milk and would go back to sleep by yourself after your diaper change. Sometimes, for ~~fun~~ some reason or other, you would wake up an hour or two before your next feed and make those sounds that I’m worried would wake your brother up so I would rush to pick you up, and you would fall asleep in my arms ever so sweetly and innocently so I couldn’t ever get angry about having to wake up so damn many times in a night. The pacifier? It’s gone. Find out why here.

Your brother loves you so much he comes to you each day, beaming and singing out “Meimei! Meimei!” before kissing you on your cheeks, your forehead, your hair, your legs, your arms, and smelling your hair, then repeating it all over. He strokes and pats you, hughugs you and tries to show you the things he knows, like big holes, aircon fans and cement mixers. When you cry, he would run over to your playpen and say, “Meimei are you okay? Don’t pie.” I can’t wait for you to get bigger so that you guys can play together and so that we can take you out everywhere, on our weekend jaunts and on long haul trips to places like SEATTLE! and NEW ZEALAND!

My back and arms ache from carrying you each day but it's a rite of passage that I've chosen to go through. I'm exhausted by the end of the day and can't wait to fall into bed for eight hours straight. I could outsource this task entirely but I choose not to, because you are my child and I want to be there for you. I love you, little Claire, and you deserve to enjoy being a baby and all the privileges that come with it.

Love,
Mom

KORGasm

2008-06-12T10:00:00.010+08:00

I have me a digital piano now. It's a KORG SP-250, a real beauty and heavyweight in terms of features, quality and performance. Boo got it for me after doing lots of research and taking me to try out other models like the Yamaha P85 and the Roland. The KORG is the most versatile, its weighted keys feel great and it provides the best value for money for all that it offers.

Now I can play the piano any time I want without waking the kids or worrying about my scale and arpeggio practice adding to the constant noise-makers aka The Kids. Boo knew how much I've wanted to bang on the piano without disturbing everyone else. He knew it would keep me sane and make me happy even though I had told him it wasn't necessary, that I could keep playing our upright piano on a restricted basis. As usual, he didn't listen and went on his way about this, asking countless questions, reading review after review and basically groping around in the dark about something he wasn't familiar with. This gesture of his beats flowers and diamonds hands down any time. The guy at the shop even called him husband of the year.

Bye bye pacifier ...

2008-06-12T09:48:00.003+08:00

... because getting out of bed 3984758 times a night to cram the pacifier back into the baby's mouth just feels so WRONG.

Pickup line

2008-05-30T09:46:00.006+08:00

James loves going to the condominium compounds near our house to pick up the leaves that have fallen onto the ground and inserting them between the slats of the drainage covers surrounding the swimming pool. He does this nearly every evening with his grandparents and occasionally with Boo or me. It's sweet, perfectly apt behaviour for a toddler and I'm glad he has found something that occupies and excites him. But what he says when he wants to partake in said activity really cracks me up:

"I want to put it in the BIG hole!"

Hello, pacifier ...

2008-05-27T16:12:00.000+08:00

... because, OMG, the ROCKING.

Month Thirty One

2008-05-27T16:03:00.008+08:00

Dear James

You turned 31 months old yesterday. It's ironic that I'm writing this so promptly (instead of procrastinating for two weeks like I usually do) since I'm now busier than I've ever been my entire life, taking care of you, your little sister and occasionally, that poor chap known as Your Dad. I'm sorry I can't give you as much attention as I used to. I know you try your best to accept what little morsels of Mommy time you can wrangle out of me (apart from your whiny, clingy and stubborn attention-seeking episodes) and I truly truly appreciate that. I also want to thank you for not resenting Claire for the compromises you've had to make and for showering her with loving kisses and pats everyday.

I realized how much you were missing me and that I was sacrificing your happiness and, along with it, many other things, for my CRAZY wanting to be there ALL THE TIME for Claire. So I learned to let go sooner than I thought I would and now entrust Claire to Joann's care when either you or your dad need me, and I know I couldn't have made a better decision than this. Then of course there are the guilt issues that have arisen from this but honestly, the guilt (toward you, Claire and your dad) will be there no matter what. Maybe it's an affliction that hits most mothers that keeps us grounded as long as we don't allow it to become our overriding emotion, ruling our every move and bringing us down. Guilt is a terrible, terrible thing. Makes you feel you're never quite good enough, that you've not done enough. It's a disease that deceives if it's uncontrolled and becomes deeply ingrained in a person's psyche after living with it for a long time. I’ve had enough of it and I have you and your Dad to thank for helping me to see the light and deciding to do something about it.

Knowing how much I would like to devote to you and Claire in your formative years, and making sure that your dad gets a piece of me too(that poor chap has hinted not so subtly about being neglected BOY DO I MISS HIM TOO!), I'm now seriously mulling over the option of becoming a stay-at-home mom/wife.

This month you've become more sociable and less shy. You say hi to strangers more willingly and no longer try to wriggle your way into our skin or cry whenever someone unfamiliar gets close. I really hope this will bode well for your going to school in September and that you won't cry till you barf.

You love going outside to play football and run around the place like a crazy monster. You’ve learned how to catch a ball (thanks to your Grandma who taught you in a single try after I had tried unsuccessfully for weeks but ended up bonking the ball on your head each time).

We love chatting with you and listening to your comments, insights and instructions – “Want pee inside potty. Put wee wee down. Cannot pee outside potty.” You can now speak in full sentences, though they aren't always grammatically and structurally sound – “I want Mommy kick the ball so fast. I don’t want slow. Want fast.” You have yet to pronounce many of your words correctly too. I guess that's what makes it so funny and so much fun talking to you. You have so many opinions about so many things, so much to say about the goings-on around you and so much you want to learn. You’re always going, “What DAT?” In addition to your laughter and animated ways, your endless chatter and questions are signs that you’re happy and stimulated.

Your dad and you have had some major bonding time this past month. You especially love sitting at the front window of the upper deck of the bus with him on the ECP, savouring the sights and running around Clementi Woods Park. He now puts you to bed every night but not before recapping what you have done during the day, singing and reading, and enjoying the scalp and big-toe massages that bliss you out. Sometimes I hear sounds of hysterical laughter and pounding feet emanating from the bedroom upstairs and wonder what crazy game you guys are playing RIGHT BEFORE BEDTIME. Then I come into the room shortly after to put Claire in her cot and find you sprawled on your mattress deep asleep or kissing Whiskey’s ass. And I start to miss you dearly and the one-on-one time we used to share. But you’re generous with your love. Even if you may not quite understand that Claire is your little sister and that your Mommy and Daddy are her Mommy and Daddy too, we know that the reasons you love her are that we love her and that she’s one of us, that she’s in our circle too.

Love,
Mommy

Claire - Month One

2008-05-17T16:41:00.003+08:00

Dear Claire

You turned a month old two days ago. Tonight will be our first night alone with you because our confinement lady will be going home tonight. I'm a little nervous about how things will turn out, how you will sleep and whether your brother will wake up when you howl for milk and cuddles.

You're a little gem of a lady, with finer facial features than your brother but still bearing a strong resemblance to him when he was the same age. The most striking thing about you is how much of your father's looks you have inherited - big round eyes, fleshy cheeks and a heart-shaped face. Your hair sticks out in fluffy, light strands which James loves to smell and rub his cheek against.

You spend most of the time sleeping and will lie in your crib quietly, looking around you and cycling your legs in the air until you get bored and call out for us to come get you. You've put on a bit of weight and grown about two inches taller. You poop mostly at night and love to be held and talked to. And like me, unfortunately, you tend to stay awake after your last feed and will sleep only after midnight.

For your full-month celebrations, we had a small gathering of relatives at home. They came, they saw and they cooed at how cute you were, sleeping despite all the noise and activities that were going on around you. They kept saying what a good thing it was that you could stay asleep. I said nothing but crossed my fingers.

Your dad and I are not as anxious and clueless as we were when your brother was born. For now, that is. I know for sure that I won't rush to hold you every time you let out a little peep and that you're not necessarily hungry when you cry but just need to be held for a little while. You don't need total silence when you sleep so the earth need not stop spinning nor air molecules stop colliding. I don't scrub my hands vigorously before I touch you and I no longer insist that everyone else do so either. This does not mean I love you any less, but that I can now breathe easier and be a happier and more relaxed mom in general. I'm not as anal and uptight as I was before, though I still have certain limits where my offspring are concerned. We still get lots of unsolicited advice but we ~~just respond with a robotic "yah" or say nothing at all~~ handle our "advisors" better now.

I'm curious to see how you turn out and what kind of personality you possess. You're adorable when you nurse, especially when you're super hungry and are desperate to latch on but can't find your source of milk even when it's right in front of you, and you will scream angrily and pitifully. You make me chuckle and I will miss nursing you when we eventually wean you off breast milk.

I hope you'll be a happy one, little Claire, for you are much loved and cherished by us all.

Love,
Mommy

Month Thirty

2008-05-04T15:33:00.011+08:00

Dear James

You turned 30 months old a few days back. You’re now two and a half years old. That’s quite a mouthful to say, isn’t it? Can you say “two and a half years old”, or to make it easier, “two point five”?

You went through a big adjustment this month - in your dad’s words, you’ve been promoted to “big brother” status. You’re curious about Claire and, with our constant reminders (which we try to dole out as nicely as we can), you try your best to be gentle with her and stroke her hair and face lightly. Occasionally though, you scratch her ever so lightly with your fingernail or poke her a little harder, then look at us to see if we’ve noticed, and whether we will issue you a summons or give you an approving look that says: yes it’s okay to scratch/poke Claire this hard, yes, even this hard. Whooaa... not that hard... okay stop it now that’s too hard, STEP AWAY, PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPON AND PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR WHERE I CAN SEE THEM.

Most of the time though, you smell her hair lovingly and hang around close to me as I nurse her, inching closer and closer to me such that our elbows touch. You were rather fascinated at first that I could feed her from my boobs and kept saying, “Want see, want see.”

I get the feeling you’re trying to potty-train yourself. Your diaper remains dry after some of your naps and outings. Sometimes you even wake up and urgently call out “I want to pee pee”, then as you relief yourself into your potty you look at me expectantly and wait for me to exclaim, “Your diaper is still dry! What a big boy you are now!”

We have decided to delay your starting pre-school until September for two reasons – to help you adjust to having Claire around and to let her immune system get stronger before she gets exposed to the array of germs and viruses that pre-schoolers typically transport home.

You’re becoming more and more curious by the day. Every time we open a jar or container, drink from a cup or make a cup of coffee, you would demand to look inside the container – “I want see inside!” You’ve learned how to contain your excitement such that you no longer grab our arm and cause the contents to spill onto the floor, and hence save yourself from lots of nagging.

It looks like our dreams of forming a band are slowly taking shape. You’re getting better at the drums everyday and even know how to play the basic drum fills (snare - high tom – mid tom – floor tom – crash). With accompanying music, you even know the drum beat to certain songs and when to play the hi-hat and crash cymbals. By the way, if you ever have a kid, you may want to consider getting him or her a set of drums. They double up as an excellent babysitter.

Your relationship with your Ah Ma (your dad’s mommy) has really flourished this month. She seems to have finally figured you out and now takes on a softer approach instead of teasing and provoking you to get your attention. Gone are the days when she threatens to take Grover away and hopefully, gone too are the nightmares during which you protest, “I don’t want Ah Ma! Ah Ma go away! I don’t want Ah Ma take Grover away!” When you see her at the door, you now call out, “Ah Ma, come in!” We can see how happy it makes her and how contented she looks when she strolls around the neighbourhood with your little hand in hers. Your grandparents just can’t get enough of you and that is one of the biggest factors that will keep us living close to them.

During my four-day stay in the hospital after Claire was born, my heart broke every time you said goodbye to me after your visit. There was this one day when I got down on my knees to hug and kiss you, and you grabbed both my arms, stared into my eyes and pleaded, “Mommy come home pleeeaase.” It was a gesture so desperate and so achingly sad that I didn’t know how to deal with it until after you had left. (FYI, I bawled my eyes out.) And as I write this I can’t help but cry at the memory of the pitiful little boy that you were that day and how painful and confused you must have felt about why I couldn’t come home and fuss over you or play with you or chat with you or lay beside you while you slept. Your dad told me about how after you said bye, you would bury your face in his neck and softly say over and over again, “Bye bye mommy, see you later.” In the evenings you were less animated than usual, choosing to sit in bed and watch TV quietly. Oh God, the tears that are flowing down my face right now. Every time I relay this story to someone, I choke up embarrassingly and tears well up in my eyes. (Note to self: It’s only when you have a child that you will realize how much you could love someone and what an emotional schmuck you can be.)

You’ve shown an extraordinary amount of maturity and understanding toward the new addition to our family and how busy we can get sometimes. At times you get impatient but we can see that you try your best to wait for your turn. You even know that our acoustic drums are out of bounds when Claire is downstairs, and that you can only bang on the electronic drums during that time. You seem to need some extra reassurance that we still love you, such as following us around and banging into our butts, then grinning at us. During bedtime, you would climb into bed with us to get a last snuggle before you scamper back to your mattress and fall asleep for the night.

When I was pregnant with you and found out that we were having a little boy, I never in my wildest dreams thought our little boy could be as sweet and loving as you are. We can only hope to enjoy your love and affection for as long as we can before you think it’s no longer cool to hang around us or come to us for hugs and kisses. In the meantime, stay close to us and don’t let go so soon okay?

Love,
Mommy

You know you're a mother when ...

2008-05-02T00:13:00.001+08:00

1. you use your child's going-out bag as your handbag and stash your wallet, keys and other paraphernalia in it along with his diapers, wet wipes, snacks and toys, and carry it shamelessly with the Sesame Street characters FACING OUT.

2. you pop mashed up raisin bread and your child's half-chewed spit-out food into your mouth without a second thought and feel proud that you didn't waste any of that food.

3. you know how his feet stink like a bad combination of aged cheese, vinegar and Thai fish oil yet you smell them each time you take off his sandals, make an awful face, then think awww my dear child your feet stink to high heavens but there is no stench sweeter than this.

4. you dislodge big green sticky boogers from his nose and sniff at them even though you know it's disgusting. (Okay, this sounds a little sick.)

5. you read about cases of child abuse and wish the death penalty upon the transgressor.

6. you can't get that damn Elmo telegram song to stop looping endlessly in your head.

7. you scrutinize and double-, triple-check the ingredient list on food packages to check for allergy-causing elements, then wonder if there is too much sugar or sodium and whether it ~~is a Product of China~~ contains lead, mercury or pieces of broken glass.

8. you accidentally hurt yourself and say, "Painful this this part over there."

9. you actually think the air force will give a damn if you write them a nice letter asking them not to fly their planes overhead (or at least use a different route) during your child's naptime.

10. you wake up in the morning thinking what a long day you have ahead of you, having to find ways to entertain, stimulate, discipline, cajole, comfort ~~and trying not to strangle the living daylights out of~~ your child, then when he finally falls asleep and gets out of your hair for at least nine hours, you start to miss him and feel so very thankful for the privilege of having spent all that time with your child who never fails to make you laugh and loves you more than anything in the world.

Sense & Sensitivity 101

2008-04-28T16:44:00.006+08:00

When faced with someone who has recently delivered her second child by C-section (and therefore won't be able to work out for at least the first four to six weeks lest the incision ruptures or gets inflamed or something) and whose second pregnancy has left her abdomen skin even more slack, and if you are unable to contain your thoughts or hold your tongue, let's try a little tact, shall we, and practise a little control over that brain-to-mouth sphincter.

Here are two contrasting examples.

Example #1
How not to say it: "Wah! Your tummy still so big ah?!" in an incredulous tone of voice and with eyebrows arched all the way up.

Likely reply: "I just gave birth three days ago you know?"

What the reply really means: "Duh! Wha...? Why don't YOU carry a baby to term and see if you shrink back to normal size in three days while still hobbling around in silent pain and wincing every time you pee coz maybe just maybe you have UTI, and hey my arms are still thinner than yours and so are my thighs. Sure, maybe I'm a little sensitive but don't you think I've noticed that I still look like I have a watermelon in there?"

Example #2
How to say it: "Your tummy's still quite ... big...," in a hushed concerned tone while standing close by, followed by "are you okay so far, do you have any PPD?"

