Day's hair was getting really long. So long the maid tied it up with a rubber band the other day as it was getting in the way of his dinner.
He wore his mop like a black cap, which I didn't mind at all because it's going to be winter in Sydney when we go and the hair might go some way in keeping his head warm. Besides he looked rather cute, like those Japanese long-haired tots.
So whatever possessed me to suggest the other day to his father, while having breakfast at Starbucks, that he should have a trim, I don't know. But I did.
Father and son went straight to the Indian barber on the bicycle. My second mistake: Staying behind to do some grocery shopping.
By the time I reached the barber, it was too late. The barber had already mowed a huge swath right across Day's head and like or not, Day would have Bruce Willis' hair style, AGAIN.
KK, in mitigation, said Day was struggling so much it was impossible for the barber to give him a nice, civilised trim. True, some things never change.
Day was as panicky as ever. This time, however, I notice that the tears were brought on not only by the sight of the barber and his shaver, but on catching sight of himself in the mirrors. (see above picture)
He did NOT like the way he looked without hair. I suppose it was exacerbated by the fact that he's recently discovered that some people have no hair, and thoroughly enjoys pointing and giggling at these "bald uncles".
I never thought I'd get to play the likes of Abba's "Mamma Mia" and "Can't Take My Eyes Off You" right next to a funeral wake, but there we were. The Striiiings posse, perched on a stage in the middle of a badminton court somewhere in Jurong West under a big white tent, playing at a Malay wedding.
(I'm sure the couple would have preferred for the funeral to be further away, but death is not a contingency you can plan for)
Our first performance in the heartlands, and what a performance it was. Despite the humble location, the court was beautifully done up.
I had a blast. For one, it was the first time I had played with the full gang after giving birth so it was a re-union of sorts.
For another, we were were given five-star treatment by the very gracious couple, certainly better than your average hotel client. They respected our professional opinions, paid us on time, didn't try to bargain and actually offered us food during our three-hour gig without our asking.
It was a buffet dinner with a great spread and strangely enough, a BLUE-coloured drink which I only took one sip of as it tasted like liquid chewing gum.
Best of all, the sound system was superior to most hotel sound systems, so we sound the way we are supposed to and that is so crucial. We had condenser mikes, the kind where we whisper and the everybody hears. In this case, as the badminton court was surrounded by flats, we were probably heard by all the residents sitting at home, some of whom came down to listen.
Sure, I was bitten by bugs, we kept losing our pages to the breeze and I had to express breast milk in PY's new car (I was certainly not using the portable loo).
I also came home at nearly midnight to the heartbreaking sight of Dee staying up, unable to sleep because her mummy was not around to give her the breast.
But it was a truly enjoyable gig.
And truly, I'll miss Striiiings once I'm in Australia. Not only because its helped to boost my measly income in the last 1 1/2 years, but because of the music-making and the gang. They're all such characters.
(from me, clockwise)
Jacqueline, the MC, whom I don't know that well but who is one of those people who can actually get a crowd to respond.
Lim Chun, the sensitive soul, Wong Kar Wai fan and violist-extraodinaire who can melt hearts and bring on the tears with his playing. He's so good he landed himself a seat in a new Valencia-based Spanish orchestra, picked from thousands who auditioned from around the world, and will be accompanying the likes of Placido Domingo and Daniel Barenboim in the coming months. He's one of those rare Singaporeans who can actually make a decent living from music.
Pol Yee, one of those guys people love to hate because he does well in everything. He's got a PhD, can afford a new car within months of his first job, can sing, can salsa, can play the fiendishly difficult "Flight of the Bumblebee" on the piano at a frenetic pace which never fails to earn applause from the most jaded listener, is just as good on the cello, started the Striiiings business while he was studying and best of all, arranges all the Striiiings repertoire. The only thing not going so well for Dr Liew is his love life.
Luke, is the other doctor in the group, only he's a medical doctor. Those fingers which fly over the violin strings knead flesh in the day when he practises as a chiropractor somewhere in Tanglin. He's also a real charmer who actually managed to convert a pretty guest at one of our wedding gigs into his girlfriend.
