hugs and kisses

Day is a walking bundle of love. He could be exploring something halfway or walking in the opposite direction and suddenly, he spins around and comes hurtling into my arms for a big hug. And his hugs are true hugs: his arms form an air-tight seal with my neck.

I like it even better when he shares his kisses. His popo says he shows an unusual willingness to kiss-on-demand, he will kiss almost anyone if you ask him too (conditional on his mood).

But it’s when I don’t need to ask him, when he gets into his head that he feels like kissing me, that I feel so warm and tingly. Sometimes, he just comes up to me and carefully plants several wet smackeroos on my arm or face or whatever part is nearest to him. When he does that, I give him a true hug and he gives me a big smile.

He is especially loving when he just wakes up, all soft and sweet and dewy-eyed. It’s an endless round of hugs and kisses.

I was just telling Day’s daddy that we have to appreciate every single gesture of love he gives us now. I have seen parents who glare down at their kids who are clamouring for a hug, and honestly, I think they are making a big mistake.

One day they are suddenly going to realize that they can’t remember the last time their child so freely and spontaneously loved their parents. When the last time was that their child kissed them voluntarily, or sat quietly on their knee, or allowed themselves to be hugged.

One day, our Day is going to grow up, like all kids do, and he will stop showing his parents, several times a day, that he loves them.

He will want to be independent, probably spend all his time on the computer, keep secrets, start horrific anonymous blogs with all sorts of swear words, stay out late, argue with his mother, argue with his father, not tell us what he is doing. That is when the most repulsive thing, to him, could well be a hug and a kiss from his folks.

Thinking about Day all grown up makes me so sad. Of course I want him to grow up, but sometimes there are things you wish will never change.

babushka day

A babushka is a Russian grandma, the kind who hobbles around in cloppy shoes and wears a scarf over her head.

So Day doesn't remotely look like one, but I think the scarf makes him look as feminine as he'd ever be. And rather sweet, eyes downcast and all.





Yup, I was in another one of my I-can-do-anything-to-him-since-he's-my-son moods. It's great having a living doll.

electric pee

Day scrambled off the bed while I was trying to put a diaper and his clothes on him, after his bath, just now. It's not unusual, he's always running off.

Naked, he came to our room and stood in front of the computer, feet squarely in front of an overworked extension with like eight sockets, all plugged, channelling electricity to the TV, computer, radio, headphones, cable box etc.



I came chasing after with the diaper. Then I heard it. A very loud trickle.

We froze. And we barely had time to appreciate how his pee was seeping into the holes of every socket before the house suddenly plunged into darkness.

Day had short-circuited the house. His pee, rather.

Whimpering, he clambered into my arms before electricity was restored. But till now, we still don't dare to use that extension for fear that we may get zapped.

And so, I can't download any of Day's photos because we don't have enough sockets. Sigh.

girl politics

I shouldn't make blanket statements but I think girls are generally more emotionally complicated and, in some ways, can be very much more cruel than boys.

Day goes to the neighbour's to play with Matthew and his sister Sophia and cousin Rachel almost on a daily basis

For a short time period of several days, I did not bring Day over because I noticed that the two girls were shunning him. In fact, that has been going on for some time, but I reckoned it was something he would have to learn how to deal with and not something I should shield him from, until I myself got a bit put off.

Basically they somehow grasped onto the fact that David is not a member of the family and therefore he has to be ousted. So while they liberally shower Matthew with hugs, kisses and keep quiet if he were to hit them or do something wrong, they turn on Day at every little opportunity.

If he were to drop biscuit crumbs, they point at the floor and loudly proclaim, many times, that he was naughty. If he spills water on the floor and someone should accidentally slip on it, their loud accusations start up again. And sometimes, they just stand in front of him and say "Don't want David".

I know, they are just kids (the girls are aged 3 and 4) but it's interesting to see how they discriminate from such a young age and are so unabashed about it.

That is why someone once told me, kids are actually very very cruel. However, it's funny that when I bring Day to play with boys of around the same age, he doesn't get that kind of treatment. They just play and hit each other, which to me is more palatable than the narrowed eyes and simmering resentment I see in the girls' faces.