Likely reply: "Yah lor, still quite big. I make sure I take my Omega-3's everyday because I heard it helps prevent PPD. I'm okay so far, I think. I just can't exercise yet."

What the reply really means: "Yah lor, still quite big. I make sure I take my Omega-3's everyday because I heard it helps prevent PPD. I'm okay so far, I think. I just can't exercise yet. You're sweet. You get me and I thank you for that."

One week in

2008-04-25T16:53:00.019+08:00

Claire's been home for a week now, save for the one day she spent at the hospital for phototherapy after a blood test showed her bilirubin level to be almost twice the safe upper limit. That night we all tucked ourselves (including the confinement lady and Joann) into bed and savoured a full night of uninterrupted sleep except for the 30 minutes I spent awake expressing my milk which I call Liquid Gold and saved it nicely in the fridge for her consumption.

The evening after she was admitted we dropped by again to say hi and to deliver some Liquid Gold. Now that she's back home and spends most of the time near the windows absorbing all that tropical UV light which we curse and swear at each day, we're hoping her bilirubin level will continue dropping.

Claire's been the typical baby, crying when she's hungry, soiled, bored or needs to be carried. Her cries aren't yet as strong and guttural as James' were and we're keeping our fingers crossed she'll cry like a girl's supposed to cry, softly and daintily, and not roar like ~~a T-rex whose incisors have been ripped out and stabbed into its heart or shriek like a wild boar~~ James. She tends to fall asleep when I nurse her so half of the time, we bottle-feed her with expressed breast milk to make sure she drinks enough. She hasn't established a pattern of day and night sleep yet and spends most nights feeding and pooping like a champion.

Everyone, especially her grandparents, have been admiring her big round eyes, her double eyelids and sharp nose, commenting on how cute and pretty she is, and being charmed by her fleeting smiles and nose crinkles, the stuff that babies usually do that get us all enthralled and weak at the knees. Her soft creaking sounds remind Boo and me of our early days with James and nursing her gives me uncanny deja vu feelings that make me smile and at the same time, oddly sad that she will be the last baby I'll ever nurse. We are not planning for more children. Come to think of it, maybe it would be more apt to say that we plan to have no more children after Claire. We've had a ball of a time with James and know that Claire will give us the same amount of joy and fulfillment, but for us, two is optimal. Were we to have any more children, we wouldn't be able to provide them the level of care and attention that they deserve, and Boo and I would surely go mad with the lack of time to ourselves. Not to mention the trips we plan to take together as a family as soon as James and Claire are old enough and I've taken enough Omega-3 pills to stave off insanity and stress-induced mental illness.

James has been adjusting to the changes rather well; he doesn't ask for much, as long as we give him the time of day and interact with him when he needs us or wants some loving. Some days, I spend an extended amount of time with him, such as earlier today when we kicked his ball around and drew all over the front porch with chalk. And I know he couldn't be happier to be able to have my undivided attention. Other times, he hangs around me and entertains himself while I tend to Claire, feed her or change her. While it hasn't been as difficult as I thought it would be (showering James with extra hugs and kisses really helps), it's still early days yet and we shall get the true picture as Claire gets older by the day and becomes more cognizant of her surroundings and our existence.

I am very much conscious in my efforts to be as fair as I can to Claire in terms of spending time with and tending to her. While James had the privilege of being the first-born and enjoying our exclusive attention, Claire has to share the limelight with her big brother. I initially doubted my ability to love my second child as much as I love James. I've realized (so far) that perhaps the issue is not so much about whether you love one child more than the other, but that you love each child differently. To use a bad analogy, if you were to ask me if I love coffee more than music, I wouldn't be able to give you any answer other than that I wouldn't want to live my life without either of them. Told ya, bad analogy.

Boo. What and where would we be without him? He has stretched himself thin between ferrying us to doctors' appointments, getting groceries, his neverending work, taking care of us all and on top of that, keeping up with his drum practice. I don't know how he does it, but I sure know that through the last few weeks, his level of patience has grown like an extra limb. Whatever he's been ingesting or whoever he's been praying to, I hope it'll continue to give him the strength and stamina he needs to keep up with all these changes. Maybe that spiritual strength and renewal is akin to what surfers experience when they ride the Big Kahuna, and what runners call Runner's High. Maybe for Boo, it's simply called The Drums.

The After(math)

2008-04-15T21:39:00.002+08:00

Claire was delivered at 1223hrs today, measuring 2.885kg and 46cm, lighter and shorter than James. When they took her out, they saw that her extraordinarily long cord was wrapped twice around her neck and that there was what the doctor called a "true knot" in it. Had it tightened any further, the results would have been dire. The doctor was so excited that she let out a little cry and got me all alarmed until I heard the sweet sweet cries of Claire and thanked God for his Grace. It's a blessing we delivered her not a day later because who knows what could've happened.

Anywaaay, all the introductory fussing and fawning over the new baby has been done. Everyone has gone home, leaving me to hang out here on my own and get Claire to nurse and hopefully stimulate my milk glands into action. James refused to come into my ward initially but slowly warmed up and even got really curious about his little sister. He even informed us that the little scratch on her face was "painful this this part over there".

So far, Claire has cried gently except when having her diaper changed. I shall try not to hope for a quiet or easy baby though, because, well, whatever, Murphy's Law and all that.

Boo has been doing a great job holding the fort at home and managing James' emotional well being admirably. Hats off to him for his astute observations and ideas on handling James such that he misses me as little as possible and feels assured in my absence.

I'll be here for two more nights. Thank God for 3G, my TyTn and Janet Fitch's White Oleander. The range of magazines here sucks. The selection of TV channels would be much more satisfactory if there was stuff like Oprah, Lonely Planet and Nat Geo but maybe I should focus on getting some sleep and being thankful for being in the hands of the excellent nurses and doctors here.

The Before

2008-04-15T09:45:00.000+08:00

I'm in the labour ward waiting for my room to be available. Two other women on the neighbouring beds are having their babies' heartbeats monitored. James had a hard time saying bye to us this morning and clung to us, crying "mommy hughug". I kept my tears in check until I got into the car. We spoke on the phone later after he had settled down and stopped crying. Hearing his sweet voice made me all choked up again. Boo's outside now, reading, waiting, probably wondering what they're doing to me right now, which is absolutely nothing. I've changed to my sexy backless surgical gown and given my pee sample. I haven't had anything to eat or drink since midnight. A warm chocolate croissant would be heavenly right now. Plus a steaming mocha latte.

Right now the patient in the next bed (she's having an emergency c-section) is having the risks and implications of surgery and general anaesthesia explained to her - "it's safer than crossing a road". I'm having an epidural c-section, like with James, and I hope I do as well this time. What I hated most were the glaring lights and feelings of discomfort as the contents of my abdomen were being tugged at. I remember listening very closely to the doctors' and nurses' voices to get an idea of whether all was well. Once they took James out and he started yelling and hollering, I was rather relieved.

The nurse has just strapped a fetal heartbeat monitor to my belly. Guess I have nothing to do but lie here and wait.

Countdown

2008-04-10T22:45:00.008+08:00

I'm scheduled for my C-section in five days' time. This will be the first time since James was born that I'll be spending even a single night away from him; I'll be away for three nights and I'm going to miss him sorely. Today was the first day of my three-month-long maternity leave which I started a few days early to allow us more time together before his little sister's birth. Tomorrow we'll be hanging out at the toy store and book store, then having lunch with his Grandma.

James is such a sweet little boy who is overjoyed to spend every weekend with his parents. He can be playful and difficult at times, but he is simply just so loving, joyful, funny, good-hearted, easy to love and pure shining gold inside. He loves a good laugh and making us laugh. He loves his grandparents, his caretakers, his stuffed toys and trucks, anything with chocolate chips in them, watching his Grover video after every bath, french fries, playing the drums, music, stomping in puddles of water, defining nearly everything as "hot" or "warm", looking at and pointing out aircon compressors, washing his hands at the sink and looking at the water coming out of the tap, and helping himself to our food. He likes to hold his pee in until he can stand it no longer and races to his potty. Most of all, he loves being with his dad and mom, even if we're simply sitting in bed watching TV or walking around in the park or shopping centre. He loves to hold our hand, then letting go to run off somewhere before returning promptly to bury his little hand in ours again. When he's shy he looks to us for assurance, then comes to us saying Mommy or Daddy hughug to rid some of his inhibition and recharge his store of little-boy courage.

I've gone through this before - the pre-birth jitters, the pre-admission process, the packing, the countdown, the searing pain from my incision that comes after the epidural wears off, the speculation about how life will change after the baby's born. The main difference is that I had never had to deal with an older kid and a newborn at the same time. It's not so much the physical challenges that I'm concerned about, but the emotional challenges that James, Boo and I are going to deal with. For James, it would be about accepting his little sister and knowing that we still love him. For us, it would be about how we can help James accept and love his sister, about giving him the assurance that he's still our beloved and our precious, and about giving the baby the attention that she deserves.

We've got the gift exchange thing all planned out (Sesame Street stuff from meimei and stuffed toys from James), the saying hi to James first before turning our attention to meimei, the playing up to James' ego and sense of importance by asking him to help with small errands, the validation and acceptance of his feelings of insecurity (which I pray will not be too great), and not having too many changes to his current lifestyle such as moving him to another room (which is not even feasible in the first place) or starting his pre-nursery classes (which we've deferred until his sister's immune system is more well-developed).

Throughout this pregnancy, I've had to remind myself many times to be more thankful for the gift of life that we've been blessed with a second time around and be less worried about how we can cope with the changes that will come. I want to be fair to our little girl and celebrate her birth with the same joy and gratitude that we savoured James' birth. We'll all have to take things in our stride and deal with whatever challenges come our way day by day, because the kids will grow up way too quickly and we will miss their early days all too soon.

Month Twenty Nine

2008-04-03T23:52:00.005+08:00

Dear James

You’re 29 months old now. This will be our last monthly update of you as an only child. You’ll be meeting your baby sister pretty soon and you even know her by name now instead of “baby” or “mei mei”.

We hope you’ll grow to love her and teach her the cool things you do and say that make this house such a noisy and happy one to live in. You’ve also recently said, to my utter surprise and delight, “I yike mei mei. Want mei mei, yeah! Hughug mei mei…” complete with your classic hugging gesture where you lift your right arm, tilt your head to that side, and move your left hand toward your right armpit.

You do the same with other stuff you like, such as “I don’t want small bubbles. Want big bubbles, yeah! Hughug big bubbles.” The most hilarious one you’ve said recently was “I don’t want this foot. Want other foot, yeah! Hughug fooooot.” You really crack me up sometimes you know?

Last month I wrote about how you could finally drink from a cup unassisted. Guess what? This month you learned to drink from a straw. ~~I would like to take credit for it by saying~~ It happened after I coaxed you to suck from the straw the way you drink milk. I guess you figured it out on your own after many fruitless attempts at blowing into the straw. Your ability to use a straw has opened up a whole world of possibilities and alternatives, such as having you drink Milo from a tetrapak when we’re out and about or sharing our soya milk without spilling it all over your shirt.

You’ve been testing your boundaries lately, defying us and insisting on your own way, then seeking reassurance from us when you know we’re upset or that you’ve lost the battle. After we scold you, you’d run to us and sob, “Mommy hughug,” or “Daddy hughug.” And we’d enfold you in our arms and stroke your back ~~and smile victoriously~~ until you decide to be a tough guy once again.

Your running commentary is still, well, running. The other day as you watched your dad fix our heater switch, you informed me very seriously, “Daddy fixing yight. Not spoil amymore. Yight okay now.” After part of our cornice recently fell from the ceiling and made my mind run wild with all sorts of disastrous and depressing thoughts of the harm that could possibly have been inflicted on you, you would point to the ceiling from time to time and remind me that “something dropped. Daddy fix it.” When we’re out and about and having fun, you would look up at us and tell us that we’re “not going home yet, going home yater” because you love being out with us and knowing that our weekends are all yours for the taking, that you are exclusively ours for that 48-hour duration until Monday comes by again.

We’ve been battling with you about food again, especially where spitting, vegetables and fruits are concerned. You will spit out your food as long as there is anything remotely hard in it, such as corn kernels or broccoli stems, but not when you’re eating junk food like cookies or French fries. And you would not just spit out your food; you’d push it out of your mouth with your tongue and let it fall onto your clothes, your feet, the floor, as long as it didn’t stay in your mouth. Cleaning up after all your spitting up can a real bitch and God knows how much kitchen paper we’ve used up and how many trees we’ve killed just for this purpose. Then I got cheap – I started using toilet paper.

You will not eat apples, bananas, papayas or grapes – all fruits that you used to love – or any other type of fruit except for the occasional raisin. Each spoonful of food that goes into your mouth should ideally be made up of 50% soup because you love soup and because the space that the soup takes up on your spoon means you ingest less solid nutritional matter which you are strongly opposed against. So in my desperation, I’ve started making banana muffins, apple muffins and will be starting on zucchini/carrot muffins soon. So far, banana chocolate-chip muffins have proven to be quite a hit with you, until I hit the Publish button for this entry and jinx this damn thing.

There were a few days on which you were so opposed to eating your dinner that right before you took your first bite of your food, you announced “Enough,” and walked away the table. We had to bribe you, cajole you, distract you, and on some days, even use the TV(!!!) to get you to finish your dinner. We were that desperate. Then to supplement the little food you had taken, we’d ~~force~~ feed you yogurt or soup or top up your bedtime Milo with more milk.

We noticed how much you love rhythm and drums and bought you a little children’s floor tom to bang on. You now love jamming along while watching our Phil Collins (in which there’s a brilliant, heart-thumping opening drum sequence called “Drums, Drums & More Drums”) and Eagles farewell concert DVDs with me doing keyboards on your Little Tykes caterpillar xylophone and Grover singing into the plastic so-called microphone of your Sesame Street singalong karaoke book. It’s not easy being in your band though - when we mere mortals try to take a break, you would insist that “Mommy play!” and “Grover sing!” You now know all the lyrics and drum beats to How Long and can now ~~sing~~ blabber along and play the drums to it without it playing over the speakers. Then you would beam at us at the end of the song and tell us, “Play drums so well.” We’re thinking of sending you to drum lessons as soon as you’re ready.

You can now identify each finger and differentiate between left and right. Well, most of the time anyway. We also spend a significant amount of time colouring in your Sesame Street Name Those Shapes book which is just one of many similar books I’ve bought you recently. These books are a godsend – you can draw on them with crayons and erase them just as easily with tissue paper. The pages are hardy and remain glossy even after being used many times over. Plus, they save us a ton of money since they’re so reusable. Other useful tips on saving money – print pictures of Grover from the internet for you to colour on and steal Sesame Street cake design brochures from a certain cake shop for you to gaze at.

During a recent downpour, you sat in my lap as we hung out by the front door to watch the rain and talk about how we would go out later and stomp in puddles after the rain stopped, about how wet Daddy’s car was, about how thunder comes after lightning and how it can sometimes get very loud and you would just have to cover your ears so that you wouldn’t get so frightened. Then as I hugged you lightly, I sang this special song that I used to sing to you while you were still a baby (“Goodnight, sweet dreams, Baby James…”). You looked up at me suddenly with a look of recognition and wonder, smiled, closed your eyes and gave me a little peck on my mouth, continued smiling as I sang and asked me to sing it again when I stopped.

That was truly a priceless moment, one that made me so glad and honoured to be your mother. It was as if you were telling me in your own little way that you still remembered our closeness in your earlier months and the security that you felt as I held you in my arms while comforting you and rocking you to sleep. It was as if you were telling me “Thank you for being there.”

Ditto, James, ditto.

Love,
Mommy

Possibly the naggiest hour of our entire lives

2008-03-29T22:11:00.011+08:00

James has taken to hurling himself onto the bed, the sofa and basically anything soft enough to prevent major brain damage, and at the same time, making sound effects like "Doink! Doink! Doink!" He must have learned it from watching Super Grover fall out of the sky ungracefully and crashing to the earth, through roofs and into trash cans. His body slamming and "doinking" are annoying and worrying, amusing and puzzling. And I just know that if he doesn't stop this soon, one day, ONE DAY, he's going to hurt himself badly enough to warrant an ice pack and more than a few tears from him AND me, and maybe even a visit to the emergency room.

