12 km

Ah, we did it.


The bone-rattling, hip-numbing, muscle-pulling walk from Coogee to Bondi and BACK.

I can hardly believe it.

The impetus for our sudden burst of derring-do came a day after our purchase of a new beige-coloured stroller, at what we thought was a reasonable sum of A$80 (after a magnificent discount of A$20).


One kid for each stroller, theoretically all very easy, nobody has to carry anyone.

After six hours, one bruised thigh and an utterly rattled pelvis, I’m not so sure I want to do it again, the two-way that is.

I forgot about the steps. Carrying the pram up and down, up and down. (It would be unfair to make KK carry both)


At one horrible long flight, as I stared up and took a deep breath before hoisting up Dee’s pram to rest on the side of my sore thigh, I doggedly counted 60 steps. And that is after we had covered more than 10 km in total and climbed up and down loads of steps already.

On the upside, it was a visually beautiful day.


Below is the Waverly Cemetery we have to walk through, on one very narrow track where we have to squeeze past tombstones on our left, and a white fence separating us from the cliff on our right.

bare headed

Ah. She's entered the phase of nothing-will-stay-on-my-head.

All babies do. It's quite funny though. She seems to think so too.

big fish

Make that very big fish.


In the latest in our series of touristy-things-to-do, we ventured to the Sydney Aquarium.

Prodigiously expensive, yes. (A$27.50 per adult) But a little Internet research turned up 20 per cent discount vouchers which I printed out and produced with glee.

Bearing in mind that the only similar experience I’ve had is at Sentosa’s Underwater World, a few things come to mind:

* The range here is far bigger. Not just weird fish and big sharks, but also penguins, crocs, seals (viewed from a clear underwater tunnel complete with speakers, so we can also hear the echoey shrieks of the sleek creatures).


* The sea creatures are bigger. Especially impressive (to me at least) were the carpet-sized sting rays.

* The creatures seem (for want of a better phrase) more alive and not so sluggish. The sharks here were actually whipping about baring their rows of teeth, and not lying at the bottom playing dead. Possibly it’s because they are in their natural environment – the aquarium is right at the edge of the Darling Harbour. Some of those sharks probably swam over from Bondi and decided to stay put. The natural sunlight filtering through, plus slightly grimy albeit blue water, also makes the whole set up a little more authentic.


I suppose most of the creatures are natives not immigrants.

Day, the intended audience of our trip, was unfortunately more pre-occupied with lollipops and fishy toys from the aquarium shop. He was entirely disinterested.

If anyone has ever seen wide-eyed parents gushing in superlatives, gesturing frantically in a futile effort to interest their child to see something – “LOOK, DAY! Look at the BIG shark! Look at it’s TEETH!” – that’s us.

What he remembers most clearly is the palm-sized octopus because it reminds him of Henry the Octopus (from The Wiggles, groan), and because there was a yellow ball toy and a plastic hunk of cheese in the tank for it to play with.

On a side note, Dee was very very keen. To think we were contemplating for one of us to stay outside with her (to save the cost on one ticket), lucky we didn’t. Pawing at the glass, tracking the movement of the creatures up and down, left and right, she was the eager beaver.


Pity she won’t remember any of it.

breakfast in bondi

When this rather miserable A$6 breakfast plate was placed in front of us (to share), we were frankly dismayed for we were Ravenous. Famished. Predatory.

Simple reason being that we had just spent two hours walking (again!) 6 km with kids, from Coogee to Bondi, to eat. (It’s quite amazing how one’s walking stamina is like a rubber band: Once you’ve stretched it, it gets longer and longer)

Hunger notwithstanding, this particular walk was different from our Kingsford journey, for the walking mattered more than the destination.

Truly, the Coastal Walk along the beach is truly spectacular. Something anyone who is visiting Sydney should do.


Bay after bay after bay (from Coogee, it’s Gordon’s Bay, Clovelly, Bronte, Tamarama and then Bondi), each one is uniformly gorgeous yet uniquely pretty, and the winding road faithfully brings one right to the edge of the surf, if possible, or to the edge of towering cliffs with views to die for.


* Photo sucks because we walked on a gray and chilly day, which was perfect for walking but not for photos!

Speaking of dying, my favourite part of the walk was a trek through the Waverly Cemetery, a stunning vista of mostly white headstones from tiny crosses to bed-room sized pavilions dotting the green-topped cliffs like so many sheep. What a spectacular final resting place.

Then there were all the gorgeous rocks to clamber over, sit on, crawl into.