Perhaps Day doesn't give a shit, he certainly doesn't appear to. Perhaps because I'm female I react to the girls' politics.

In that sense, I'm glad Day is a boy. More tiring but potentially less complicated.

becoming our parents

It’s probably quite natural for us to bring up our kids the way our parents brought us up, even if that is the last thing we want.

I recently interviewed a lady who is also a parenting expert. She said (and it makes sense) that what most parents do nowadays is they throw out all the things they didn’t like about the way their parents brought them up. Usually there is very little or nothing left.

She was actually suggesting that I go for a parenting course, though not necessarily the course she organizes. During our interview, Day was there (we came from another event where he had to be at, she said to bring him though that was the last thing I wanted) and she noted that 15 months is a time when they start pushing the limits.

For the record, during our 30-minute interview, he mashed biscuits into the carpet, walked all over the boardroom table in his shoes, leaped Superman-style from the table onto the boardroom chair – thankfully successfully – poked his finger into the sockets, lifted up the phone to dial someone in the office, banged his lower lip into the armrest and bawled when his lip started bleeding. On his behalf, I must say it was way over his naptime and he was cranky.

But back to parenting like our parents.

In many ways, I want to parent like my parents. They are extremely supportive of everything I do, probably attended every concert / play / stupid school event I ever appeared in even if it’s the smallest part, willingly fetch me everywhere I need to go – including from one end of Singapore to the other – and most importantly (and this is something I took pains to say during my wedding dinner speech, yes the Thank You For Giving Birth To Me speech) they gave me the freedom to pretty do anything I wanted without making me feel neglected or letting me go astray.

I treasure and appreciate that and I only hope I can strike that same fine balance with Day, though with boys it could be a little different.

Now here is where it gets a little politically insensitive. At the risk of sounding ungrateful, there are certain bits of my parents I want to make sure I never repeat. Ever.

* I never want to cane. Even though my dad says now he never caned us, I remember clearly the strokes. Every single last one of them.

* I never want to chase five-year-old Day out of the house for not being able to swallow pills. On hindsight, I think my dad felt it was a very important life skill, to swallow pills, and it probably didn’t help that my defiance pushed his hot temper up to boiling. But no, I never want to do that to Day.

* Most importantly, I always want to treat Day with respect as an individual and never ever speak down to him. I want to be fair to him, never jump to conclusions about what he’s done, never accuse him or make him feel worthless. I don’t want him to feel as if nothing he does will please me. I don’t want him to fear talking to me because my blood will boil whenever he opens his mouth. It all boils down to the communication, I think.

OK there is obviously some pent-up resentment here but ignore that.

Already, sometimes, I catch myself becoming like my parents, specifically, my dad. We are quite alike in temperament – hot. At times, when Day refuses to do what I want him to do despite all my attempts, I literally feel my body growing hotter from my toes up to my head.



I have an urge to whip him, to inflict pain on him so he will submit, to scream and shout and let go all my frustrations at this badly brought-up child and find vindication in his tears.

So far, apart from squeezing my mouth shut so no words come out (I have learnt from all my reporting that we should always wait 10 minutes or more before speaking if angry) and squeezing him tighter so he hurts a little (he knows I’m angry because he cries), I have never given in because I’m sure I will be unhappier if I let loose my black moods.

Even if he doesn’t understand, I always try to empathise (“I know you want this toy”) before I explain (“But you cannot hit someone just because you want it”). If I can’t even speak for anger, I just hold him off until I cool down a bit to take control.

I hope I don’t ever lose control.

What about Day's papa? His dad used to have a boiling temper too, while his mom was the most laissez-faire of moms. At the moment, he doesn't look like either.

Frankly, I wouldn't mind being his kid. He's funny, consistent and loving without being indulgent. He's a far better natural parent than I am, and doesn't show any signs of parenting the way his parents did.

smiling navel

While I was examining Day the other day from top to bottom, as moms are prone to do to their kids, I had a look at his navel. I haven't paid much attention to it since the bloody stump dropped off but it's rather nice and smiley.