Even our threats to give Patrick away to the garbage man have stopped working. Why? Because we're such suckers for the sorry look on James' face that we always give it back to him after a while. And because we don't want to deal with a whole night of wailing and middle-of-the-night wakings when we know that James will just start the whole doinking business all over again the next morning.

This evening Boo and I must have repeated the following orders, warnings, threats and distractions so many times I can't believe we could ever be this naggy:

James, stop doinking now. I said STOP IT!

If you keep doinking, Patrick is going to leave and never come back.

James I don't like it. You may hurt Mommy or mei mei.

James if you don't stop it right now you're sleeping alone tonight. IN THE DARK.

James if you keep doinking you may knock your head on the wall and we'll have to take you to the doctor and hold you down and give you MEDICINE.

James if you keep doinking you may fall off the bed and we'll have to take you to the doctor and give you MEDICINE and you may vomit DO YOU WANT TO VOMIT AGAIN?

James if you keep doinking you may fall off the bed and we'll have to take you to Uncle Joe to cut your hair and give you MEDICINE and you may VOMIT.

Okay, this is going to be the last doink. After that we'll read Goodnight Moon HEY WHERE'S YOUR GOODNIGHT MOON?!

Hey James, look! TV! Your zoom zoom zoom is here!

Hey James, look! The weather forecast!

Hey James, look! The funny man on TV! Check out my matching pipes.

James stop it. I said STOP IT. STOP. IT. NOW.

Keeping the sanity

2008-03-22T00:26:00.008+08:00

With just about three weeks to go before our little baby girl arrives, I'm excited at the prospect of being relieved of all this extra weight I've been carrying for the past nine months and the other related inconveniences that pregnancy brings. At the same time, I'm somewhat reluctant to give up my monopoly over the baby and her daily acrobatics - I will miss stroking my tummy and poking back at her playfully when she pushes out hard, then wondering if I’ve just left a dent in her soft little head or injured a tiny limb or two.

I will definitely not miss the tiresome hoisting of my clumsy weight off the floor and waddling up and down the stairs a few times a day. Having been quite a lightweight and petite person most of my life, pregnancy makes me feel somewhat physically challenged - I miss running around the house, bouncing up and down the stairs, chasing after and wrestling with James, carrying him, dashing across the street, lying on my tummy, twisting my body vigorously left and right to hear the satisfying pop of air from that tight spine of mine, and basically being more mobile.

I hope to try to get back to running again as soon as my c-section incision heals well enough (which is an optimistic guess of two or three months after delivery), but finding the time to do so and sucking up the guilt will be another question altogether. And what if I’m still breastfeeding? Wouldn’t the boobs hurt too much or would I have to bind them to my chest with surgical bandage? What if the only time I can run is right in the middle of the day while the scorching sun beats down on my aging, freckle- and mole-prone 34-year-old skin? What if the baby won’t sleep through the night for month after endless month, which just about throws the possibility of running at night right out the window?

What about Boo? Should I not spend whatever free time I have left trying to catch up on lost time with him? What about my reading and my music and the other stuff that fill up the rest of my day? It’s a good thing I’ve grown tired of shows like American Idol and The Amazing Race. But with the upcoming new seasons of Grey’s Anatomy, Desperate Housewives and Lost, I’m not sure how I can possibly get my fill of mind-numbing entertainment, work part-time, take care of two kids, be a decent wife to Boo and go running with only 24 hours in a day.

Looks like the best thing I can do right now is stop worrying about the what-if’s and do whatever I can when the time comes. After all, the best laid plans often go awry and all these extra concerns and possibilities will just have to come to pass. I’ll try ~~again~~ harder the next day, work with whatever options I have, and learn to suck it up, “it” being whatever plagues me – guilt, stress, self-pity – knowing that I wouldn't have it any other way, and that what doesn’t kill me only makes me stronger. Then again, there's this other saying that goes: what doesn't kill you may maim you for life. (Shut up, voices in head!)

The last long run I did was about a year ago on an early Sunday morning. I look back upon it fondly from time to time. It was a 15km loop from my house along the somewhat winding route that I take to work, past my office building and along Marina Bay to the Fullerton Hotel and back home. I remember thinking about James and Boo as I ran, wondering what they were doing, resisting stabs of guilt, reminding myself why I was doing this and reaching home happier and more thankful than I was before my run.

I am so fantasizing about this and this right now. Nothing can beat running outside though, where I can be truly alone with my thoughts. I'll pay a million bucks to anyone who can invent a device that simulates a forest trail, complete with the sounds of crunching leaves and bird calls, and an ideal running temperature of 18 degrees Celsius. Not that I have a million bucks to spare, but you know, I'm just saying.

Magazine whore

2008-03-14T22:09:00.008+08:00

The two boys in the house have gone almost insane with their latest flavours of the month.

Boo has been spending hours everyday practising his timing and sticking techniques on his Vic Firth practice pad and harbours secret hopes of performing in public one day. Oh, that beloved practice pad, that 12" darling that got the boss of a certain music supplies store to whip out his saw to shave off mere millimetres from a certain Tama cymbal stand just so it could hold the pad perfectly and let Boo beat away at it till aching wrists, cramped forearms and sore shoulders. But I'm so very proud of him for persevering and happy that he has found such a healthy form of stress relief.

Then there's James and his beloved Grover whose fur has gone all nubbly from his constant stroking and caressing. Grover, the only being that can comfort James when he's in the throes of his tantrums when no one else can get through to him. Grover whose voice of reason can calm James down, soothe his monstrous temper and whose love surpasses that of his suffering, pregnant mother.

So what's been keeping me entertained these days apart from the mad drummer and crazy toddler?

MAGAZINES. I am now officially a magazine whore. Never in my life have I been sucked into so many magazines concurrently that I sometimes just stare at my pile of half-read magazines then walk away empty-handed because I simply can't decide which one to take to the toilet with me. This here is the list of pleasure-giving tormentors that have now been scattered all over the house, on my desk, coffee table, bedside table and TV console:

TrailRunner
Scientific American Mind
Practical Parenting
Oprah Magazine
Bon Appetit
Family Circle
and a few months' copies of SHAPE that a friend has loaned me.

Given my current fat-cow state and knowing I won't be able to run again for at least three months after birth, I've been resisting the urge to buy Runner's World each time a new month's issue is displayed at the bookstore. My resistance is wearing thin and I just know that the next time I come across that damn magazine I'm going to whip out my purse and pay a freaking $12.50 for it. And not just any issue will do - only the US edition pleases me immensely; the Australian and British editions just don't tickle my fancy.

The funniest thought that has occurred to me recently is that I'm actually looking forward to spending some time during my hospital stay reading the wide range of free magazines that the maternity ward offers, and stashing some away in my bag to take home. Like I would even have time to read after being discharged. Still, my bathroom needs some new literature.

And that list of books in the right-hand column of this blog that I claim I'm currently reading? It's been static for some time now.

Month Twenty Eight

2008-03-03T00:14:00.010+08:00

Hi James,

You turned 28 months old a week ago.

Breaking news: YOU CAN NOW DRINK FROM A CUP!!! ON YOUR OWN!!! WITH SOME SPILLAGE OF COURSE IF YOU DRINK TOO QUICKLY. BUT THAT’S OKAY BECAUSE YOU CAN NOW DRINK FROM A CUP, AN UNCOVERED CUP, AND THAT’S ALL THAT MATTERS!

All this, after trying four different types of sippy cups with you and shamelessly coaxing you into using them, including pasting glittery stickers on them, filling them with overly sweet Ribena, bribing you with treats, threatening to throw away your bottles and appealing to your big boy ego. You no longer need cups with covers or spouts. You now love to drink from your Grover cup, our breakable stoneware cups, plastic tumblers, measuring cups, bowls, anything at all. And they don’t all have to be filled with sweet beverages anymore. You’re still unable to give up your bottles though, and would insist on sucking on them a few times a day, especially when you’re drinking your milk or in need of some soothing.

This month was particularly interesting in that we realized what a character you’re turning out to be - opinionated, talkative, empathetic, loving, happy, bossy, independent, tantrumy and MTV-ish.

You now insist on feeding yourself during every meal and would shake your forefinger and head disapprovingly at anyone who makes the slightest attempt to decide what goes onto your spoon and into your mouth, “I don’t want Tita Joann feed. I don’t want. Want James feed, yeah!” You’ve also mysteriously started hating vegetables and fruits, even though we chop the former into tiny, almost invisible pieces that don’t taste like much except for the sauce they’re coated with. It’s as if through your bionic vision, these fibrous and so very nutritious pieces of flora glow fluorescent green like evil toxic radioactive pathogens that you were born to detect and violently reject. “I don’t want vegeble. I don’t want cayyot. Want soup, yeah! Want eat Mommy’s rice, yeah! Ah Ma take away tomato. Aji aboo aji aboo.”

So where possible, we manipulate your food around to hide anything that looks remotely green or orange, then distract you with exclamations like “HEY JAMES! LOOK, WHAT’S THAT?!” before we pop the grub into your mouth. Or we tell you blatant lies like “It’s not vegetables, James. It’s green chicken.” And pray that you would just take a break from your non-stop running commentary to chew your food, dammit.

Talking about talking, you’re a real chatterbox. You really are, you know? From the moment you wake up until just before the two times you crash into deep sleep during the day, you almost use up all the quota of words or sounds that anyone should be allowed to utter in a day. When your eyes pop open in the morning, you’d spring up from bed and without fail, turn on the lamp and greet us with “Wake up so early,” blinding me momentarily from my too-short slumber. A few seconds later, you’d turn it off and lay down in bed again, announcing, “Want sleep some more.” This would go on for a few minutes until I decide it’s less painful for me to get out of bed and start the day proper.

You love to narrate the events of the day as they happen. “Daddy peepee toiyet boh.” “Daddy buy food. Mommy sit dere.” “Put this over dere.” “Milo warm, not hot!” “Want peepee some more.” “Peepee diaper. Potty home.” “Mommy sleep near, Daddy sleep far.” You also love to parrot what we say and your Dad has turned it into a game for his own amusement by teaching you how to say, “Just buy Yahoo over. No big deal. Fire everybody. Hire mommy, hire daddy.” And you say it perfectly everytime. Next we’ll work on taking over Google and Amazon, or Googlezon, whichever happens first.

My favourite piece of Jamespeak is when you’re playing with your water toys or have just been given a chocolate chip cookie, and you turn to me beaming and say, “So happpeee!” That’s just so precious, you know?

You’ve thrown a few major tantrums this month, tantrums so crazy and wild I thought you had become a different person, tantrums filled with clawing and howling and writhing and glazed eyes such that the only thing I could do was hold you and stroke your back instead of reprimanding or punishing you. Ignoring you wasn’t even an option because you would run after me and cling to me as if you needed me to breathe for you, as if only I could help dissipate some of the rage that threatened to engulf you.

The main cause of your tantrums is when I turn on the light or draw the curtains apart shortly after you wake up from your nap or sleep. I don’t know what it is that angers you so – is it because you’re still tired and wish to go back to sleep, or is it because you want to be in charge of when light should be allowed into the room, or is it because your senses are still so raw from all that sleep that the slightest stimulant (including music) sets you off? At times when I decide you’re being too unreasonable, I go ahead and do what I want to do because hey I’m the Mommy okay and I can get my way too sometimes. Then I walk away and read the newspapers quietly while you thrash about screaming until you decide it’s time to shut up and drink your Ribena.

When you’re in one of your nicer moods, you would negotiate deals with us, such as when you would like to spend a longer time on your potty for no reason other than to develop haemorrhoids, and urge us to count to 20, then to 30 before you get up. When you want more Ribena or chocolate chip cookies when we tell you you’ve had enough, you’d look at us and sweetly plead, “Little bit?”

When you were much younger, you would panic when anyone was in pain, and you would cry and even scratch us. You were afraid of anyone in pain and would get all upset. Now, you empathise with and soothe us by stroking our painpoo area and even inform us that “Daddy back painpoo. Daddy eye okay.” You love to watch when I apply the deep heat balm patch on your Daddy’s back and would stroke his face while he feigns pain.

There’s this little habit you’ve picked up and I think it’s the most charming little habit a two-year-old could possess – you say “Excuse me” after you sneeze or cough. Sometimes you even fake a sneeze just so you could say it. You don’t say it after you fart though, which is appropriate, because you’re supposed to point your finger and look accusingly at Daddy after you pass gas.

Over the last two weeks you’ve been learning to catch a ball and playing football with us. Some days after dinner, you would run about wildly outside the house kicking the ball around with Lucy and your Dad while I do my best with my huge belly to join in the fun and nag at you at the same time to please be careful and don’t trip and fall. Oh my God I feel like such a MOTHER.

We’re trying to savour our last few lazy weekend mornings with you before your little sister comes along. On days when your Dad and I have absolutely no idea what to do with your excess energy, we would take the easy way out and plonk down with you on the sofa to watch your favourite music videos of Backstreet Boys and The Eagles over and over again while you munch away on your Coco Pops or some sort of cereal that takes forever to eat. For less mind-numbing entertainment, we may watch your Grover or Ernie videos until we finish reading the newspapers or until you decide to “Yet’s go out.”

What a long crazy journey we’ve taken to get to this stage, and soon we’re going to go through it all over again. Call me crazy but I’d do it all over again, James. You’ve made this all so enjoyable and hilarious, and you’ve taught us so much about how our love for a child could make us much stronger and better people.

Love you always and forever and through eternity,
Mommy

Moo

2008-02-18T22:29:00.006+08:00

The skin on my tummy gets stretched so tight after a full meal I feel like it's going to rip apart any moment. It gets worse when I walk or stand because of the downward force that gravity exerts on my tummy. Or is it the other way around, as in my tummy's so massive it has its own gravitational pull on the earth.

The skin on the upper left region above my navel is where it hurts like a motherf*****. The only remedy I've found so far is to lie down on my left side and groan at the relief that follows. When lying down is not an option, I sit down and lean forward such that my tummy rests on my upper thighs. This alleviates the pain only a little though.

I've started laying on the cocoa butter cream and baby oil really thick, otherwise I believe I'll develop stretch marks so ugly they look like fault lines in the earth's surface, visible from outer space. With eight more weeks to go before the ~~giant~~ little princess is born, I wonder how much bigger I'll get and how much more unbearable the weight's going to be. It reminds me of my much feared physics classes in school where I learned that when a given material is stretched beyond its elastic limit, it will undergo plastic deformation and never regain its original state. Oh help me, God.

Oh, for the love of Grover!

2008-02-13T19:29:00.010+08:00

Yesterday, as James was going down for his nap, he ran over to the coffee table and picked up his Grover video, placed it on his pillow and alternated between laying his little head down on it, placing it next to his head and hugging it to sleep.

I resolved then that I would do whatever it'd take to get him a Grover plush toy. So that night I surfed the internet and narrowed down my choices to just this:

Shipping would take only about a week and a half, but I figured I should shop around a little bit more to find a more reasonably priced one. The GUND Grover from PlayfulPlushToys costs US$14.99 (plus US$9.95 for shipping). I was desperate but not rash, even after having hunted all over Singapore (okay, not really all over, but far and wide enough to render a pregnant woman's efforts futile) for a huggable Grover toy, only to find scores of Elmos, Ernies, Big Birds and Cookie Monsters but not a single Grover.

Grover was my favourite Sesame Street character too when I was a little kid (and he still is). I had always thought he bore a strong resemblance to and could even have been inspired by J.J. of Good Times, one of my favourite sitcoms during my childhood, what with his spindly limbs, round head, big eyes, button nose and wide mouth:

This morning, I was presented with the very same GUND Grover by my friend, Denise (bless her kind heart). I was awed, deeply touched and felt a small urge to cry. I wanted to give her a bear hug but people were watching and listening, even if they were pretending to be deeply engrossed in their work. So I thanked her profusely and wrapped Grover up in a pretty wrapper for James to rip open later. It meant a lot to me, knowing how much it would mean to James and appreciating how Denise, as a mother of two, understood how priceless a little child's happiness can be.