Melissa, mystical and ethereal, is Luke's girlfriend!
Will I find buddies like these in Australia? I'll miss them all.
For rememberance, here's one of my fav pieces. The Tango, Por Una Cabeza, from "Scent of a Woman".
Dee's por por calls Dee "lou fu la" in Cantonese. That's Tigress.
Not without good reason. Por por came home from work today and the house was so strangely devoid of the usual screaming cries she was moved to ask: "Is 'lou fu la' sleeping in her den?"
Dee is FIERCE. Neighbours who haven't seen her certainly know what she sounds like. She's got the temperament and stamina of a mule, deadly stubborn in what she wants and refusing to give up until she gets it.
Never mind the day. The worst used to be the nights, when Dee routinely got a bee in her bonnet and nothing would placate her. Nothing. Well, the breast perhaps, but I can't lie down with her from 8pm till the next morning with my breast in her mouth, can I?
I did try mollycoddling. You know, so she feels loved and assured, that sleep is pleasant. I stroked her, carried her for ages, fed her, sang to her and for a while I thought I had it: Three consecutive feeds and carrying for about 30 minutes before she settled down for the night. It workeed for all of 3 nights.
The fourth night, even after my three feeds and falling asleep, she kept jerking awake and carried on her caterwauling until bloody 2am.
I quit. Then it was KK's turn to step into the ring to Tame the Tigress.
His way: Let her cry it out. He only pats her and talks to her occasionally.
He took over sometime last week. It's been about 10 days. And golly, he's done it.
He puts her down at 8pm every night. The first night, she screamed for 1 1/2 hours. The next 2 nights, an hour. Then half an hour. Nowadays, she complains for 15 minutes before giving up and dropping off.
Funnily enough, she sleeps really well once she learnt that this is the time to bed down for the night. And what's even more marvellous is that she can sooth herself. I have seen her wake up in the middle of the night and suck on her fist until she goes back to sleep.
I don't love the crying-it-out method. But I must say it has its uses.
Rarely sighted, extremely valuable and very much sought after. That's Dee's dimple, the singular hole in her left cheek which winks at us probably less than 10 times a day.
Like I said before, she isn't the smiley sort.
But when she does smile, the sun rises.
Her smiles only come once a day, a period of probably less than 30 minutes.
What brings on her dimple? Usually, Day. She finds him fascinating and rather funny, craning her neck to catch sight of him whenever she hears his voice. This, even though he relishes climbing up on whichever bed she is lying on and stomping around her head. Or kneading her chubby arms and poking her eyes. She never seems to mind.
As for us, her long-suffering parents, we are sidelined. She glances our way on the rare occasion and little we do makes her smile or laugh. For a period, she would smile when she looked my way but she got sick of it. Now when she sees me, her bland expression seems to say: "You again?"
But for sure, she is more appealing now than a month before. She gurgles, she chuckles, she squeals. And she is fat. Who doesn't like a chubby baby?
Here she is, in all her her full-fleshed, Reubenesque glory.
Just 2 more months to Sydney. KK's term starts end-July.
Are we good to go? Well we haven't bought air tickets or settled where we are going to stay or packed anything. The 2 of us are just so laissez-faire, definitely not the sort who will settle every single detail months before going. There is a little more urgency this time though, as there are kids involved!
One thing's for sure though: I'm watching the money with an eagle eye.
It's infinitely depressing, the amount of money it takes before we can step foot into Australia.
One jab for the kids (compulsory in Australia but not in Singapore) costs $150 each, not including the paed's $50 consultation fee. And Dee will need FOUR doses.
Visa for KK: Over $500.
The whole family just went for a medical examination. Cost: $504. I can't believe we had to shell out $84 for the clinic to take Dee's height and weight which I already knew.
It was another $84 for Day, only his included an eye test which was a complete waste of time because it's not that he can't see the alphabets but he doesn't know. Either that or he is telling us something else altogether. How to test a 2-year-old? It's plain ridiculous.