Definitely nicer than ours, which looks like holes.

Then it could be because his tummy is too tubby and the skin is so stretched it ends up looking like that. Seldom see adults with slitty navels.

kampong nai nai

Whenever Day goes to my in-laws' place on Saturday, it's like going back to the kampong. For that one day, hygiene and luxury is thrown out of the window as Day does what I imagine kampong kids used to do: Run around all day and get dirty.

Saturday highlights:

His carrot / ikan bilis porridge. Ever since Day started eating solid food, every Saturday, without fail, he will have to eat the same porridge for lunch and dinner. The porridge in question being a mash of carrot and pounded ikan bilis powder. Instead of sitting still in a high chair, Ta ta carries him while Nai nai feeds him. He nearly always finishes his Saturday gruel.



Lunch done, the porridge for dinner is put out on the dining table, uncovered and exposed for hours before he eats it at 6pm.



Primitive baths. I don't mean the bathtub, but instead of turning on the heater (there is one), Nai nai boils hot water in a kettle and mixes it in with the cold water. Sometimes, she doesn't boil enough and Day scuttles out of the bath (too cold) before she can pour in another kettleful.



Dirty time. Barefoot, he runs down the HDB corridor. When Nai nai brings him out, she lets him walk barefoot on the lift floor which is a repository of dirt from other people's shoes, germs, spit and maybe even pee. She lets him press the lift buttons and while he transfers saliva to the lift buttons, the buttons are probably coated with germs too.

But you know what? It all doesn't matter because the old couple love their grandson to bits. Throughout the day, the each take turns to bring Day downstairs to roam, for long stretches of up to an hour.



I don't know what they do, I've heard that they bring him visiting sometimes to other homes and bird-watching is a favourite activity.

I always maintain, no matter how dirty or questionable hygiene gets, my mother-in-law singlehandedly raised three kids this way and all three of them (including Day's papa) are way healthier and stronger than me and my two brothers.

Day's papa has probably fallen sick only once in the last few years (when he goes to the doctor, the doctor doesn't want to give him MC because he doesn't look very sick), while I used to take MCs once a month (just looking at me, doctor usually asks if I need a MC because I look sick even when I'm not).

That's why I think it's good for kids to be dirty and not too clean, it makes them stronger. My own hygiene standards probably lie somewhere between my mother-in-law's, and my own mom's.

mod high chair

This has got to be the coolest high chair I have ever seen. Spotted at: Hai Tien Lou, the 37th floor restaurant at the Pan Pacific Hotel.

The last time we went there in April, he got the usual ugly high chair.

Today, he got this Philippe Starck-looking high chair that swivels round and doesn't have the ugly bar in front.

The family went there for the lunch buffet ($48 per person but very worth it) and Day had a good time in the swivelling chair.

If he wasn't facing outside admiring the ant-sized cars, beetle-sized buses and scrutinizing miniscule swimmers in the hotel pool...



... he was facing inside enjoying the buffet food. Here he is with a piece of dragon fruit. Once our food came, he refused to eat his porridge.



That said, while the chair scores a distinction in aesthetics, it's a zero in safety. It looks lovely on one stem but it's also very spindly, most high chairs have four legs. Day also almost fell over backward several times after he kicked the table or rocked himself to and fro.

When he wasn't in the chair, he was running around getting in the way of the waitresses. I'm posting this photo because I've never captured him with such a deer-in-the-headlights expression.

beanie baby

bathtub play

A bath is a bath is a bath, yes? Not for Day. He hates his morning baths. He runs away from the maid, has to be pushed into the bathtub and held down for at most 2 minutes before she gives up and carries him out.

But night baths are a different story. Even as papa runs the water into the bathtub, he comes running to the toilet and would probably walk right in with clothes and nappy if I didn't stop him.



He loves his night baths and frankly, so do we. It's the ONLY time in the entire day when we can leave him to quietly play on his own in one confined spot for over 20 minutes. Of course we pop by every minute or so to make sure he's not drowning.

His bathtub toys: Two mugs and a balloon pump. From scooping and pouring out water, he now puts one mug outside the bath and uses the other mug to fill it up. Never struck me that we actually need to learn how water works.