When James woke up from his nap this afternoon, Boo and I sat down with him to open his gift. I was a little apprehensive actually as I had an unexplainable gut feeling that he might reject it at first. And that was exactly what he did.

When he caught a first glimpse of Grover's blue fur, he said, "Papick!" Then on pulling Grover out of the wrapper, he tossed him about a foot away, backed off and started crying, "I don't want I don't want!"

We were perplexed. ("Wah lau! Anticlimax!" was my first thought.) But I had faith, so I had James sit in my lap as I slowly introduced him to Grover the Physical Toy, not Grover the Picture or Grover the Digital Image as he has always been known to James. Using my best impersonation of Grover's gravelly voice, I tried to make him laugh and loosen up, with Grover the Physical Toy performing his classic antics like "Around, around, around, around, over, and under, and through" and "Near and far". Slowly James started to smile and warm up, sometimes even turning his head sideways against my chest and closing his eyes. It was as if he was too shy to say hi to and hold Grover, exactly the way he is with strangers. It seemed he thought Grover was alive and therefore couldn't bring himself to socialize with him.

Since then, James has been almost inseparable from Grover and has taken him out for walks, held him while watching TV, kissed him countless times and gazed deeply into his eyes like a lover would. He has even said, "I don't want Papick I don't want Whiskey. Want Dover."

Dover, only time will tell if you have permanently usurped the prime spot that Papick has occupied in James' heart since he was a few months old. Patrick old dawg, fret not. I know what you've done for James and I will love you for a long time to come.

Alien

2008-02-12T17:21:00.000+08:00

Yesterday afternoon I came home to the pitiful sight of Boo lying in bed with his eyes swollen shut. He looked like the classic captive alien that you see in the movies lying on the examiner's table, with eyes as big as ping pong balls, except they were shut with mere slits where the eyelids were supposed to be. He was lying prostrate in the dark, sniffling as tears oozed out from his eyes. He was not in pain but clearly in discomfort.

He had earlier taken for the first time some naproxen sodium which had been prescribed by the doctor for his persistent backache. Within an hour of reaching his office he called me to tell me he had to go home because he was having an allergic reaction to the drug that made his eyes swell. I was concerned about whether he could see well enough to drive home and whether he might feel faint or breathless midway (the allergy could very well cause his airways to constrict), but Boo, being Boo, insisted he was fine and evidently made it home safely.

When we called the clinic and told them about his condition they suggested we bring him in, but knowing Boo, I asked them what we could do in the event that Boo didn't want to go to the clinic. The nurse or assistant or whatever you call her asked if we had any Piriton or two other drugs whose names I couldn't make out. I had some Piriton left over from the first trimester of my pregnancy during which I suffered weeks of pregnant rhinitis. The nurse whatever advised me to give Boo two tablets and if he didn't get better in two hours, to take him to the clinic. I then told her that Boo had never taken Piriton before and what if he got yet another allergic reaction. She let out a short knowing laugh (but not an evil one, I noted) and said it was unlikely to happen. Basically we just had to take a freaking chance with my husband's life and pop the pill which was what we eventually did.

I was, in a word, fascinated. I had known all along that what I had been taking for my rhinitis was an antihistamine, but to use it to combat the effects of another drug was quite astounding and so, SO clever, for lack of a better word. If naproxen sodium was poison to Boo, then Piriton was the antidote. It was like using live leeches to suck toxins from a wound, or drilling a hole to relieve the pressure in a haemorraging brain. Ok, maybe not as dramatic, but, so what I would've dreamt of doing when I was thinking of entering medical school which I didn't do because I made a wrong choice which then landed me in this job that I'd leave in a heartbeat if it didn't pay me so satisfactorily. In my current job, it's only about the money; I don't derive any sense of satisfaction or accomplishment otherwise from the responsibilities of my job, which is a sad thing because I could be spending my time and energy pursuing my writing, even if it makes me only a fraction of my current salary.

Anywayyy, the power of knowledge that doctors possess. Wow. And the power to save lives. Bigger wow.

Boo's left eye is almost back to normal but his right eye still looks pretty puffy. He says he looks like a banged up boxer. I say he looks like a drugged out alien who's just wandered out of a botched experiment. Poor guy. I hope his back heals well and that his backache is just what it is - a backache and nothing more.

Month Twenty Seven

2008-02-07T22:18:00.001+08:00

Dear James

You turned 27 months old just over a week ago. This month we realized what a motor mouth you have. I mean, don’t you get tired of all that talking and jabbering? Having come from the loins of your rather reticent parents, you’re quite a contrast to us in the oral department. And what’s with all that laughing and dancing? Your father and I weren’t particularly gleeful when we were growing up and you seem to be making up for our ... deficiencies. But you know what? We love it. We’re absolutely delighted that you’re so happy and filled with zest and enthusiasm for every day that you wake up to and we hope you never grow out of it.

You have a few pet phrases that you use to no end, and sometimes it seems you don’t really know what they mean too. This is how a typical conversation goes:

“James, what did you do today?”
“Ah Gong’s house. Play Tita Lucy.”
“Did you drive Ah Gong’s car?”
“NOT YET!”
“Are you cute?”
“NOT YET!”
“Are you clever?”
“NOT YET!”
"Then when will you be clever?"
"CAR PARK!"
(And you know perfectly well that "car park" is where we always go before we go to the "shopping centre", so perhaps you're saying you're clever only in the car park which doesn't make much sense does it?)

Then there is the occasional use of “NO NEED!”s in our conversations:
“James, come let’s sleep.”
“NO NEED!”
“It’s late. Turn off the light and lie down.”
“NOT YET!”
“We should check your nose first.”
“NO NEED!”

You went through a couple of weeks in a foul mood, so foul it was darker than the monsoon season we’ve been experiencing. You would wake up from your naps and scream for at least half an hour before stopping abruptly. Or scream and sulk for no good reason, pushing everyone and everything away while writhing on the floor, whining, “I don’t want Tita Joann I don’t want Mommy I don’t want Daddy!” Then when handed a bottle of Ribena upon your request, you would scream “I don’t want Bibina! I don’t want water!” then change your mind a couple of seconds later and give us hell all over again. What was up with that, man?

Then one day you woke up and decided that being grouchy was no longer a fun thing to do and since that day, you’ve been 98% angel, 2% terror, which is much more than I could ask for.

This month you fell head over heels in love with Grover. You watched his Sesame Street segments over and over again on TV and YouTube (your favourite being the segment of JohnJohn counting backwards with Grover), insisted on reading only your “Dover book” and went around sticking out your tummy and saying, “Dover big tummy. So funny Dover.” You completely abandoned your usual other bedtime storybooks and made out with pictures of Grover on your VCD cases and Grover book, moaning "Dover, Dover, Dover" and placing them lovingly beside your pillow and patting them gently.

You had your virgin puke this month. It happened after we tried to give you your anti-allergy medicine on a full tummy of milk. You get the occasional itchy sneezy episodes during which we would give you Zyrtec. This time, you cried and struggled so hard you projectile-vomited. I was part horrified and part amused since you had never puked before and I haven’t puked in the last 20 years as far as I can remember. (With this, I’ve probably just jinxed my non-puking record.) And the smell of sour acidic gastric juices coating your dad’s thighs simply made me let out a little laugh. We took the opportunity to lie to you. Yes, we lied to you that it was your putting your dirty hands into your mouth that made you sick and necessitated the force-feeding of medicine. It worked. You haven’t sucked on your hands since that day.

You can now count to 30 and spell and identify many more words. You can also say entire sentences, like “So many bubbles in bottle” and “I don’t want Tita Lucy touch sweets”. There’s this phrase that you frequently use as a generic term to express your displeasure, to ask us for something or when you need our help: “Aji aboo”, such as when your ball rolls under the sofa, or when you want us to open the door. You’re perfectly capable of using actual words to communicate with us now but “Aji aboo” seems to be your lazy way out of having to think of the right words to use, and we’d ask you to tell us what you want then get you to repeat after us.

You still love your bottle and will only drink from a cup when you feel like it but you’re slowly getting the hang of slurping liquid through your lips from your Grover cup. I’m not looking forward to the day we decide to get rid of your bottle and giving it up forever to the garbage truck uncle whom you wave to everyday.

As I write this Daddy’s putting you to bed. I don’t hear anything through the baby monitor and hope you’re not tossing and turning incessantly like you’ve been doing over the past month and sleeping later and later each night. You’re such a sweet, funny little boy and we’re all so into the person that you are and all the little things that go with being you and being with you.

Love,
Mommy

Whole

2008-01-14T22:27:00.000+08:00

One of the things I'm most thankful for is the amount of time I get to spend with James after I come home from my 5-hour job at an organization where the alternative arrangement, full-time work, means working 10- to 11-hour days and reaching home after 7pm.

Shortly after I reached home today, James woke up from his nap, which was an exception since he normally naps for twice as long after lunch. He cheerfully called out "Mommy" instead of whining like he usually does after a longer nap. It was obvious that he was in a good mood today and didn't need anymore sleep since he sprang up and beamed at me as his laughter rang throughout the room.

I had spent the morning feeling rather anxious and guilty that I had not done enough to help ease him into pre-nursery which he'll be attending in June. I foresee that being the way he is, he'll have a difficult time being separated from any of us and being left alone with his teachers and other children. I have a great fear that for the first two months of school, he will bawl his little head off, thinking we had abandoned him forever, become panic-stricken when approached by his teachers and classmates, pee in his pants because he's too petrified to ask for potty, and go to bed each night fearing the next day of separation.

Over the last few weeks we've tried to take him to the playroom and park more often to interact with or at least be in the presence of other kids and also play outside the house a lot more.

So today after the downpour, James and I took a leisurely walk to the nearby Community Children's Library to, hopefully, meet other people while looking for some "Grover books". At that moment, I could not have wished for anything other than to have taken that walk with James who was stomping in puddles of water and looking up at me with the most genuine and satisfied grin a happy child could produce. To him, splashing in all that water was all he could ask for at that moment, and nothing could have made him happier, not a bottle of milk or a big piece of fried pork chop. And I held his little hand tightly as my heart swelled with gratitude and joy.

When we reached the library, James clung to me and begged me to take him home. It was his first time there and he was wary as usual of having to pass through any door into a new place, especially if there is a stranger sitting right at the entrance. As I carried him in, he kept muttering "scared aunty". After some distraction though, he loosened up but stayed close to me as we sat down to read.

Each time more kids streamed into the room, James would grow a little wary, then relax a little. After a while as we were browsing among the shelves, he even became a little playful and half-chased another boy before seeming to realize he was getting too far away from me. All the while I acted nonchalant and walked among the shelves without waiting for him to catch up (it was a small library anyway and he couldn't have got lost). I wanted him to know he could trust that I would never be too far away from him but that he could also have his space if he wanted it. I wanted him to get used to the distance between us and still know that he could catch up anytime. I wanted him to not have to hold my hand tightly or be my shadow all the time.

At one point as we made our way towards the self-service borrowing kiosk, he got trapped behind some chairs and tried not to panick while figuring out how the hell he was going to get past them before Mommy got too far away. I stood there silently and watched him move the chairs out of the way before squeezing sideways past them, then continued on my way quietly while he caught up with me. I was proud of the way he maintained his composure but didn't want to make it a big deal; saying anything at that moment would have drawn attention to the fact that we had been briefly separated by a big divide, and I wanted him to know that it was normal, that he could figure out his own way and make his way back to me again and I will be there waiting.

It was drizzling as we left the library and saw that not more than a few metres away was BooDaddy scurrying towards us with an umbrella. Boo, always wanting to be there for us, always our hero, our provider. As we made our way home, what I felt was what can only be described as joy complete.

Toy sex

2008-01-10T15:41:00.003+08:00

If you ever walk into a toy store and find shelves full of stuffed toys in compromising positions, you can be quite sure Boo and I were there just minutes ago before running away giggling. If you see two dinosaurs in the doggy position, that was our doing. If you see Ernie giving Bert a little sucky-suck down south, that was our doing too. Find a Care Bear and Spiderman doing the 69? Yes, that was our work.

Why have the toys aligned so neatly and staring blankly into space when you could create a whole orgy of the entire toy collection in the store? The kids there are probably be too young to understand the whole carnal concept of it, and horny parents could have a laugh or two, or think the store assistants were too lazy to arrange the merchandise properly.

We do the same thing at home too, because we're mature and interesting like that.

Second time around

2008-01-10T00:23:00.000+08:00

We have narrowed our options down to three names for our little baby girl. We want something feminine, classic and simple, not one that is trendy or subject to being misspelt like Morgan, Maia or Ashleigh (or is it Ashlee or Ashley). James was pretty much a winner from the time we first thought of it - I thought it sounded strong, unassuming and resolute, and that it sounded nice when baby-fied and cooed melodiously, as in "Jamejames".

I'm nearly 25 weeks along and starting to feel really heavy already, with daily backaches and breathlessness. On some days I even suffer a little heartburn. I eat more now than I did when I pregnant with James, and I have a feeling that if I don't control my food intake I'm going to blimp up and then have to fight really hard to lose all this weight later.

Miss Whatchamacallher packs a real punch. I don't remember James kicking and moving this much and hard, right up until his birth. Sometimes it feels like she's moving furniture around in there. I've drunk a lot more coffee during this pregnancy but that's because in comparison, I drank almost none with James, just tiny sips of Boo's coffee which I readily made every morning. On some days now, I don't even take a single drop. Let's just hope she's not going to be a restless little monster when she's born.

It's funny how I'm so much more relaxed about this pregnancy. Okay, not relaxed relaxed, but so ... un-uptight. I'm a lot more active this time around, worry less and hardly visit Babycenter.com to find out exactly how the baby's developing this week. I don't even keep track of which week of gestation I'm in. (Gestation. I just made myself sound like a lab specimen.)

Maybe it's because I'm so busy with James everyday that I don't really think about her (except when she jabs my bladder to remind me she's right there). Or maybe it's because I'm more ~~worried~~ ~~anxious~~ concerned about how we're going to cope with two little tikes at home, with the bigger one being jealous and all and going to school a short two months after the birth. But I thank God we have live-in help, parents who live close by, three months' paid maternity leave and our living so close to stores and the city (which enables Boo and I to run out and get our supplies and maybe escape for a secret litle date if I can bear to leave my precious ones in the hands of said help and parents).

I'm so proud I did an inventory check the other day on the baby stuff we have. There's minimal stuff to buy this time around, EXCEPT FOR LOTS OF ADORABLE GIRLY DRESSES AND SMOCKS! But seriously, I'm not going to leave things until the last minute like I always do, because who knows, she could arrive early, or I could get too fat to move around without endangering others. Seriously seriously, I think I've changed quite a bit since I became a mother - I am now calmer, stronger and procrastinate less. And a lot less lazy.

I'll have to warn Boo and Joann, though, that post-natal blues could turn me into a real bitch so please bear with me and tell me that everything will be okay, even if lots of childcare criticism and comments come flying my way.

The greatest challenge of all

2008-01-08T15:49:00.002+08:00

I’m now starting to feel the importance of laying the right foundation for a child as he or she grows, and how present parents need to be in their children’s lives. Boo and I frequently lament the way that the values of the younger generation have changed and how much more self-centered and spoilt they have become, and we worry constantly about how our own kids will turn out. We’re aware of the very changes that have come between even ourselves and our parents’ generation – we honour tradition less, value our parents’ opinion less, provide less care to our elders but more attention to the acquisition of material possessions, and have a lower ability to deal with stresses and hardship.

While these are the very afflictions I’m trying to correct in myself, there are some very real and challenging new elements in raising a child in today’s society. How do we shield our children from the effects of technology yet help them keep current and with the times? Will their use of mobile phones and cool technological gadgets make them more selfish and unaware of their surroundings or more informed and aware? How hard do we push our children in their education where everybody’s striving harder now to excel and where “average” is a bad word? How do we instill the correct values in our children as the world speeds on and there’s little time left to just sit back and be?