As for me, things have been further complicated because of an ambiguous Hepatitis B status and the Australian embassy apparently called the clinic, ordering that I go to a specialist for further liver tests. And because of time constraints, I have to go to a private specialist instead of the public hospitals.
I dread to imagine the dent all this administration is making in our savings, even before we fly off.
And while I'm trying my best to bring in a bit more moolah, it's tough when I have to stay home most times to breastfeed Dee and look after the kids.
I just gave Day a slap on the face. Not a tight one or a fast one, but a slap nonetheless. It's the first time I slapped him.
The cause for the blow-up: The maid was trying to give Dee a bottle of milk. That is a continuing battle, and to maximise success, I have to be as far away as possible so Dee doesn't get the slightest whiff of her mummy or she would scream for the breast.
Next to the maid was Day, who was trying to upset everyone. From taking out the bottle and playing with the teat, to grabbing the cup of boiling hot water. After hearing my maid's distress calls ie. her pleading and begging Day to be a good boy, I finally decided to stalk over and it was at that moment that Day upset the cup of water, tipping the bottle onto the carpet so the teat got dirty with carpet dust.
A flame of anger shot straight up to my head and before I knew it, I had slapped Day. I then grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him far away.
His reaction: He bawled. Predictably. He was very upset, tears streaming down his face.
Me, once the flame died down a bit, I wanted to cry myself. I have smacked him on the hand once before but that's it.
Even when he stopped crying, I felt devastated at my failure to rein in my temper, taking it out on my son. Worse, he saw how ugly his mom can be.
As hard as it is, I'm going to have to try even harder to rein in my temper. Biting my lip and turning my back on them (until I regain my senses) is infinitely better than screaming and hitting them.
When putting Day to sleep, I always tell him a story in the dark, either the likes of the Gingerbread Man (a favourite), Little Red Riding Hood or something completely made up which revolves around him as the hero.
Lately, I have been getting him to fill in the blanks to the made-up stories - sort of like a cloze passage - and what he says really gives insights into his little mind and what he fancies. Here's one (very abbreviated) story: Day's contributions in bold.
Once upon a time, there was a little boy whose name was David.
He had a good friend whose name was Jinsheng. (one of his boy friends from school)
David and Jinsheng had a House.
In the house there was a very big Swimming Pool.
In the pool there were Sharks.
They also liked to play at the Slide in the Playground.
After playing, David and Jinsheng would go into the house to drink lots of Green Tea.
After drinking tea, they loved to eat Sweets and Candies.
David's favourite was M&Ms. Blue ones.
Besides sweets and candies, they loved to eat M&Ms. Blue ones.
Besides chocolates, they loved to eat M&Ms. Blue ones.
What lurks behind that seemingly innocent little face?
Day looks as cherubic as ever, but he is veering further and further away from being an angel.
Just for a start, he's using words to manipulate. How?
Using the word "Love" to manipulate his mama
Day's been ordering me around. He commands me, accompanied by a lot of vigorous head nodding and pointing in the relevant direction, like so: "Mummy take the crane for Day Day". Sometimes I do and sometimes I don't.
Just now, however, he tried a different tack. He tried ordering me to go downstairs to get his yellow crane, like so: "Mummy go downstairs, OK?" When I refused, he gave a sly smile, sidled up, wrapped his arms around my neck and cooed: "Mummy, I love you."
Cue thunder and lightning! What a devious trick! Of course I didn't get it for him.
Using words to get rid of his papa
We've been having to lecture him pretty often nowadays. One night, as he was getting tucked into bed, KK came to give him a lecture on how he needs to shit into the potty instead of his diapers.
Nodding merrily away, Day intoned: "Yes, OK, yes, OK. Bye papa. Bye."
There, we were left with our first taste of kids who would say anything to get their parents off their backs.
This is my mom. Day and Dee's grandma. When she was a (very) sweet young thing.
I'm nothing like my mom, apart from the cheeks and the reproductive organs.