The balloon pump is a marvellous one. It's one of those cheap-skate plastic pumps that come with a bag of balloons but even after the balloons have all died, the pump works great as a water squirt gun. And all sorts of other uses. I have no idea what Day and his uncle Choon are trying to do here.

Choon tells me Day is trying to blow air into the pump so the water won't come out. Whatever.



And sometimes, he puts his face in the water to blow a few bubbles.



While he's always loved bathtime, seems to me it's getting more fun.

maternal crisis

Nine months into the job, I'm feeling the blues.

For the past few weeks now, I've been feeling very bored being a stay-home mom. I suspect it came about because my writing jobs dried up for a period and left with nothing else to occupy my mind, whenever I want a break from Day, I go "Eh? But there's nothing for me to break to." Nothing productive anyway.

How DID women manage in the past? To not work, raise their kids and manage the household day after day after day? What kind of work is sweeping the floor or washing clothes? Sure it's important, just like road sweepers are crucial in keeping our surroundings clean. Important but inconsequential.

Women of my generation think different. We want it all. So many times, people have told me that it's a waste for me to quit my job. It's only my unspoken expression of bliss - "But I'm happier now in the noble purpose of making a difference in my child's life" - that shushes them from further comment.

I cannot help, though, but feel it myself sometimes, the waste I mean. Most markedly when I've wasted one bloody hour trying to put the squalling brat to sleep, and STILL fail. In the past I could have finished writing two news stories in an hour.

Many times these few weeks, I have thought: What AM I doing? It's funny how, when I'm busy with work, my time-management is stellar and I get everything done. But when I have nothing for me to structure the rest of my day around, it all falls apart.

The lethargy pervades every facet of my life so besides not working, I stop exercising, I seldom bring Day out, I look after him with disinterest and resort to the easy option of pushing him to the play with the neighbours so I can recline on a sofa and languidly keep an eye on him.

Yes, theoretically I can do the million and one things I've always wanted to do when work is out of the picture. Arrange my wedding photos, which are still chucked in a dusty yellow Kodak envelope, caption my honeymoon photos, do some cross-stitch, exercise, start drawing again, practise my violin and piano so I can take that Diploma, brush up on my Chinese.

But nothing has been done, not one bit.

And the worst part of it is that, these few weeks at least, I'm not enjoying Day very much. If anything, I feel resentment even.. Hubby, who only gets to see him for an hour or two in the evening, seems to be having a lot more fun.

I'll have to wait and see if this passes, since I've suddenly been assigned eight stories this week.

But these few weeks have been surprising to me, to say the least. I never thought I would feel this way.

papa time

When I'm home for the evening, things are rather predictable: Day finishes dinner, goes out into the garden to hunt for toads, goes upstairs for his bath, sits down as we try to read some books, goes into his Gong Gong's room to pull a few things out of the cupboard before I announce that it's time for milk at 8:30pm sharp.

After milk, he's usually out by 9.05pm. No late night activities, I insist that he sleeps.

When I'm not home, however, is when things get a little more interesting.

Since there is nobody around to insist on bedtime, Day's papa is a lot more flexible with what happens. And since he has difficulty putting Day to sleep - because, to quote him: "Day treats me as a playmate" - it has become sort of a ritual that when mum isn't home, it's Papa Time.

And Papa Time isn't just the 2 of them spending time together. No, home is too boring.

Papa Time is all about going out, usually in a pram, to nearby Siglap about 15 minutes walk away. The 2 of them always end up at Gelare cafe where they share a scoop of ice-cream and watch the world go by.



Completely relaxed and still, Day sits in his papa's lap with his legs propped up on papa's knees for the entire duration of the ice-cream without making a sound, the both of them watching the traffic lights turn red and green.

When that's done, time to pop back into the pram and head for home. It's a lovely ritual, one that I can imagine Day remembering for years to come. He obviously enjoys it because he never sits still in anyone's lap. Not mine, certainly.