I thought it was bad when I was a kid but now it’s much, much worse. It’s so bad I sometimes think the world is sick (myself included) and have forgotten about how to live (without being slaves to mobile phones, PDAs, high-definition TV, grande skinny white mochaccinos, iPODs). What happened to gratitude, respect and graciousness? Why do we not bother to hold the lift door open for even 10 seconds longer? And so what if someone cuts into the path we’re walking on without saying sorry? Of course there're times when we need to draw a line, such as when bad drivers endanger the lives of others. But why is there so much anger amongst us these days? Why can't we just let it go and why can't we all wake up from the cocoon called SELF and ENTITLEMENT that we're so wrapped up in?

It was only after I left school that I realized how disproportionate and unhealthy an emphasis my parents and teachers placed on grades and how important it was to have had a generous dose of extra-curricular activities, including charity work and holiday jobs. After joining the workforce, I noticed the prevalence of non-graduates who had the actual gut and gumption to do what was needed in the job, who possessed the interpersonal skills necessary to carry out negotiations and to lead others. I realized that after getting your foot in the door, what worked was a combination of working smart, grabbing the right opportunities, knowing the right people, and at times, luck.

I was having a chat with my father-in-law earlier (well, actually, it was more of a monologue) about how times have changed, and how differently our children are raised these days. He was talking about how important it is to keep James in check when he misbehaves but also how he may be too young now to understand the importance of respect and discipline. He went on about how strict my mother-in-law was in raising their kids and using corporal punishment to the extent of angering their housekeeper enough to leave their house if she didn’t stop hitting them so hard that welts formed on their flesh. Then he spoke of the contrast in our parenting style these days and the way we refrain from hitting our kids. All well and good, he said, as only time will tell which is a more effective method, and how it all also depends on the nature of your child.

My mother was the same – she hit me and barred me from school excursions when I didn’t excel in school (not excelling meant not getting an A or the highest possible grade), she rapped my knuckles with a comb if I didn’t position my fingers properly while playing the piano, and she berated me for not achieving four A-stars in my PSLEs (I got 2 As and 2 A-stars, by the way). She made me work hard in school, scolded me severely when I got a test answer wrong, thinking it would make me work even harder when all it did was kill my self-esteem. But to her, it was the best she could do and knew how to do. And I struggled for years not to blame her for that and to become thankful for the opportunities and privileges that filled my life.

With James I’ve vowed never to do any of these. I know I will use a much more positive, affirmative approach. I know I will be firm when I need to be, and sometimes, even crazy-loud if I’m desperate and mad with rage. But I will not know whether Boo’s and my way will work, until it does. Or doesn’t. I just hope that James and our little girl-in-the-making come with some sort of ~~quality software already installed in them~~ intrinsic quality of decency that will make our jobs easier. And I will need to pray for a lot of wisdom and patience.

Maybe we should have just gotten ourselves a dog instead.

Month Twenty Six

2008-01-02T22:58:00.001+08:00

Dear James

You turned 26 months old a week back. We achieved a major milestone this month – you are now willing to go to bed without my lying right next to, or at times, under you. It wasn't planned actually. I decided one night that with the arrival of your little sister in four months' time, I simply had to wean you off your night-time dependencies and so informed you one night that "you will sleep on your mattress and mommy will sleep on the bed”. We started off holding hands, and after a few nights, I explained to you very slowly and emphatically that when I stretch my hand down from the bed to hold yours, it isn’t comfortable for me because my tummy’s getting too big and the baby feels squashed. And you concluded, “Mei mei painpoo,” which I thought was incredibly insightful and thoughtful of you.

So now you can go to sleep without holding my hand but only after the following exchange is repeated over and over for at least 20 minutes after lights-out:

“Mommeeeee…”
“Yes James, I’m here.”
“Mommy mommy…”
“I’m here, James. Go to sleep.”
“Mommy…”
“Mommy’s here. You can see me right? Hold Patrick tight and go to sleep.”
“Mommeeee…”
“~~Shut up James and go to sleep NOW!~~ Mommy’s sleeping, James. Sleep now please.”

After many failed attempts to get you to walk on sand without your whining like a little puppy and panicking when a single grain of sand got in between your toes, we bought you a sand toy set and are now proud to announce that you not only willingly walk barefeet in the sandpit, you even sit in it and burrow your hands and feet into the sand while happily scooping sand from one bucket to another. You also love to play on the seesaw while we sing your very wide repertoire of songs.

Speaking of songs, you’re always asking us to play, amongst many others, Ronan Keating’s “Life is a Rollercoaster” and The Eagles’ “Busy Being Fabulous” where you sing “too beebee, bah, eh!” for the chorus (“…too busy being fabulous..”). You’re so enamoured with these songs that you start screaming if we don’t accede to your request and it can get mighty annoying, especially when we’re stuck in a traffic jam.

Your best dance moves come out when we play “Safiatou” (the version by Herbie Hancock oh please know Herbie Hancock when you’re older because he’s so super). It’s like watching a baby version of Bill Cosby, only cuter and much more amusing, with your jerky constipated dance steps and unique combination of not-quite hip-hop and bossa nova moves, complete with an intense yet nonchalant expression on your face. You seem to know instinctively how you should move to different kinds of music – pop, rap, latin jazz, rock. We don’t know how and where you learned to do this, but your grandparents have been asking us to take you to dance class to hone your dancing skills and sense of rhythm. I’m thinking it may be good to leave you to be free to find your own rhythm and express yourself musically and physically in your own way. For now anyway.

You’re fascinated with air-con fans (compressors) and beg us to hold you up high so that you can admire the two-tiered compressor on the balcony on the house across the street. And wherever we drive, you would point and shout “Ah cho pah! So many ah cho pah!” whenever you think you’ve spotted a compressor, even if it’s only a ventilation grille or mobile power generator.

Tantrums. Ah, tantrums. You’ve thrown many of them this month. You’ve melted down, hit us and tried to morph into the floor so that we couldn’t possibly peel you off the floor to have you look at us in the face while we reason with you and that alien body snatcher that you seem to play host to. Time-outs in your playpen have stopped your tendency to hit us. (Thank you Jo Frost .) Your morphing into the floor, well, we’ve taken to counting down as a form of bargaining, and this you’ve picked up and used against us, demanding that we count to 20 each time we want you to stop an activity and do something else. And after those 20 counts, you try to weasel your way out by asking us to count to 5, then to 10, which is, in my all-important always-correct opinion, EXTREMELY. ANNOYING. What’s even more annoying is that we sometimes buy into it, then feel like fools after that.

Basically, you’re exhibiting the typical symptoms of the Terrible Twos where you assert your will whenever the opportunity arises, insist on doing everything yourself and challenge our authority. You say “I don’t want” for the sake of doing so, even when we present you your beloved bedtime bottle of milk, then if we totally ignore your defiance, you lose interest in the act of refusing and down the entire bottle like I’d love to down a shot of Bailey’s. You feed yourself messily and proudly every morning and refuse to let us hold your hand when we go up and down the stairs. We’ve resorted to giving you ultimatums and threatening to leave you in the playpen for the night. But most of the time, we try to reason with you and strike a deal with you that will get you to cooperate.

Despite how tough you like to act when asked to kiss and hug us, we’re glad we’re the first people you run to when you’re frightened or hurt. When you recently fell and scraped your knee for the first time in your life while chasing bubbles, you picked yourself up promptly and ran to your dad, yelling “Painpoo! Painpoo!” threw yourself into his strong reliable arms and bawled like there was no tomorrow. Then later on when you spotted your Ah Gong, Lucy and Ah Ma, you cried all over again and complained about how painpoo it all was. After we cleaned you up and put a plaster over your wound while exclaiming how brave you were and how you were now A MAN, you continued to squeeze tears from your eyes and whined every few minutes. For days after that, you would point to your right knee and remind us that it was “painpoo”, then to your left knee that was “okay”. Talk about tough.

Since the weather this month was much cooler, as is typical of December, we took you out more often to appreciate the outdoors and meet new people. You get really shy and nervous in the presence of strangers (adults and kids) and would turn away shaking your head, saying “I don’t want I don’t want” or hide behind us fearfully. I’m hoping that your attending pre-nursery in six months’ time will improve your socialization skills and alleviate your fear of strangers but I’m also thinking of how you will weep and howl when we leave you in the hands of your teachers each morning. No, they won’t allow us to stay in class with you but will start you off slowly with school three days a week on shorter hours, then gradually move you on to a five-day week for half a day. I’m preparing for the heartbreak and guilt at doing this to you but I guess it’s something we’ll have to go through. Please be brave, my little one, for I may not be.

By the time you start school, your little sister would have been born, and we’re trying our best now to prepare you mentally and emotionally for her arrival. You now know there’s a little baby in my tummy that you willingly kiss and say hello to. You also know that you will be a big brother who will teach her all the cool stuff you know and help us take care of her. And you are reminded daily that you must be careful while playing with me, otherwise Mei Mei may get hurt. But I’m not sure if you have really grasped the concept of another human being competing for our attention and taking our time away from you, that you will need to learn to play quietly and gently. I hope you will understand that our love for you remains unchanged even as we love Monster Part Deux.

We love hanging out with you and the tight little threesome that we are right now. I’m so very thankful that I’m able to work part-time and spend the rest of my day with you. We do all sorts of things – run around the park, watch videos, play musical instruments, dance, take long strolls, swim, play with water and bubbles on our front porch, draw chalk graffiti all over the street outside our house, snack and make the occasional trip to town. I’m sorry I can no longer take you on bus rides alone to the airport or elsewhere, because you know, being pregnant in Singapore does not guarantee you a seat on the bus or train. When you grow up, I beg of you not to be one of those able-bodied kids or young adults whom I’d love to bitch-slap for feigning ignorance or falling sleeping as soon as a pregnant lady, elderly or less able-bodied person boards the bus.

We’re trying to make the most of the few months we have left where we’re exclusively yours and yours alone, making the bond as strong as we can and helping you feel as loved and secure as possible before your little sister worms her way into your space and your life. So bear with us if we sometimes get a little in-your-face, but we know you love it from the way you snuggle between us while we read and watch the news every night before putting you to bed.

Love,
Mommy

Invasion

2007-12-27T00:30:00.000+08:00

I'm writing this on the uber cool and fabulous new toy that Boo got me for Christmas - a HTC TYTN II!

I had, for months, vehemently rejected his fervent attempts to get me a new mobile phone and/or PDA. After all, my Nokia 3100 still works quite beautifully despite having been ~~hurled~~ dropped on the floor and tongue-kissed by James countless times, and I had Boo's old Dell PDA which allows me to surf quite slowly on our home network and not so reliably at wireless hotspots, and most lately, his office-supplied HP PDA phone which doesn't support 3G and has a screen so tiny the onscreen keyboard blocks almost the entire page. Also, I didn't see the burning need for a want item that any ordinary sensible person would deem a privilege, a luxury. It is definitely a frill, an antithesis of my newfound resolution to lead a simpler life that involves complaining less, consuming less and focusing on the things that really matter in life. A fancy gadget like that could get me dangerously and deeply immersed in my own world instead of observing the goings-on around me or engaging in a conversation with the cab driver, or even looking out for opportunities to render help to someone and pay it forward. What good would a PDA be when mother earth's weather systems have finally gone out of whack and food is scarce, and we're not even sure we can make it to the next day? Play our last game of online Scrabble? Read book reviews on Amazon? SEND POKES ON FACEBOOK?!

~~To get him off my case,~~ ~~To let him out-do my Christmas gifts yet again,~~ Despite these concerns, I let Boo present me this ~~evil~~ wonderful gadget which I'll be using to fulfill my writing needs (it has a great qwerty keyboard), to quell my insatiable appetite for surfing and to store my otherwise unmanageable shopping and task lists. And perhaps to listen to my beloved KPLU (which has somehow been blocked out on my work PC).

And I will try my darnedest not to let it rule my life, but instead, help me manage my time better, give me the information I need when I'm out and about, and help me keep up a more regular writing habit. And, of course, drive Boo mad with my late-night surfing.

Why I will totally understand if our son rolls his eyes at us when he grows up

2007-12-20T23:02:00.000+08:00

After listening to a piece that makes my hair stand and tear ducts ready for action
Me: I found out where that song is from. It's from the soundtrack of M*A*S*H.
Boo: Know what the sequel of M*A*S*H is called?
Me: Nooooo... what?
Boo: POTATO! Are you going to blog about it?

On choosing a name for our little girl
Me: I like Claire.
Boo: Know what we should call her if she's internet savvy?
Me: Noooo... what?
Boo: Eclaire! Are you going to blog about it?
Me: Punkass.

After introducing James to touch-me-nots at a park
Me: Boo, will you touch me knobs later?
Boo: Punkass.

In the car while stuck in a pre-Christmas jam. (This last one really takes the cake. It's a classic example of our desperate attempts at one-up-manship.)
Me: What kind of car is that?
Boo (not wanting to sound totally ignorant yet trying to be non-committal): A Jaguar maybe...
Me (feeling very smart as usual): It's an old Ferrari lah. Look at the horse emblem.
Boo (trying to redeem himself): Know what the emblem is called? It's called a prancing horse.
Me: How could you not have known it was a Ferrari? What's the emblem for a Jaguar anyway? A panther? Puma?
Boo: It's a jaguar lah. Punkass.

A clear sign that the ongoing hike in fuel prices is really starting to piss Boo off

2007-12-16T22:12:00.000+08:00

We keep a running database of our household expenses which Boo updates religiously and, usually, matter-of-factly, without personal opinion. This is what he wrote in the remarks column of yesterday's record of our $96 fuel expense:

More than fucking SGD2.00 per fucking litre of 95 Unleaded gasoline

Imagine how much more colourful his remarks would've been if he had filled the car with petrol through the window instead.

Month Twenty Five

2007-12-10T23:11:00.001+08:00

Hi Buff!

You turned 25 months old about two weeks ago and I’m writing about it only now. This month I have an excuse though. Many delicious excuses in fact. I got bitten by the baking bug and have in the last two weeks made dark chocolate cookies, chocolate-vanilla swirl cheesecake and banana crumb muffins. And just this last weekend, I pan-fried some chicken sausages, scrambled some eggs and made my first attempt at an aglio olio-like spaghetti dish with cremini mushrooms sautéed in garlic, olive oil, fresh flat-leaf parsley and black pepper. I hope you grow up to be a real whiz in the kitchen, unlike your mom who gets a little nervous the day before planned stunt and surfs the internet to get as many tips as possible on turning out a perfect new dish that knocks ‘em all off their feet, then asks incessantly if the dish was too salty, too dry, too gross, too this and that.

ANYWAAAAYYY… as I was saying, you are now 25 months old. We had been trying to get you to take to the sippy cup for a few months now. On the day right after your second birthday, you took your first successful drink from your non-drip Avent cup with nary a wince nor a whine, and straightaway said, “Daddyyy..” which was your way of asking me to tell your father, your hero, all about your new trick so that he could applaud and praise your efforts. You absolutely ADORE your daddy and have recently grown very close to him, especially with all the serenades he sings you, the showers he has started giving you and the songs you love that he plays over and over again. You love singing John Denver’s Country Road and The Eagles’ How Long in your little voice and will demand that we play and sing them repeatedly, especially when we’re in the car. It drives me mad but I can deal with that, for now.

You can now put more words together, such as “more water please”, “nice shirt nice pants”, “all wet”, “dabadeebadee eat!” (everybody eat!) and “pu tao gan mian bao” (raisin bread). One of your most frequently used words is “painpoo…” which you whine after you jump too high and land on a wrongly turned ankle.

Now that you can sit for more than three minutes instead of spinning around like a dynamo all the time, I’ve started to read to you more, and you’re now crazy about your books. After your bedtime milk you would ask me to read you your “nigh nigh noom” (Goodnight Moon) and “nigh nigh yaya” (Good Night Gorilla). We’ve read them so many times that you can now tell me the stories yourself and even know exactly on which pages the lamp is off or the lion has escaped. I love that you love your books and hope that you will grow to love reading like I do. My book collection is all for you to devour and add to.