Funnily enough, we didn’t meet any tourists along the way. Just loads of sweaty joggers. Apparently the Coastal Walk is very much a local thing, which makes it even more worth going for.

For a fitting end to a highly satisfying walk, after our paltry breakfast, we decided to indulge.


We got ourselves a chocolate-hazelnet streudel from the Gelato Bar Restaurant (shop number 140 along the Bondi Beach) – another Cannot Miss. The place is apparently an institution. It’s really not hard to find: Most people stop to stare at the rows and rows of decadent desserts.


I spotted the shop, which looks deliciously scruffy, the first time I visited Bondi and I swore I would eat something from there some time. The streudel is to die for. Good thing is, I don’t need to care about calories when I just walked two hours.

Note: We took 2 buses back to Coogee. Next time, KK says, we should trek back.

road march to kingsford

On a sweltering hot day, it’s only sadists who will even think of lugging two kids up and down slopes over 3 km, to search for a restaurant in a part of town they have hardly been to, on foot.

But that’s us.

Call it our road march from Coogee to Kingsford.

It was KK who suddenly had a bee in his bonnet when he (finally) woke up at 10-ish: He wanted to eat spicy Indonesian food. And not just any Indonesian food. It had to come from one particular restaurant we were brought to once by Alan nearly two months ago.

The name of the restaurant? The road name? No idea. We only knew it was in a part of town called Kingsford which we could not bus to.

Always up for adventure, I grabbed our one and only map (a one-pager freebie from UNSW), slopped sunscreen onto the kids, and we were off.

On paper, our progress sounds terrible: Though I am a fairly good navigator, my heart fell when, after emerging from a long lane of private houses and over an hour of walking, I saw… nothing.

“But that’s supposed to be Kingsford, across the road,” I mumbled, pushing Dee in her pram.

“But that’s not the part of Kingsford we are going to,” said KK, who had the far harder job of carrying Day on his shoulders.


I am going to blame the map. For printing the “Kingsford” label one centimeter lower than it should be, hence adding an additional kilometer or so to our journey.


We eventually managed to make our way to Ayam Goreng 99, where sambal kangkong, chendol and charcoal grilled chicken never tasted so good.


And I must say, it was a good thing we walked or we would never have come across the A$10 bill which literally floated into KK’s path. That helped to mitigate the A$35 cost of our lunch.


The most unbelievable part of our lunch outing, however, came at the end: After doing some grocery shopping, laden with shopping bags we decide to WALK BACK in the even hotter afternoon heat.

I was all ready to take a taxi with our picked-up $10. Until this exchange:

KK: “Let’s walk back. It’ll be like a road march. I used to march 72km.”
Me: “You’re not young anymore, you’re not a spring chicken.”
KK: “I am young. But you think old.”

And that was that. I would have walked 72km to prove otherwise.

Good thing we walked back too.

For this time we wised up and walked the shorter route through the silent university, where Day and Dee had a field day on the deserted lawns instead of being mercilessly lugged around by their folks. That, I think, was the best part of the day for them.

playing together

a swimming swimming pool

One of the things that we miss most here is swimming.


Sounds silly considering we have miles of beach at our door step, but four things make it difficult for us to go for sea swims: The sun is usually too freaking hot, the water is too freaking cold and every other week a fresh body is washed up. Usually too-bold young men who think they can brave the sea. Then there are the shark threats.

So one of the first things we did, with KK free, was to visit a swimming pool (as opposed to a sea pool), the Des Renford Aquatic Centre in Maroubra. The pools are under cover.


I don’t think we’ll go there again.

It takes two buses to get there, it costs A$4.20 per adult to go in and despite the claim that it’s a heated pool (I was told 32 degrees Celcious), it still felt cold. Day was shivering after 20 minutes. Maybe it’s just us weaklings.

We were out within half an hour.


Dee – in her virgin pool experience – had a miserable time. She clung to me like a limpet and refused to touch the water. She’s wearing an old swim suit of Day’s, click here to see him in it. I think they look the same.)


Day used to swim at least once a week, guess he’ll have to confine his breast stroke to the bath tub.

a mouthful

What happens at dinner time when a toddler refuses to take his afternoon nap.

He swallowed the chicken much later when he woke up.

the day exams ended

As if we had collectively recovered from a month-long bout of constipation, our family sphincter relaxed with a great shudder at 12 noon on the dot Tuesday, when KK finally fully discharged his academic woes, walked out of his exam hall a free man and we all heaved a huge sigh of relief.

Snatches:

The smile which never left my face all morning - despite the sweltering heat when I brought the kids to the playgroup - as I gleefully anticipated the Handover.