Tonight, since I was at a corporate gig, papa tried to go a little further by cycling with Day to Gelare not at Siglap, but at East Coast Park which is a lot further away. Day didn't like it though, because it was dark and he didn't know the route. Papa had to cycle with one hand on the handlebar and the other patting Day.

I expect Day will get used to it though. It is still Papa Time.

peg play

What's this then? My lame attempt at taking an interesting photo.

Honestly, though, Day sees everything in novel ways. I've always wanted to write about how he shuns all the things he is supposed to play with (his toys) and is completely fascinated with things which he isn't supposed to. Like the fans, remote controls, bottles, remote controls, golf balls, remote controls.

Of course, he does things to them that no adult would do. Like pound on the remote controls.

Lately, Norma chucked him something she uses, and he was completely absorbed.



Ah! It's clothes pegs! (another lame attempt at an interesting photo)

Specifically the big plastic type with squared off ends. He found that it's quite a challenge for him to stand them upside-down, in a row, like brightly-coloured sentinels.



As Norma puts it, this toy is Free and Good. Doesn't get better than that.

* Speaking of Norma, she was completely tickled pink when Day, flipping through one of his picture books, pointed to a cartoon of a lady in apron hanging clothes out to dry and pronounced that this was NORMA. See, she chucks him in his high chair every morning (while I'm still sleeping) to watch her hang out the clothes. Nowadays she also gets him to identify who the clothes belong to.

little green corner

Sometimes when we just have half an hour to spare and the weather is good, I bring Day to the little park near our home.

I stumbled upon it one day. It's a very short 10 minute walk away, but to get there, we have to go to the end of a street, cross a big drain, walk along the backs of houses and up a little flight of steps before we get to it. Even then, it's not easy to find because it's surrounded by tall hedges.

But it's a lovely park. It's one of those parks meant for private estate residents and so, is very private indeed. Because people probably won't come across it unless they go looking for it, it's not very well-maintained but I like it for that reason. It has a slightly un-used, mouldy look about it.



6pm is the best time to go, as that is when an old auntie comes along with bags of food for the animals, and about 20 cats in different colours come scurrying out of the hidden corners to feed. And after the cats are done, the crows come to pick off the scraps. There are tons of crows cawing about, winging and flying very close to the ground or roosting in the trees or on the aerial antennas. Day loves looking at the animals. Sometimes, people bring their dogs for walks too and that's when the cats start yowling.

The playground is also one of the last old-style playgrounds I've seen, with sand instead of rubber mats. The equipment is also dreadfully old, rusty in places and squeaky.



The hole Day has his finger in, for instance, is all encrusted with rust inside.



But who cares? We love it. Nowadays Day's fav activity there is scooping and pouring sand into a container.

combining words

Something very small to cheer about: Day has strung together his first, er, two-word combination!

I reckon it's a big milestone for little Day, even though it's not English... What is it? Not surprisingly, it concerns milk. Whenever he knows its time for his milk feed, he goes "mum-mum nan-nan". The former being feed, and the latter being milk.

Some new phrases he's learnt:

No (new, he says)
Oh no! (oh new)
Oh oh...
No more
Norma (the maid)
Agar-agar
Bat (bee-yat)
Moon (mom)

chilli eater?

Is there an age when kids tastebuds toughen up to the point where they can eat chilli?

Seems nobody knows.

I wondered if my boy is a chilli eater, so I decided to try him out. The last time we gave him a little dollop of curry doesn't count because it wasn't very spicy.

We were on Bintan again today. For lunch, I had chicken rice and it came with a glorious platter of chicken rice chilli, all salty and sour and with a beautiful sprinkling of chilli seeds.

I took a dollop, half the size of my little finger nail, and he lapped it up thinking it was rice.

Because he eats with his mouth open, I could see the chilli all smeared over his tongue, seed (just one lah) and all.

Suddenly, it happened! Two seconds after the chilli went in, it zapped his tongue. He suddenly snapped his head to the left, face contorted in a silent scream, and clapped his left palm, fingers all arched outwards, over his mouth.

And he stayed like that, still as a statue, for a little while. Maybe five seconds. He was mute. I, irresponsible mom that I am, was starting to get a little worried because he looked so agonised and was pressing him to drink water, but he completely ignored me.