* She's beancurd-white and till this day, has thighs as smooth as marble. I'm muddy brown with dry eczema-prone pores.
* She's plump and soft. I'm thin and bony.
* She's got lots of hair in the right places ie on her head and none on the body. I have limp, thin hair on my head which takes forever to grow, and I have plenty of arm and leg hair.
* She's (compared to me) vain, the sort who tried on lipstick when she was seven. Me, makeup is something I apply annually and all I own is one lipstick for gigs.
* She doesn't have a temper to speak of. Once a day on average, I clench my fists so I don't end up throwing something on the floor.
* She believes in spending money once it's earned and eats at hotels several times a week. I hoard like a squirrel.
But so what? She's my mom! And since it's Mother's Day, I reckon it's the best time to dredge up a few of my most enduring memories of her (when I was a child) and put it on the record. I'm sure some of it would surprise her since children tend to remember the strangest things.
* I burst into tears when I was a seven-year-old child in class, scaring all the teachers silly, because I imagined myself at my mother's funeral and the image of her funeral photo refused to leave me.
* I remember mom cooking a delicious (but unhealthy) meal of very fried crispy chicken, peas and something else (I forgot) one Children's Day and here's the highlight: Served it on a beautiful glass platter. She promised to cook it again for us, but NEVER did.
* Taking the bus with mom, clutching my pink rabbit, to por por's apartment and refusing - despite all her exhortations - to look at or talk to the bus conductor who was coo-ing away at me.
* Growing up to the sound of piano scales and Bach, as my mother would teach her piano students at home.
* Banished out of the house one dark night by my father as I refused to swallow my garlic pills (I still can't swallow pills), I bawled my heart out thinking that I would die on the street. Mom quietly opened the gate and without a word, led me in. I remember thinking that my dad was going to kill her for that supreme act of compassion.
A reporter called me up, said she was doing a Mother's Day story for Sunday and needed quickie answers to five questions.
First off: How do I rate myself as a mom?
My first thought: What a crap question.
For one, my kids would know better than me. For another, there are so many aspects to being a mom it's meaningless to try and rate one. Better she ask me how I would rate my diaper changing skills.
In any case, I told her 6. She asked me why.
Well, because I'm a 10 when it comes to sticking to breastfeeding, 4 when it comes to trying to calming a screaming baby, -2 when it comes to cutting baby's fingernails (I recently drew blood), 7 on my sarong-slinging skills, 2 on patience etc etc.... and in the 5 seconds it took for me to give her the answer, I worked out that it all averages out to 6.
It's just a silly answer to a silly question, that's why.
Dee in Day's singlet. Lots of holes so the rashes on her back get some air.
She seems so comfortable in it I think I'm just going to let her continue wearing them.
Just as wearing a dress seemed to feminize her, this singlet makes her look just like a boy. Dresses are nice, but I realize they are terribly uncomfortable for her. I remember hating dresses with a passion from the time I had memories.
She's also in the classic "fencing" pose which all babies seem to favour at some point or another.
It took so long as I have a pathological fear of pumping. I keep worrying that if I pump now, what if she wakes up in the next 5 minutes and demands to be fed? Then I would have nothing for her. (of course, logic dictates that I can simply give her the just-pumped-out milk but I'm not logical when it comes to breastfeeding)
And when I feed directly, nobody, not even me, knows how much she is getting. But pumping means there is physical evidence. It can be measured and seen.
I know I produce very little indeed. An average of 100 ml each time I pump, from BOTH sides, mind you.
This first bottle: Just 40 ml from one side. Predictably, my maid, shaking the bottle and peering at it to make sure she was seeing the right thing, gave me a look that clearly articulated what she was thinking: That's IT??
My defence: It's quality over quantity! I may not be one of those women who produce the volume equivalent to one soft drink can from one side (I did interview one such woman before, who donated over a hundred litres of excess breast milk to friends) but I can say for sure that in the last few weeks I definitely have enough for her.
Each time she drinks, she's probably getting no more than 50 ml as she's full after one breast.