Opening the door to KK who, instead of plodding in, ran in and declared with a grin: “I’m finished! Maybe in more ways than one!” before he kissed all of us and handed a big fat chocolatey donut to Day.

My enjoying a long leisurely bath for the first time in weeks as KK handled the kids.

Packing the last of KK’s files (he never wants to touch his files after the exam, to him it’s taboo) into the Siberia Cupboard.

Day repeatedly padding over to count the files in Siberia before sticking up six fingers and shouting: “Papa has finished six exams!”

Having a celebratory dinner out in a nice pricey Thai restaurant overlooking Coogee Beach which charges double (A$32 for all of us) for atmosphere and carrot sculptures which nobody eats.


That said, as atmosphere means nothing to kids and I think my kids probably spoils the atmosphere for others, we should probably have just done a cheap fish and chips by the beach.

Just being able to go out, chill out and pass the time without having to rush back for KK to study.

change and upheaval

Have we done Day a favour or a disservice by bringing him here?

Would he perhaps be better off back in Singapore?

We’ll probably never know, how he would have turned out if we didn’t embark on this trip.

But we know for sure how he has changed since we first came four months ago.

And sometimes, in recent weeks particularly, I am tipping towards Disservice.

* He used to be really REALLY sociable, greeting strangers and making friends quickly with kids. After he left, neighbours came up to my mum to ask: “Where’s your grandson? The neighbourhood is so quiet without him”. Nowadays, he resolutely clams his mouth and turns his face away. He seems afraid to open up. And I’m afraid it may be because apart from his parents, there are no constant faces in his life. The steady procession of aunties and uncles who breeze in and out of Sydney, bearing gifts and greetings and lots of goodwill, leave huge gaps when they leave. And Uncle Danny died. Nowadays, he doesn’t even ask where all these people go off to. He just assumes they disappear into this big great black hole called Singapore.

* He refuses to make friends with kids his own age. Yes, I bring him to the playgroup but for him the highlight remains the fruit salad. He never plays with the kids and in recent weeks, has taken to shouting “No! No! No!” with a ferocious frown whenever any kid tries any advances. Day’s papa - one of those strange people who honestly doesn’t need a single friend and has made absolutely no effort to make friends here – doesn’t think it’s a problem. I do. Kids. Need. Friends. Then again, how can we expect him to make friends if we don’t find like-minded parents to befriend and hang out with?

* For the first time last night, when I whispered in his ear before he slept that his papa and mummy loved him, he said “no”. Specifically, he thinks his papa doesn’t love him. Clearly, KK as a working man is a far better father than KK as a full-time student.

* His understanding of Chinese has evaporated. While I would love to speak Chinese to KK, KK can’t bring himself to converse with me in the language as it would be too painful. Worse, he has, like many kids back in Singapore, grown to hate it. Speak to him in Chinese and he screams “No!” as if to try and drown out the sounds. We haven’t even FORCED him to learn the language and he already hates it. Don’t even start on the Cantonese or the Hakka. This Sydney immersion may just be the point where the seeds of banana-ish were rooted into my son.

There are good things.

* He has become tremendously independent.

* He understands a good deal more, I think, than he would understand if we had never left. He’s had to do a lot of thinking since we came out here. For one, he never demands for toys. Never. He asks if we can buy it for him, but he knows that usually, he won’t get it. I may be wrong, but for a two-year-old boy to walk into a super-swanky toy store filled to the brim with the shiniest and biggest Thomas the Tank Engine toys, and then walk out quietly after having viewed and peered at all the toys like museum exhibits, is pretty rare.

* I think he now knows how important the family is. He knows when his parents are maxed out, he knows we need to be there for each other, he knows how to give comfort when it’s needed. The warm hug he gave me after I emerged from the bedroom, my face grey after a full-on day of Dee’s histrionics, cooking and cleaning was unexpected and welcome. His favourite question nowadays: “Are you happy?”

If I can summarize, I would say this Sydney experience (so far) has turned him inward.

end of the road

Just two more days till the end of his (KK's) examinations.

Four papers down and two more to go.

Yes, he answered all the questions, no blanks left. Whether he answered them correctly is another thing altogether.

If he clears everything, it will likely mean another round of swotting for semester two.

If he doesn't... well. We will have to re-think our plans, won't we?

We can't last here for more than a year.

arty crafty

More ways to occupy a 2 ½ year old who does not go to school: Art and craft.

His papa is inclined to view these as a waste of time. His slightly disdainful words: “After my exams, I’m going to do sporty stuff with him. Not all this art and craft.”