Then just as suddenly, the hand came down and that was that. It was like nothing had happened.

From this, I conclude that he can eat chilli. But he needs a little warming up.

a decade past

This day 10 years ago (6 July 1995), we became an item.

This day 2 years ago (6 July 2003), we had the big wedding do.

It's been a real adventure, these 10 years. Very high highs, and the lowest of lows. Nobody else can make me laugh or cry the way he does.

triathlete daddy

Day's daddy took part in his second Osim Singapore Triathlon today and insisted that Day be there. To inspire (so daddy runs faster) and to be inspired (may he be a triathlete sometime).

Well, I say running, swimming and cycling are far healthier and cheaper sports than golf, especially for energy-packed kids, so I would be very happy if Day were to don triathlon gear one day!

The day didn't start very well. Daddy woke up at the ungodly hour of 5am and after I groggily penned his racing number (2280) on his arms and legs before slumping back into bed, he set off on his racer to the East Coast Park; only to discover on arrival that he forgot his cycling shoes.

Never mind. He cycled all the way back to get it, and quickly got into the swing of things at 7am: Swimming through 1.5km in the open sea, cycling 40km and jogging 10km.

I was just hoping he wouldn't kill himself. Why? He only started swimming training a month before the event and he didn't cycle or jog. At all. (all he's been doing is golf) The last time he cycled on that racer was last year. He isn't a 24-year-old spring chicken, he's 34. It's suicide. (in fact the day before, he wondered if he would suddenly collapse and die in the middle of it all.)

The good thing is, my sports dietitian brother took care of what he ate right down to the last cup of Milo, and I think stuffing his face with pasta the day before, and drinking loads of energy drinks with extra sodium added, helped him to max out his stamina.

* For the record, on Friday alone, KK ate lots of bread with Milo for breakfast, pasta, a chewy bar, a banana and Milo for lunch, 2 slices of bread and Milo for tea, pasta for pre-dinner snack, then dinner at home. Saturday was all-pasta day.

By the time Day got up and had his oatmeal breakfast and we finally got everything together, it was 9.30. Me, bro and Day walked to the beach and managed to catch KK in the first lap of his 10km run.

He probably envisioned Day squealing in recognition of his Daddy, but in reality, Day was completely flummoxed. Gobsmacked. Blur. He didn't see his daddy, didn't seem to recognize him, he appeared to be wondering why this red-faced man was reaching out one clammy hand to cup his cheek and plant a wet kiss on his face before running off in a whiff of sweat.

Oh well. That strange mood of indifference persisted throughout the morning. He mostly stayed in one corner to play with the sand and didn't even bother with the bouncy castle.



A smile broke only when he recognized his daddy at the finish line. In this pix though, he's frowning because he's wondering why his daddy's chest is so white.



Even then, there were no more smiles. No wonder too, the sun was relentless and we had to bear it as KK collected his bike.

Until we decided to put him on the racer handlebars (so nobody needs to bear his weight). He liked being on the bike and protested when we tried to lift him off. The diaper he was wearing helped to cushion his butt from the two hard elbow rests he was sitting on. As KK said, it's a lot more exciting than the pram.



For the record, here are his results:
2005, total time: 3 hours 12 minutes 37 seconds (position: 128 of 181 men aged 30-34)
2004, total time: 3 hours 17 minutes 53 seconds (position: 89 of 135 men aged 30-34)

time for class?

It's difficult to NOT try to teach Day things. I've always said I just wanted to enjoy my son, but at this stage when he's obviously picking things up, the temptation to try and help him pick up MORE things at a FASTER rate is there.

Especially since, as a stay-home mom, his intelligence inevitably becomes my performance indicator (even though no one says it aloud) and the only way I can see RESULTS (there we go, that sickening word) is through him.

So I'm doing a great job if he's bright as a button and able to call an elephant an elephant at 14 months (of course he can't), but if he can't even manage a No at two years...

In that sense, it's very hard for me to just sit back, fold my arms, let him do his own thing and catch him if he falls. It sometimes feel like I'm wasting my time. I feel as if I should be coming up with all sorts of creative games to ENGAGE (that's another sickening word) him and help him to LEARN (eeew).