Your memory is amazing. We started teaching you to read and spell just for the heck of it, and it turns out you’re learning really quickly. You can now spell dog, cat and cow confidently. And sometimes when you’re faced with a newer or more difficult word such as bus, taxi or rabbit, you would smile shyly and mutter “Noooooo”. If you aren’t in the mood or don’t quite get the hang of something new we try to teach you, we’re cool with it; what’s more important now is that you find learning fun and entertaining. If you’d rather make pretend muffins with my previously scratch-free non-stick muffin pans, stare out the windows at all the “ah cho pahs” (aircon fans, aka compressors) outside, or dance like a mad man to that punk rock music that seems to play in your head all the time, we’re cool with that too.

You listen intently each time we tell you stories about what we did for the day. To this day, you still listen raptly when we tell you about the time we took you on the MRT and watched as the trains rolled in, doors opened and closed, then moved on. You would also tell me about the garbage truck that you wait for and watch everyday, about how the truck would go “deet deet”, the men “pour” the garbage into the truck, then say “buh bye” as the truck went on its way.

Some of the things you do completely knock the breath out of me. I was in the kitchen one day when you ran in from the living room, took a dish cloth from the drawer while muttering “coff, coff”, then ran out again. Curious, I decided to take a peek and was almost brought to tears when I saw you trying to wipe up a puddle of water that you had spilled on the floor. When I ran to you to shower you with hugs and praises, you gave me the brightest, most appreciative smile that a child could ever give his mommy, knowing that he was well beyond loved, that he was more precious than precious could ever be. If only you knew, Buff, that sometimes when you sleep, I watch you and smell your sweaty head and touch your soft baby cheek with mine, and think grim thoughts that make me sad and wish I could promise you the world, that you would be able to grow up into an adult in a world that will still be hospitable enough, in all senses of the word, for humankind.

All we can do now is give you as happy and fulfilling a childhood as we can, the memories of which will propel you forward and pick you up each time you falter, one that you couldn’t wait to relive with your own children so that you could pass on that legacy of joy and inner peace that we hope to leave you with.

Love,
Mommy

P.S. “Buff” is how you say your name now. And I like it because it makes you sound all ruff and tuff.

Bliss and fantasies

2007-12-05T15:11:00.000+08:00

It's only 3.15pm but it's so gloomy and dark outside it feels like the sun has set for the day. The drizzle shows no sign of abating ... yet. I'm back home from work and lying down in our dim, still-cool bedroom, looking out the window, wondering what's amiss, and it dawns on me that all this would be perfect if we could have just that one impossible thing - snow. (And a year abroad with my two boys on an unlimited budget, missed by no one.)

I'm still enjoying this nevertheless, and I hope all this wetness lasts longer than it ever has. Nevermind the tangy musty smell of half-dried clothes.

I'm extremely partial to weather like that and all that darkness that accompanies it. My workplace would be a lot more welcoming and conducive if we could one day turn off the clinical unforgiving fluorescent lights and use just desk lamps instead, you know, those green and gold vintage reading lamps they have at old libraries that emit a warm intellectual vibe? (Maybe I should borrow my dad's for a week. Didn't have the cheek to ask for it when I got married and moved out.) With piped in Christmas music and free flow of hot coffee, everybody at work would be so much more pleasant towards each other, and stop saying things like "It's not in my job description to do this", or "Don't question my authority".

Or we could, "in the spirit of Christmas", give our customers whatever they want, and forget all about our KPI's and crap.

Then get a huge Christmas shopping allowance, simply because what the heck, "management felt like it".

Bittersweet December

2007-12-03T00:04:00.000+08:00

December - my favourite month of the year - when the weather turns cooler, windier, wetter and darker, if only by just a little bit. I wake up in the morning wondering if it's still dark out because it's not 7am yet, or because the skies are overcast with heavy clouds. If I don't already hear the splash of raindrops, I peer out the window, hoping it won't be long before violent, torrential rain comes pouring down on us.

Daywear isn't restricted to sleeveless tops and short shorts since I don't perspire much. I can even drink hot chocolate with some satisfaction. Sometimes when the wind blows it gets so cool I even feel a small shiver run through my body. Best of all, we can take James to the park and play at the sandpit, and come back without a smidgeon of sweat on our foreheads.

In December, the heat and humidity aren't as oppressive as they usually are at other times of the year. The sun's rays are gentle enough not to scorch my skin and cause physical pain, even at midday. We don't have to stay cooped up at home or at shopping malls to escape the searing heat. People seem nicer, kinder, more patient. Or is it because I'm usually more forgiving this time of the year? Is it the weather or the festive cheer that makes us more tolerant and tolerable to each other?

I try to enjoy this season as much as possible without dreading that it will end all too soon, when some of the darkness that lifts from the skies seems to settle within me for the next 11 months.

Rock

2007-11-22T14:28:00.000+08:00

Dear Boo,

Last night I went to bed at 1am after spending two hours on the couch downstairs reading Augusten Burroughs (“Eww! Ack!" you say about him) and listening to KPLU, my favourite internet radio station in the WHOLE! ENTIRE! WORLD!, the station that you know I love so much that you spent a lot of time and effort to ensure I could listen to it not just on my PC but downstairs as well, and if you could, you would stream it through the entire house and through speakers in the streets and in the car so that wherever I go, I would be able to listen to my favourite type of jazz which you now know is the traditional/mainstream kind.

As I came to bed, I could tell by your soft, regular breathing that you were already asleep. Lying beside you, I touched your arm and remembered we hadn’t kissed goodnight. Not wanting to wake you up, I decided to take a good look at you instead and used my mobile phone to illuminate the space you occupied. You were sound asleep with your mouth slightly open, your head elevated on the must-have two pillows, because you don’t like lying too flat, and also because that’s about the only way you can sleep without snoring. In the middle of the night when I nudge you or thump the bed to stop you from snoring, you know instinctively to change positions or move up higher on your pillows so as to get your oversized epiglottis out of the way. You know how difficult it is for me to sleep when you snore and how fussy I am about the slightest noise, how I feel that barking dogs, revving engines and those damn military planes have absolutely no business being anywhere in our vicinity after 9pm, how the aircon temperature and fan speed must be just right otherwise I become a grumbling, finicky, rhinitis-stricken old woman.

As I watched you sleep, I thought about the trips we took when it was just the two of us, the places we visited and how obliging you were in letting me decide the itinerary and dragging you everywhere. Okay you were just plain lazy about planning itineraries, but you were always game to go wherever I wanted, though you did groan during the times I insisted on walking everywhere, perusing every aisle in the huge supermarkets and eating cheap meals. I thought about how we sipped coffee from Tully’s as we walked towards the then-Seahawks Stadium, marveling at the sheer size of it and fantasizing about watching a real game there. I thought about how happy and wistful you always get when you reminisce about our major trips, and how much you long for time alone again with me, how much you miss being “just the two of us”.

I thought about how you always plan your days and your life around James and me, the people you love most in the world, and how you always try to schedule your work and interests such that you can spend as much time as you can at home and during weekends with us.

I thought about our small Mars and Venus disagreement yesterday where I asked for sympathy instead of solutions after my twice-daily pregnant gagging. You left the room shortly after and I stayed in there reading and feeling sorry for myself, wishing you knew that I knew you cared and that I wasn’t asking for Mars to change its orbital pattern, but that sometimes a woman in my condition just needs to be treated more tenderly even if it’s not Mars’ natural tendency to mother and mollycoddle Venus. After a while you came back in to ask what I wanted for lunch and I, deciding not to be emotional or difficult, replied you like I would in my rational state, and you softened. You visibly softened. You laid on the bed beside me, and we chatted for a while about other things, and just as you got up to leave, I felt you hesitate, then bend down to kiss me and ask me to rest. I just wanted to let you know I really appreciated that.

As I watched you sleep, I started to cry because I thought about how much we had grown together and how much you really care about us, how everything you do is about us and for us - for me, for the two of us, for James, for us as a family. I wish you could one day fulfill your dream of working at the Mothership in that Faraway Land but which you currently have reservations about because James needs his extended family and the excellent support system, safety and citizenship privileges we enjoy here in our homeland.

I love how we look forward to the December holiday season each year when the Christmas lights come on and the weather gets dark and gloomy, then how we would bitch about the end of the festive season and the disappearance of rainy days. I love how we go out on our occasional lunch and movie date, savouring our freedom, then wondering how our Jamejames is and longing to see his beaming face welcome us home again. I love how you tolerate and try not to gag at the perpetual mess of bills, newspaper cuttings and books on my desk. I love how, after you've been somewhere new or to another city without me, you would come home and tell me all about that place and try to take me there sometime soon, and if it's too far away, you would get me something like a book, a granola bar or a Dungeness crab, anything, just so I could touch those foreign molecules and live vicariously through you.

I know I don’t pay as much attention as I did to you before James was born, but please know that I always have you on my mind and that I appreciate and love all that you are and do. You have my support for your research, your work, your sometimes unintelligible Geek-Speak, your wanting to upgrade our camera, your learning the drums, your going to the gym more regularly, and your needing time alone to be your own person once in a while. Please just get more sleep and cut down on the junk food.

And please always watch Seinfeld with me late at night, then threaten to cut off my Wi-Fi access afterward when I surf in bed.

The little things that matter

2007-11-22T12:49:00.002+08:00

Boo brought to my attention this excerpt that was printed in the TODAY newspaper recently. It's taken from Dr James Dobson's book, Bringing Up Boys.

I love that it reminds us how much the little things matter to our kids and how a simple effortless gesture like that could make a whole world of difference to a child, and possibly leave a deep and lasting imprint on his or her sense of worth.

James loves his sizable collection of toy automobiles and, if left alone, would probably spend the whole day playing with them, pushing them around to see how their wheels work, stacking them up and knocking them down. We keep most of them in a collapsible IKEA blue storage basket downstairs; his upstairs collection isn't as intriguing and so is ignored most of the time in favour of his books and hanging out in bed with us.

A few nights ago before bedtime, James came running to me urgently and said, "Tat-tee, tat-tee", to which I replied, "What's tat-tee?"

"Tat-tee, tat-teeee..." he persisted.

I was puzzled. What he said sounded familiar, but without the proper context to it, I couldn't quite put my finger on what he needed or was trying to communicate.

So I asked him, "What do you need, James? Show me?"

As I followed closely behind, the boy ran to the bedroom door, stood on his little tippy toes and opened the door cautiously so as not to get his toes crushed. Holding my hand tightly, he started to lead me downstairs. By this time, I had started to guess that he wanted to play with his toy taxi (“tat-tee”), but I kept quiet and let him lead the way.

As predicted, he rummaged around in his basket to locate his favourite Comfort cab replica. Then as we turned to head back upstairs, he ran back for his bus ("bah") as well.

As I watched him play with them afterward, I was glad to have taken the time to try to understand what he needed and to take him downstairs despite my preference at that time to stay put on my lazy butt in the comfort of the bedroom to watch the news. I'm sure we're all tempted at one time or another to tell our kid to keep quiet or go do something else. Sometimes we're just too busy or tired. And that's all normal and acceptable, I believe. But therein also lies the danger of our tuning out too conveniently and hushing the kid habitually, and forgetting how loudly our actions can speak.

Through our actions, I hope James will come to know that we'll be there for him when he needs us and that even if we may not quite understand what he's going through, he can turn to us for that guiding hand and listening ear.

Then last night while I was brushing his teeth, he told me he needed to “pee pee”. Not sensing any urgency in his voice, I told him “one more minute, let’s quickly brush your teeth first”. Seconds later, we saw that he had wet his pants and left a puddle of pee on the floor. His father chided me, “See, you didn’t listen to him.”

Yes. Guilty as charged. I hung my head in shame.

Note to self #2

2007-11-21T12:14:00.000+08:00

President unsalted butter has a lower melting point than other brands of butter I've used. In order to make streusel with it in our tropical heat, you either have to work super fast with your six hands or in a very cold air-conditioned room, otherwise you'll end up with a melted lump of pastry that cannot be "sprinkled" over your fast-oxidizing apple cubes, then end up throwing the whole damn thing away.

Shall try Lurpak or Anchor next time.

What the parenting books don't teach you

2007-11-21T12:05:00.001+08:00

I had always known that I would be a mother one day. Whatever else that came with it was just a black box. I had no idea what taking care of a baby entailed, except that when it cries, you comfort it, when it poops, you clean it, when it's hungry, you feed it. Then as the child grows up, you take care of it differently, send it to school, and try to bring it up into a fine young human being by giving it lots of love and attention. Throw in a dash of parenting principles like validation, encouragement and time-outs and you're set.

I was dead wrong.

Right up until James was born, I didn't even know how to hold a baby. I had scary visions of letting his disproportionately large alien head flop about on his puny neck and accidentally pulling off one of his limbs while changing him.

After two years of being a mother, I have come to realize that these should have been the least of my worries - they could be easily picked up from parenting books and practice, and true enough, I mastered them within a week of James' birth . What parenting books don't teach you, however, is how absolutely hilarious and crazy your days will become as the baby grows into a toddler. Babyhood days are easy - you comfort, clean, feed and play with the baby, sleep a lot less, suffer sore nipples and a little post-partum blues, have a little time left for yourself, and that's it.

Toddlerhood, now, that's a tough one.

Nobody told me James was going to grow into a little puppy who would scamper around my legs and trip me up as I potter around the house, hang onto the edge of the dinner table by his little chin to catch whatever scraps of food the adults are eating, or try to drink from the toilet. Without his daily walk, he would go stir crazy. When I'm busy in the kitchen, I have to keep him away from the hot stove with my leg, just like you would a curious little puppy.

Nobody told me I would almost never be able to do anything in peace anymore. When I read the newspapers on the floor (an old habit of mine since my arms get tired from holding the paper up), two little grubby hands would float into my field of vision as James starts identifying his letters and numbers. When I play the piano or drums, the same grubby hands would start taking over, insisting on a piece of the action. Guess what happens when I try sending a text message from my mobile phone.

Nobody told me it would be years before I could have a leisurely meal again where I could appreciate the taste of my food. When we eat out, I order food that can be eaten with one hand so that my other hand is free to feed James and stop him from throwing his food about or sticking a fork in his eye.

Nobody told me that I would be an expert in stealth, doing everything in silence and dim light while James naps. I now know how much water I can use from the tap before it starts gurgling noisily through the drainage pipes. And how not to inhale beforehand so that my sneeze comes out as a mere whisper.

Nobody told me I would almost always have a spectator in the bathroom, waiting patiently while I do my business, then telling me how to wipe my ass and flush. James has also taken it upon himself to tell me how to toast his waffle ("Woffuh, ON! Wait, sigh, ding, HOT!"), order me to sit beside him while he eats, and remind me to place the spoon in the sink after making his favourite drink.

Nobody told me I would stoop low enough to pick silly arguments with small kids who grab James' toys or refuse to let him play on the slide. I now know I can intimidate kids ten times younger than me with threats like, "If you don't give it back, the zombie will come and GETCHOOOOO!!"

Nobody told me my previously quiet conversations with my husband would be interrupted with urgent calls of "MOMMY! MAMA! MOMMEEEEE!!!" from James just to see him stick his finger into the video recorder.

Nobody told me I would love this mayhem so much that I would want to go through it a second time around.

Taste of heaven

2007-11-11T22:09:00.001+08:00

There are some kinds of food that I haven't found decent samples of in Singapore. They all tend to be dessert- or bread-type foods. Here's the long list of what I've craved and been deprived of:

1. Cinnamon rolls. It was a great loss to me and, I'm sure, many discerning others, when Saint Cinnamon closed down in Singapore. I'm quite confident, however, that it will make a comeback like donuts did, and that it will spawn many substandard copycat cinnamon roll shoppes (that will eventually close down) and give the uninitiated the wrong idea of what a decent cinnamon roll should taste like.

2. Soft pretzels. Never seen a single one sold in Singapore. I've only come across frozen ones in the supermarket. Sad indeed.

3. Cream cheese frosted carrot cake. I used to make this but don't think it's as good as the ones I've tasted overseas. The cafe versions sold here are way too sweet, hard, greasy or are missing an essential ingredient or two, such as cloves or pineapple bits, or are overloaded with walnuts.

4. Banana bread. Again, too greasy, buttery and lacking the necessary spices.

5. Lemon meringue pie. Can't find one here that won't give my tastebuds a sugar seizure. My late grandmother used to make a mean pie. I've tried to replicate her recipe but failed miserably; my meringue topping shrank and floated atop a lemon pudding filling that refused to set.