Now if I get this pumping thing going, I can even get parrts of my life back! Go out without her, yippee yay!
She was an insufferable screamer who would routinely cry for hours every night, a sourpuss whose smiles were - in my maid's words - "very expensive", a prissy miss who demanded her carrier to walk and rock and sing. There was very little cooing and gurgling at Dee because everyone was so stressed.
She hasn't changed that much. Still my fussy feisty (now chubbier) daughter.
But exactly two days ago, she underwent an abrupt personality change.
Very strange because Day was never like that, he was consistent.
Dee literally changed overnight. One day she was her usual unpleasant self. The next, she morphed into a more likeable creature.
The smiles came on. Still expensive, still rare - definitely less than Day, who was a very smiley baby. But yes, they came, frequently enough for me to capture a couple on camera (Literally. I now have exactly two pictures of Dee smiling).
Her waking hours, instead of being spent on making life difficult for her carers, can be termed (comparatively) moments of sunshine as she quietly looks around, listens to us and occasionally gurgles in reply. Earnestly.
It's like she suddenly discovered that there is a world around her that is infinitely far more interesting, than wallowing in misery at being born.
Well missy, it took you a long time!
On another note, the breastfeeding which I was fretting about has become a non-issue. For one, I'm at the stage where I couldn't care less if I had to feed her every hour the whole night to keep her comforted.
For another, she is actually much easier to feed than Day. She is (comparatively) a gentle little sucker who feeds 10 minutes on average each time at one breast before dropping off or spitting out the breast. I couldn't believe it the first time she spit it out; never ever in my 1 1/2 years of feeding Day has he EVER spit out the breast. I always had to forcibly peel him off.
As her personality blossoms, it's interesting to see how different she is from Day. Dee is (at the moment) comparatively morose and serious.
I'm also fascinated by how graceful her hands are. Day was forever punching out jerkily. Her fingers have a life of their own, moving like seaweed fronds or like she is doing a fan dance.
* On Day: After making a sudden recovery from fever after five days, he promptly hit his forehead on the edge of a wall and now has a bump over his eye. Boys.
I nearly died when I saw the thermometer reading: 40.2 degrees Celcius?!
Day's latest bout of fever saw his temperature rising to brain-frying heights which plunged us into the pit of misery.
It started on Sunday and today - four days, three anal suppositories, two doctors and one failed antibiotic later - it's still there.
Damn and double damn.
This darned virus really hit us in the face as Day has never really fallen that ill before. He's certainly never gone past 40 degrees Celcius, and his fevers usually last a day or two at max. This is one of this nightmare fevers which I had heard about but never experienced (till now) that yoyo up and down, stretching for days.
I suppose I can thank my lucky stars that he's not vomitting or coughing or having diarrhoea, but the fever!
It's really fighting fire as I frantically cram the thermometer into his ear and do a hysterical dance between stuffing yet another suppository into his backside, giving him a bath, sponging him with ice-cold towels and wishing the clock would hurry up so I can give him another dose of medicine.
Actually I don't even need the thermometer. Once he hits 40, he just goes limp and he has tiny shivers, like he is going into a fit (ARRGH!).
I cannot imagine how my parents must have felt when I had a fit as a baby which I was only brought out of when I (according to family legend) had a cup of urine thrown in my face.
What's causing Day's fever? A throat infection, apparently.
A viral one which no antibioic will help (hence I was told to stop antibiotic by Doctor #2) and which will just have to run its course. My job is to manage his fever, which I wasn't doing very well.
Now I'm just pumping him with fever meds round the clock, every four hours, with infusions of stronger stuff if his fever spikes before the next dose. Poor boy.
On the upside, if I must look for one, is how absolutely gorgeous he looks with a fever burning inside him. His lips turn rosy, his cheeks flush and double eyelids appear.
Clearly though, I can't wait for the return of my healthy slitty-eyed boy.
And even more importantly, I hope Dee doesn't get it. A six-week-old baby burning up with fever is no joke.