It doesn't help when I'm always working on articles about parenting stuff, enrichment classes and all, and it seems it's quite standard to send kids packing to school at 18 months. 18 MONTHS!!! That's just four months away. Of course they call it Play School and it's not a whole-day thing, but the playing part is to get somewhere and that's to get them to learn. Yucks.

The neighbour down the road has been swearing by Glenn Doman flash cards, she keeps on telling me how her grandson was able to read before he turned two because she faithfully flashed those home-made cards at him several times a day. Now, that's pretty incredible.

But it astounds me. I started school when I was four. Nowadays, nearly every kid I know starts (very expensive) pre-school at two.

Honestly I feel guilty sometimes for doing nothing at home but there are so many times in the day when I look at Day, he's looking at me expectantly, and absolutely nothing comes to mind. Zilch. I don't feel like bringing him out (it's too hot), I've run out of things to do at home, I don't feel like hamming it up and tickling him AGAIN.

Why can't I do what those classes do at home? I can't. He doesn't sit still. I tried flash cards, he scooted off after 5 seconds. But in class he may pay attention.

So that sneaky thought creeps in: Maybe I should send him that Montessori down the road, or the reading babes programme. At least he's doing something productive there.

Should I?

* I also think a lot of modern stay-home moms can't do this parenting thing full-time. I think it would kill them, like it would kill me. Hence, there are heaps of work-at-home moms now who don't want their brains to rot. I write and play violin at gigs hell of a lot, Debbie is opening a maternity shop, Julyn is lecturing part-time.

lump on his head

What kind of a mom am I??! A god-awful one!

Day had a bad accident in the morning and I take credit. It happened in the bathroom while the floor was slick with water, the maid having just hosed it down.

I found a pile of shit in his nappy and after cleaning him up, wanted to bring him out of the bathroom so I could dump the shit in the toilet bowl and flush it down. He refused to go out, insisted on bringing down his bathtub, stepping into it and sitting down. So I let him.

I turned to settle the shit and before I knew it, he had walked out of his bathtub and stepped over the kerb to get out of the toilet. No prizes for guessing what happened next: He slipped backward and his head bounced on the kerb with loud "thud" which my maid could hear a few rooms away.

That's the kerb.


He bawled. But what horrified me was the huge bump, the size of a jackfruit seed, which bloomed at the back of his head within minutes.

I didn't help when the maid scolded me for not taking care of his safety... that just made me feel so much better. Like she was his mom and I was the maid.

The lump is still there and is starting to get bigger and softer, like an over-ripe fruit. I don't know what's happening in there but thankfully, Day seems OK.

When his por-por got back, she quipped that he's become stupid. But when he dutifully touched his head after she asked him "where's your head?" in Cantonese, she changed her mind.

Brrr... it's chilling knowing how much worse the outcome of that little accident could have been. How careless I am.

snapshot

Once in a while, I do these snapshot-type things. I like reading them back, it makes me remember exactly what life was like.

It's 1 am on a Friday morning. I've finished going through the entire list of my 20 or so favourite websites, mostly blogs. I'm sitting on the ground typing away on the computer with an ache in my back, on my left is the TV on cable channel 21, golf.

The light in the room is yellow and for once, we didn't switch on the aircon. The fan is whirring away and anytime now, I expect Day to roll over and mewl in protest against the heat. If the heat doesn't wake him up, he may roll off the mattress which is on the ground and strike his head, it's his usual pattern.

Next to him sleeping on the tatami mattresses is his father, who is shirtless and snoring very noisily with his mouth wide open and the headphones lying askew on his head, still transmitting sound from the TV.

Except for the fan, it's complete silence. I am always the last person to turn in. After this, I will lie down on the tatami and read a novel, probably some no-brainer torrid romance novel (I've got "Devil in the Dark" for the moment, loaned from the maid who shares her novels with me) and turn off the lights at 2am when the book has done its job of making me very bored and sleepy.

This, then, is my typical after-midnight routine. I love the solitude.