6. Lemon or orange poppy seed cake. First, I believe there exists a ban on poppy seeds in Singapore, leading to the dearth of food-grade poppy seeds here that do not possess some sort of opiate properties. I've seen poppy seed confectioneries here though, but have not had the sense to ask the baker where the hell he got his narcotics.

7. Biscotti. I make some good biscotti, and those are about the only ones I'm willing to eat. But call me lazy.

8. Bran muffins. Ah Teng's Bakery at Raffles Hotel used to sell these monsters they called "Healthy Muffins" that contained bran, pineapple bits, raisins, shredded carrot and cinnamon. They were so huge that one muffin could fill your tummy for lunch, and keep your blood sugar level up for hours after, then make your poop so smooth and pliable it was a joy to go to the bathroom. I can't think of any plausible reason why they are no longer being sold.

9. Chewy dark chocolate chip cookies. My greatest love of all time. I've put up with Mrs Fields and Famous Amos long enough. Today I took matters into my own hands and made my own. They were phenomenal. Thanks to Molly of Seattle who posted the recipe on her blog.

(Strangely, I often ran my best runs after having cookies like these with a cup of mocha or latte. Somehow, the combination of caffeine, chocolate and sugar did something wondrous to my body that rendered my inhaler unnecessary and gave power to my muscular and cardiovascular systems.)

Just in case Molly's blog entry gets deleted one day, I'll post the recipe below:

Chewy Cocoa Cookies with Chocolate Chips
Adapted from Alice Medrich

1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
¼ tsp. baking soda
1/8 tsp. salt
4 Tbsp. (½ stick) unsalted butter
2/3 cup granulated sugar
1/3 cup light brown sugar
7 Tbsp. unsweetened cocoa powder
1/3 cup plain yogurt, preferably not low- or nonfat
1 tsp. vanilla extract
½ cup chocolate chips, preferably Ghirardelli brand, either semisweet or bittersweet

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a silicone liner.

In a small bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda, and salt.

Place the butter in a medium microwave-safe bowl, and microwave briefly, until just melted. Add the sugars, and sift in the cocoa. (You can skip the sifting if you want, but my cocoa almost always has lumps, and I don’t like cocoa lumps in my cookies.) Stir to blend well. The mixture will be somewhat thick and pasty, like wet sand. Add the yogurt and vanilla and stir to mix thoroughly. Add the dry flour mixture, and stir to just combine. Add the chocolate chips and stir to incorporate.

Drop the dough by generous tablespoons onto the prepared baking sheet. Bake for 9 to 11 minutes, or until the tops of the cookies have crackled slightly and look set. Transfer the sheet pan to a wire rack, and cool the cookies on the pan for 10 minutes. Transfer them to the rack to cool completely.

After hearing sounds of "Mmmm... yummm...wahhh" from my younger sister who sprang up from her nap and poured herself a cold glass of milk when I delivered them to her, I sent her the recipe with the following pointers:

Some points to note:
1. It's not necessary to use UNBLEACHED flour. Just plain flour will do.

2. If you have to use SCS butter, reduce salt by a bit. Otherwise, try to use unsalted butter by Lurpak, Anchor or President. Lurpak makes the most tasty but expensive butter. The half stick of butter used in this recipe is equivalent to about one quarter of a standard 250g block.

3. Hershey's or Van Houten unsweetened cocoa powder will do. Try to use Van Houten instead. Hershey's flavour is too common-place.

4. Plain yogurt should not contain sugar or sweetening.

5. 350F = 170C

6. No need to use parchment paper or silicone liner. Just grease your baking tray with vegetable oil very lightly.

7. I baked my cookies for 10-11 minutes. Don't overbake, otherwise they won't be chewy and the tops of the cookies will be too hard.

8. The dough doesn't melt/spread much after placing them into the oven, so you need not shape them so very tall or place the cookies too far apart.

9. I can't believe I'm so longwinded.

Month Twenty Four

2007-11-06T11:38:00.001+08:00

Dear James

You turned two years old about a week and a half back. To celebrate, we took you on a Duck Tours ride (where you napped in my arms for most of the trip), then chilled at a café where you lounged in a cosy armchair and snacked on your favourite Captain Crunch nuggets. In the evening, your grandparents, grandaunt (Yee Po), Siow Yi, Lucy and Joann joined us for your birthday celebrations and helped you blow out the candles on your lovely chocolate fudge cake:

It’s a well-established fact that you love being the centre of attention. But when you realized that all eyes were on you as we sang you your birthday song, you suddenly got very shy and turned toward me with a bemused look on your face, and stretched out your arms to me tentatively for answers and reassurance. When you are old enough to read this, please remind me to show you your birthday video; you will know what I mean. It’s a real classic, I tell you.

This month you learned to go potty. I had dreaded the day we’d start potty training because I had expected you to fuss and resist. We had the inevitable accidents the first few days, but by the fourth day, you had learned to tell us you needed to “pee pee”, and can now hold your pee for the time you take to walk to your potty. You even know how to tell us you need to “poop” or “bah” (as in “bang sai”). After you’ve done your business, you would stand up to examine your output, then point to it and go, “Eeeee!” Yes, it truly stinks, and to get a whiff of your poop with my bionic pregnant nose is a cruel stunt indeed. I almost never fail to gag violently after washing your potty.

You can now say a lot more words and string a few syllables together. Your most frequently used ones are “no more”, “water” and “big bus”. Your “Mama’s” and “Dada’s” have been replaced with “Mommy” and “Daddy”. While it was a great joy for Daddy to hear you call him that, I feel a small sense of loss that you no longer call me “Mama”. “Mama” sounds so intimate, so close, and was the first thing you ever said that really got to me.

Your most overused word is “no no no no no”. You say it when you’re in a disagreeable mood, or even when you’re plain grumpy which is when nothing we say or do can placate you or make you snap out of it. So we leave you alone to whine, scream, or basically deal with your emotions until you decide to throw your things around which leads to even bigger trouble because that’s when the imminent imprisonment of the playpen looms over your head if you refuse to pick up your toys.

You can now take a nap without having to be carried. We just have to lay you down and lie beside you until you fall asleep, but not without the mandatory babbling from you and pleas from us to ~~shut up~~ go to sleep.

After weeks of spitting out your food for no good reason, you now eat better and are less picky about the taste, contents and texture of your food. So we’re back to pasta and porridge when our food is unsuitable for you. I’m thinking Joann’s cooking has something to do with it – somehow the food that she cooks tastes and feels better – fresh and cooked just right.

We’re all having a ball of a time with you, James. And I know you’re one happy little trooper too. Seeing how you smile and laugh the way you do everyday, your dad and I often ask each other 1) how two people whose personalities are predisposed towards the anti-social and grouchy end of the spectrum could ever produce such a happy child like you; and 2) how we ugly trolls could ever have made such an adorable child like you. My answers to these questions are that:

1) we are very conscious about the way we are towards you and try our best to be as positive, encouraging and real with you as we can;
2) God decided the world couldn’t afford to get any uglier so he thought it best to turn the situation around and give us someone who could neutralize our horrific-ness;
3) maybe you just happened to get the best parts of our genes that did not manifest themselves in us.

Pictures!

Sleeping in my arms on the Duck Tours boat

Hanging out at Gloria Jeans

With all my love,
Mommy

I love crazy

2007-10-22T16:47:00.000+08:00

There are times when, in the midst of all the hysterics, frustration and intensity of dealing with James, I want to fall down on my knees and thank God that he gave Boo and me such a wonderful, awesome little boy.

Joann called me today about a half hour into his usual nap time to tell me, rather desperately, that James was still up and playing instead of sleeping. I was on the way home so I asked her to wait a little bit more and I would take care of it.

When I reached home, his beaming face and crazy giggles warned me that I was going to have a difficult afternoon ahead. An afternoon that would be filled with futile attempts to get him to sleep and threats to have his toys/waffles/bathtime taken away. It didn't work. I knew then that I would have to give up my plans of catching up on my reading or some shut-eye myself.

After an hour I took him upstairs to our room to try a different environment. As we laid on his mattress, he continued fidgeting, babbling his numbers in Tagalog, attempting his headstands, and butting his cast iron skull against mine. I decided then that I should use an old trick of mine that would get him to cry and tire him out - I grabbed his ankle and restricted his range of movement. As predicted, he started wailing and rubbing his eyes. I let go of him and barked, "SLEEP NOW, JAMES, OR I'LL GO OUT OF THE ROOM!" (which was what I eventually had to do).

He continued to cry and asked me to "bau bau", so I carried him. After a minute, he mumbled, "Luh down, luh down." So I laid him down, only to have him wail and ask me to pick him up again.

Exasperated, I thrashed my head about on the pillow and mimicked, "Bau bau! Luh down! Bau bau! Luh down!" Surprised and with tears still streaming down his face, James stopped wailing and started laughing uncontrollably. After I repeated the stunt, the way he laughed somehow told me he recognized the irony and silliness in his behaviour. (Yes, I truly believe two-year-olds are capable of understanding irony.)

Then I recalled how he likes to trick us into thinking he had to pee by going, "Pee pee!" And when we very uncoolly rush him to the potty, he would smile at us triumphantly and say, "No more."

So this was what I did - I thrashed about on the pillow, going, "Bau bau! Luh down! Bau bau! Luh down! Pee pee! No more! Pee pee! No more!" This got him laughing so hard he could barely breathe, and by this time he was crying tears of laughter instead.

It was then that I felt as if I was a third person looking upon this scene and witnessing the joy and love between a mother and son, and all I could think was how nice this all is, how happy we are, how this is a moment to be cherished and remembered forever. And I thanked the powers that be for the privilege of experiencing this and letting me be a part of the kind of joy that some people can only dream of.

At it again

2007-10-08T23:05:00.000+08:00

Lately, Boo has been up to his deliberately childish and impudent ways again because he knows that deep down inside, he ~~drives me nuts~~ cracks me up. This morning he saw my little book on Ancient Egypt on the night table and almost spit out the most annoying, moronic question I have come across in days (I come across inane questions every day in my work but this beats all recent questions hands down in terms of level of inanity):

"Hah? Why are you reading about Ancient Egypt? Siow!"

I refused to respond to or even acknowledge his ~~ignorance~~ inquiry because, hey, this book could help me win a Trivial Pursuit game like whenever, at some point in my life, and I don't want anyone to know I train my brain secretly like that.

Still, I was incredulous. This, coming from a guy whose bookshelves are jam-packed with books such as the aptly named RESTful Web Services and the ever so oxymoronic XML in Plain English? And, get this - Mastering Regular Expressions.

Come to think of it, I could very well have written the last book myself since I have, during my nine years of knowing him, mastered the expressions of "totally annoyed", "exasperated" and "heavenward-eyeroll-till-only-eye-whites-are-visible" when he gets like that.

Month Twenty Three

2007-10-04T23:31:00.001+08:00

Dear James

With the aftertaste of chicken rice garlic lingering in my mouth and coating all of my teeth, tongue, gums and palette, I write this post from bed on my hand-me-down pocket PC (courtesy of your dad) with a tiny stylus that's causing my fingers to cramp up but since I'm too comfortably snug under my blanket to sit erect in front of my PC to type this even though it would take me only a fraction of the time to do so, this here is indisputable proof that I am an incorrigible sloth and time waster.

And I like to ramble on about inconsequential topics like the recent debate I had with a friend on whether coffee grounds refer to used coffee powder only, and whether ground coffee is coffee beans that have been ground (not grinded, mind you) and are unused.

Anyway, James, you turned 23 months n days ago. And boy are you growing taller by the day. I've had to get you new pyjamas because your two-year-olds' PJs are getting too short for your torso and legs.

You can't really pronounce your words properly yet but you try. And you love experimenting with different tones of voice, like saying "Dada, milk!" and "Ah da, oats!" in your growly monster voice which I'm convinced will damage your vocal cords permanently. Or shrieking your 5's and 6's. A lot of help it was when your grandma tried to get you to shout out your 8's, 9's and 10's instead. The stuff grandparents do to their grandchildren that they wouldn't have done to their own kids. Oh look here! A young and impressionable child! Let's see what it can do, then return it for repairs!

I kid. Sort of.

Your physical coordination and strength have improved a lot. You can now climb up our bed by yourself. To do this, you hook your big toe on a half-inch of wood on our bed frame, grab a handful of blanket, then with a couple of grunts, hoist yourself up onto the bed. You're also walking up and down the stairs a lot more quickly now, while holding our hand of course.

You love it when Daddy performs his self-trained kungfu moves and would bow to your imaginary opponent with a loud "BOW!" before imitating Daddy's cool kicks, chops and ~~pirouettes~~ turns.

You go through bouts of annoying frustrating extreme fussiness with your food. Some time back when we noticed you were bored with having porridge all the time, we started feeding you the food we eat - pasta, rice, non-mushy stuff - but you've started spitting them out lately. So, short of force-feeding you like a foie gras goose, we let you have what you think is junk food for your lunch and dinner - breaded pork chop, Birds' Eye fish fingers, oven-baked French fries and chicken nuggets, potatoveggiechicken patties, yogurt, slivers of fried chicken and pau. I've even stocked up on nutritious snacks like frozen waffles and Nutri Grain cereal.

Trust me, I've studied the nutritional labels on these things, and if nutritional labels are to be believed, these foods may be even better than the tiny portions of dinner that actually make it to your gut.

Joann has taken the place of Liza who has returned to the Philippines. The two-week transition period before Liza left was difficult. You refused to let Joann handle you, feed you, change you or put you to bed. But we toughed it out, and after Liza left, and when you knew you were left with Joann when your father and I were away at work, you hardly cried at all. We were all relieved, especially Joann who had started to feel greatly discouraged earlier. Anyway you know that Liza isn't here anymore because you haven't asked for her since she left and when we ask you where she is, you'd say, "Airplane airport."

You're growing up so fast, James. We'll be celebrating your second birthday soon. We will also have to pay a lot more for your airfare when we travel after you turn two. Why don't the airlines have concessionary fares for cute kids like you? After all, don't cute kids look better screaming than, how do you say, less-cute ones?

I am your mother. I will always be biased.

Here are some pictures we took at the pool recently:

Love,
Mommy

Doing okay

2007-10-04T22:00:00.000+08:00

Last night while I was towelling James dry after his bath, he placed his hands on my shoulders, puckered his rosebud lips and leaned in to kiss me on my nose with the sweetest, softest "mmm-meh" that I could ever imagine coming from a boy toddler.

While this wasn't the first time he had kissed me spontaneously, I was pleasantly and immeasurably surprised and warmed. Then as he kissed me on each cheek and on my glasses, I was so blown away I could only think about how loved, secure and contented this boy must feel to be able to return our love in his own sweet little way.

I asked myself then why I wasn't bawling like a sentimental fool, and all I thought was we must have done something right over the past 23 months of his life. It was a reaffirming moment for me, like a pat on the back, to assure me that while we could never do enough for our son, we have done okay so far. All of us - his grandparents, relatives and our helpers - we have all done okay so far.

I am happy that the boy is happy.

Month Twenty Two

2007-09-10T23:16:00.002+08:00

Dear James

You turned 22 months old, yes, many many days ago. I very nearly decided not to write this month’s update, and instead, consolidate your months 22 and 23 into one ~~lazy~~ entry, but knowing how incurable a procrastinator I am, I decided against it. Also, my memory has been fuzzy and unreliable of late, so what better time to do it now!

This month you amazed us all by reciting your A to Z and 1 to 10 all by yourself, and very proudly too. Your grandpa was so proud he joked about how, when you go to school next year, you’ll probably be outside playing while the rest of your classmates stay indoors to cram the alphabet into their wee little minds. But I reminded him ever so soberly and grimly how clever your species are these days, that you would probably not be the only one playing outside.

Speaking of school, we have already enrolled you for pre-nursery next June. We think it will do you good to make some friends, be independent of us a few hours a week, and build your social skills. You tend to be shy, even afraid at times, with strangers and I hope that that will change in time to come and that you will adapt well to your new school environment. I also hope you’ll be speaking much better and be potty-trained by then. Well, nine months is a long time for a kid your age. I wonder how much you will have changed by the time you start school.

You love identifying buses, trucks, taxis and cars that pass by when we’re in the car. You love playing on slides now and have gained the confidence to climb up and slide down all by yourself in various positions. Needless to say, I’m still always there ready to catch you in case you slip or decide to lose your teeth.

This month you showed us what a class act you can be when faced with ~~vermin~~ unfriendly faces. We were recently at the playroom when a three-year-old girl marched towards the house you were playing in and demanded that you get out. I looked at her sternly and told her, “He was here first. Can’t you share?” To which she whined, “But I want to plaaaayy!!!” So as it went back and forth between me and her, you looked on quietly, and just as I clenched my iron fist and started punching her face in, you grabbed my hand and led me somewhere else, hence removing me from a potentially criminal act.

That day, I learned that I could either be the fool and fight your battles, or behave with the dignity that helps you choose your battles wisely.

For the past few months now, you’ve been sleeping on a mattress on the floor next to our bed at night. We decided on that when we could no longer tolerate sharing our bed with you and your Shaolin legs. When I put you to bed, you must have me lie next to you before you can fall asleep. But it isn’t as simple as that – you will only fall asleep after you have fidgeted for about 20 minutes, had some part of you in contact with me, laid most of your 13.5kg body on me, called out “Mama, Mama, bao bao”, stroked my face, recited your alphabet, or lost your Patrick a hundred times and groped around for him desperately in the dark.

But you know what? I enjoy all that and will sure miss it when you no longer to be in such close proximity with my molecules.

At times I think about how I could write a book about the person that you are, your ways, and how to love you. That book would be the manual of James, just in case the day comes when I am no longer around, the thought of which tears me apart. I would talk about how you love to have lots of noise and music around you, how you love to dance to music with strong beats, how you must hold Patrick while drinking, how you tease us by stuffing the whole biscuit into your mouth, how you hate having your diaper changed in claustrophobic public toilets, how you say “bubbooo, bubbooo” while playing with the suds in your bath, how you reluctantly pick up a toy that you’ve thrown in anger, how proud you are when you know you’re in the wrong, and how you love your fried pork chop.

You’re such a special boy, such a loving, stubborn little growly monster tyke. We all love you and we know you love us too. I ask our dear God to please let it always be that way.

Love,
Mama

Month Twenty One

2007-08-08T22:58:00.001+08:00

Dear James

You're now 21 months old. And this post is really late, but, ahhhh... there have been distractions my friend. Distractions. Like reorganizing my entire book collection, late night TV, reading, reading and more reading, and playing with my new toy. (What toy? We shall talk about that another time. Maybe.)

The highlight of this past month was our trip to Perth. Other than your periodic restlessness during our plane and car rides, a brief bout of homesickness, and mild constipation, you generally enjoyed yourself. There was a lot more space for you to run around in, the weather was cool, and you got to roll around gleefully on the icky schnicky bacteria-laden carpeted floor in our hotel room without my chasing you around with an anti-bacterial wipe the whole time. That task would've been too insane and OCD even for me to accomplish.

You can now rattle off entire sequences of the alphabet. Your face would take on the most intense look of concentration while your eyes look up toward to reference your deeply-grooved brain, and you would breathe out each letter or its phonetic equivalent like it was pure gold, “M, N, O, pah, poo, algae, ash, tuh, yuh, bah, wuh, X, yuh, zeeee.”

You can also identify and recite the numbers 1 to 10, except you can’t say them very well and it cracks your grandma (Mommy’s mommy) up the way you scream your high-pitched version of 5 and 6, then lower your voice to a whispery wuh-wuh (7).

Three months after you were born, I went shopping for the first time and because I missed you so terribly and was wracked with guilt within a half hour out, all I could do for the first two hours was shop for toys for you. That was when I bought you your Patrick the red dog. To this day, you have sought much soothing and comfort from him while you’re in the car, airplane, stroller or in bed. Seeing as how we needed to pop him in the washing machine every so often, I bought you two more Patricks, only they were blue. And you loved them equally well. You continued to chew on and caress their ears and sniff on them after they were drenched with days-old saliva.

In anticipation of their wearing out and your possible meltdowns, I hunted high and low for new Patricks, and ended up with a total of four new red Patricks – four big and four small. First, you eyed them with suspicion because they were so bright and fluffy. After you hesitantly did the thumb-caress test on them, you decided you preferred your old Patricks. But I persevered and lay out your new Patricks on your mattress each night in the hopes that you may absentmindedly grab one of them and not realize their true identity.

You can now say and use many more words, all in your own way – happy, please, hurry, quickly, walk, plate, dirty, sticky, C (Vitamin C), tomato and big. We’ve realized how carefully you actually listen to us speak, even when you’re doing your own thing and running all over the place. One time, as Daddy was driving, he cursed “chee-toh!” (our more genteel version of the Hokkien word for ~~cunt~~ part of the female anatomy), you followed suit. That was when we resolved to watch what we say around you. Otherwise, in a few years’ time, you would be telling our neighbours how strange and wicked we thought they were, or that Mommy and Daddy have hair down there.

Your favourite game now is Transformer Hide & Seek where Daddy would roar, “I AM OPTIMUS PRIME! ARE YOU MEGATRON?” then proceed to chase you all over the place while you run in half-fear and half-delight to seek protection from me. And we usually play this a half hour before bedtime. How smart is that?

Liza will be going home next month. A new sitter will take her place and we’re crossing our fingers you will take to each other. Fortunately you will still have Lucy, your beloved Lucy, who’s so easily accessible, so you can take comfort in her loving arms and bright smile.

Picture time:

Love
Mommy

Month Twenty

2007-07-04T00:20:00.001+08:00

Dear James

You turned 20 months old a week back and continue to amaze and amuse us everyday with your tremendous joy and cheeky ways. Your irrepressible zest and enthusiasm are so infectious that we can’t help but feel our spirits rise even in this awfully humid weather we’re facing right now.

You can now identify all the letters of the alphabet, though you may not say them all very well. Your S sounds like a very gentle “ashhh”, V is a forceful mouth fart, L and R sound like “algae”, and Y goes “yuhh!” You enjoy reading the letters on the buses that pass by, in shop displays, on bottles and even on the news ticker on TV. Your eyes would dart back and forth as you try desperately to catch the letters before they scroll out of sight.

When we read the newspapers on the floor, you would sit on top of one entire page, read out the capital letters one by one and get your grubby hands covered in newsprint which we would wash off at the kitchen sink where a battle of wills would ensue. This particular battle that I talk about is the one where you rub liquid soap all over your hands and arms, then proceed to spread the lather all over the sink and refuse to let me rinse it off you. Then I would muster up my assertive booming mommy voice and say thunderously, “JAMES, YOU MUST RINSE YOUR HANDS! YOU CANNOT LET THE BUBBLES REMAIN ON YOU FOR TOO LONG. THEY ARE NOT GOOD FOR YOU! WE CAN WASH YOUR HANDS AGAIN WHEN THEY ARE DIRTY. Want some biscuit?”

Your funniest words are “GEHdnnn” (garden), “apah” (open), “bo” (close), “BACK!!!” (back), and “mmmek!” (milk). And of course, the most powerful one would be the very whiny “bau bau” (carry me). The guttural screams that used to fill the house have been replaced with your words and squeals of laughter. Honestly, I have never known a child to be as happy as you are. You cackle when we grimace and feign death at your poopy diapers. You beam when we hand you your special cocktail of multivitamins and very diluted Ribena (without which you wouldn’t drink the former), and you would head excitedly over to your mattress, lie down, and proceed to relish the heavenly concoction. When we go for walks together, you would take our hand, look up at us from time to time and call “Mama! Dada!” happily. These are the moments we wish we could capture in a little vial and open from time to time to inhale its divine scent.

You continue to be fascinated with wheels. We recently bought you a monster truck toy which got you so crazy and excited you were jumping out of your skin when we took it out of the box. When you finally got your hands on it, you would not let go of it and laid your head on the floor to get a close view of how the wheels turned. You would go “waahhhhh” as its lights came on, and “boom!” when you pushed it down from a high place. About the pushing from a high place, could you please not let the truck DROP onto the floor, but instead hold it and guide it toward the floor in a swift motion? At the rate this is going, we may have to buy you a new one pretty soon.

You love pushing our four-wheel luggage around too. Anyone and everyone who has seen your immense concentration when you study the wheels has said you would be an engineer in future and that they had never seen such behaviour in another kid your age. You would lay on your side, cushion your head with your hand, and move the bag around slowly with your other arm so that you could observe and evaluate how the whole thing worked. I bet if you could have it your way, you would turn Daddy’s car on its side so that you could study the whole workings of the axle, wheels and rims.

Since we’re on the subject of big things, you have learned to say “Aiyah” when you move something big or heavy. Sometimes you even say it in empathy, such as when we move your mattress around and you’re too lazy to even pretend to help us. You would only watch us and exclaim “Aiyah… aiyahh… aiyahh…” as if it could lighten our load.

You love to have us ask you how you hurt yourself or fell. You would then re-enact the incident (without the real hurt of course), and give a commentary of how it all happened, “Up! Dah (down)! Apah (open)! Bo bo bo (close close close)!!” And your face would take on the most serious and concerned look, like “So this is how it all happened. Please listen carefully because I don’t want it to happen ever again. I am so pitiful but I am so brave. And now I am telling it to you in the best way I can because I can speak so please ask me again how it all happened. Bo bo bo!!!”

My dear child, you are so adorable, so easy to love and squooshy wooshy huggable. At least once a day, your dad or I would utter this to each other, “James is so cute right? He’s just SO cute! How did we ever produce something like that?”

As usual, here are a couple of pictures we took of you this month.

Love
Mommy

Month Nineteen

2007-06-10T00:36:00.001+08:00

Dear James

You turned 19 months old two weeks ago. Month after month I tell myself to write your monthly update within a week of your turning a full month older but I almost always fail to do so. I ask myself whether I should continue with these monthly updates, mainly because there are so many other things to do in such little time, and because when there aren’t so many other things to do, I’m not in the mood to write. Then I sit myself in front of the PC and bang out the words because I don’t ever want to forget any of the joys, funny moments, desperate times, challenges and wonderful days I experience with you. And also, because when you are much older, I can always find things to blackmail you with.

Some days I want to ask you to please remain this adorable little boy with those sweet pink cheeks and angelic voice that greets me each morning and that cries out “Mama, mama!” when in need of comfort and soothing. You touch me each day with the trust that you place in me and you melt the manliest, most stoic parts of Daddy when you kiss him out of the blue with your sweet little “Mmmm-meh!” and not want anything in return.

You love it when we are together, all three of us, when we are out together or hanging out in the room. You love it so much you beam and point to us while saying “Mama, Dada, Mama, Dada, Mama, Dada”. And if Daddy or Mommy lags behind while we are out shopping, you would turn around to make sure we catch up, and won’t stop checking until we are beside you again.

You can now say “out”, “in”, “dehhh” (thank you), “bo” (ball) and “bah” (bus). You can also walk at normal pace instead of zipping around and smashing your body into walls, furniture and people’s legs. It’s as if you had learned to control your gift of mobility like the way the Heroes learned to control their super powers. If I could wish a super power unto you, it would be immunity against all ailments. You were down with a bad flu recently, and your system was so badly choked up with mucus that you wheezed when you slept, and we had to keep checking on you to make sure you were still breathing. That episode left us slightly bewildered and extremely stressed out, though we tried not to show it. Before you came along, we were warned about sleepless nights and endless diaper changing, but nobody ever warned us about the unbearable and infinite love that we could feel for you and how vulnerable it could make us. Nobody warned us that we would have to face days on which we would be overcome with worry and negative thoughts and that all we could do was try not to cry and be paralyzed with fear, guilt and anger that any child would have to suffer.

We finally have days on which we can sit down for more than three minutes at a time and leave you to entertain yourself. You recently discovered the concept of reflections in surfaces other than mirrors and have been exploring the endless list of things that you can see off our tiled floor, our sliding doors, the car windows and our bedroom door. Your favourite reflections are those of the red, green and white night lights we have installed in our bedroom. You are so fascinated by them that you turn the lights on and off countless times and walk to and from our bedroom door to gaze at the reflections from a certain special angle. You would then pull us excitedly by the finger to sit at the door so that you could show us the phenomenon you had uncovered, then ask us to please notify the Discovery Channel so that they could come to our house to catch it on film and air it all over the world.

Your videos are a Godsend. I never knew Sesame Street and Hi-5 could do such a good job of babysitting and ~~shutting you up~~ keeping you quiet. However, you have become so attached to your videos that you keep asking us to play them, and at the most inappropriate times too, such as when we’re out for a stroll or when we have just turned off the lights for the night. In order to get us to play the videos, you would pump your arms up and down and rock from side to side (that’s the way you dance ) while singing “Eh eh eh” which is your way of mimicking the opening lines of the Hi-5 song. When you can’t get your way, you would take your VCD cases from the box beside the TV and gaze at them lovingly, open them up to remove the liner notes and discs, and leave them lying all over the floor in an elaborate minefield fashion. Maybe if I can’t get Mommy and Daddy to play the damn videos, I could frustrate them by creating a mess and puncturing the soles of their feet with the open cases. That’ll show them who’s boss.

We took you to Bintan this month. It was a good thing we stayed in a suite because you loved it loved it loved it and wouldn’t stop playing with the many cupboard doors and drawers. And it had two fans. TWO. FANS. Fans, your favourite things in the world besides your milk. There were TWO OF THEM which you demanded we switch on and off repeatedly. And the bathroom. It was huge, and dry, which meant you could hang out in there and beg me for attention while I was busy washing your bottles. On the second day, your Dad suffered a brief episode of vertigo but you put on your best behaviour and were the sweetest thing ever by not demanding to go on the bed with him or screaming your head off. As we hung out in the living room quietly, you would point to the bedroom occasionally and gently call, “Dada.”

You know what James? It doesn’t matter that you will eat only biscuits while in your high chair, or that you still refuse to drink from a spout or straw, or that you still wake up at least once in the middle of the night. What matters is that you’re this amazing little being who has so much love in his heart, laughs grandly and so easily, and gives us so much in return. You energize us every day and you make us see the little things that matter in this world. We all have so much to thank you for.

Love
Mommy

Two great posts

2007-05-29T22:19:00.000+08:00

Now, this is a funny post, especially since it was written in the wake of the Stanford impostor scandal. At the same time, it is a little sad and frightening to see how competitive we have become, that in order to succeed in this crazy world, we have to do those now very hard things called studying, cramming and scrambling just to come out tops.

But it is also comforting to know that there are other paths to travel on when the gates to the conventional path are closed.

I sure hope James will grow up to know that he is free to take these other paths.

Chuckles

2007-05-23T22:13:00.002+08:00

Here is an old photograph of my big sister and me. We must have been four and three years old when this picture was taken. I still remember the pajama pants my mother used to make for us, which we wore for as long as we could until they could fit no more. We were too young to worry about whether our T-shirts matched our pants or how funky our hairstyles were, with our fringes cut straight across our foreheads and way above our eyebrows. We did not have as many toys as we dared to ask for, and made do with anything we had on hand to entertain ourselves, like wear my mother’s bangle way up my chubby arm.

I wonder what so amused us in this photograph. I must have taken the opportunity to blink my eyes really hard. It was a habit my mother was intent on breaking, a habit old folks used to call nee-buck which literally meant "blink eyes". I termed it super-blink.

One of my mother's methods was to threaten to have the police catch me and put me in prison. This did not work. Once, when a police car pulled up beside our car at the traffic light, she warned me, "If you nee-buck, the police will catch you and take you away." So I steeled myself and blinked normally for a few seconds. But soon enough (damn traffic light, won't you just turn green already??!), when I was overwhelmed by the uncontrollable urge to super-blink, I ducked cleverly below the window and clenched my eyelids so hard I saw stars. I was whole again. My mother was exasperated.

Her most extreme method was to pinch my eyelids each time I super-blinked. It hurt a great deal and it made me think she hated me, because why would a mother hurt her child like that? I held it against her for a long time, and to this day I still do not know whether I stopped super-blinking because of her threats or whether I outgrew it naturally. But what I know is that she did what she thought was best for me, even if it hurt me. It probably hurt her too.