Hey man, I have to do SOMETHING. A small two-bedroom apartment the size of a HDB three-room flat with barely any furniture, nooks or crannies, is no place for a little boy to explore. Not for hours and hours on end.

While I would love to do sporty stuff with him, I can’t do chase-and-squeals, somersaults and slam dunks when my arms are full of Dee.

Day doing crafts also keeps me sane for a while as I can leave him there to quietly work on it.

It’s not that hard or expensive, really. All we have and all that we need is glue, scissors and paint for him to turn waste into better-looking waste.

ICE CREAM STICKS


Coloured ice cream sticks from his play group. He likes lining them up side by side. With these all stuck together, I wrote “David’s playroom” on it and hung it onto the door handle.


More sticks. The playgroup art co-ordinator’s missive: Since Christmas is coming, stick them into the shape of a star and next week, the kids can turn them into fridge magnets. With stick-on magnets of course.

EGG TRAY


What made Day obsessed about his egg-tray turtles were not the turtles per se; but the colouring.

With only six different colours, when he started clamouring for his #7 turtle, the only thing one can do is to mix.

He was suitably fascinated when he managed to paint 14 different-coloured turtles with the six lousy pots of paint (one or two a day so that kept him occupied for a good week and a half) and I reckon he will never forget how blue and red make purple. How a dollop of white makes it light purple. And so on and so forth.

STRAWS


How fun it is, to thread through something hollow. Kids love trying to poke things through a straw. (actually so do I)

This was meant to be a straw mobile, but it didn’t quite work out as our thread lengths were all over the place and the entire thing crumpled in on itself when lifted up. Oh well.

PAPER


Ah, what one can do with paper, paint and glue. The possibilities are endless. This particular giraffe picture involved a carrot, which Day used to print the giraffe tattoos.

flower picker

He used to pick leaves.

Now he picks flowers.

Every day, every time we go out, he stops to pick exactly three flowers - one for me, one for Dee and one for himself.

counting pennies

I don't count sheep before I go to sleep. I count money.

Every miserable dollar and cent has to be accounted for, right down to Day's 60 cents lollipops.

With a monthly budget of A$1500 for our survival (that's for everything apart from our A$1500 monthly rent), I have to be a scrooge about it.

Have we been toeing the line?

One month yes, the other months no.

Big purchases, nice meals, kid's toys, will be followed by lean days, so we can make up the numbers.

In my (unwanted, if I may say so, but no one else can do it) role as financial controller, dollar values have been printed on my brain.

Broccoli $2.99 per kg, two corn cobs for $2.45, apples $4.97 per kg, bananas $9.98 per kg, chicken lovely legs $5.98 per kg, dory fish $18.99 per kg, salmon $29.99 per kg, Tim Tams $1.98 per pack when on sale, cheap but reasonably good coffee grounds $4.98 per pack...

See, I have to remember these prices so when I see something cheaper elsewhere, I KNOW when to grab it.

Not a nice thing, counting money.

But there is an upside to all this: Whatever we buy, it's NECESSARY. Nothing is just bought for the sake of buying / retail therapy.

Then you realize, how little you actually need to be satisfied, you realize what is important.

happy dee

For her grandparents.

father first

My husband is a man who has realized that he is a father first and a student second.

That whatever academic aspirations he has treasured for the past decade, they no longer hold true.

That once he is done, he is done and he is never going to want to go beyond the Masters.

That on numerous occasions, he has looked up from his books and voiced aloud, with a sigh: “I don’t like studying. I really don’t like this.”

That his heart is always with his family and that above all, he would much rather be working for money to raise his kids rather than using the money to benefit himself.

It is the family, really. If he were single, things would be different.

It’s like we are a huge millstone hanging around his neck. But to him, the way he sees it, his studies now are a huge liability in terms of finances and time.

Yes, time. Even though he sits at home all day, I swear, he is forever studying with hardly a break, from the time he wakes up at noon to he time he sleeps at 3am, 4am.

He is sorry he can’t play with Day – who is perceptibly cooler towards his papa – he’s sorry he can’t play with Dee.

Circumstances change, plans change, perceptions change.

He’s talked about the Masters since he graduated from NTU aeons ago, but now that he’s doing it, I think he’d rather not have.

He’s said, that in future, he would tell his kids to do everything they want to do for themselves BEFORE getting a family.

That said, in my opinion, if he doesn’t pass all six subjects, I think it would be a major stroke of bad luck.

He’s put in every ounce of effort possible, seriously, he’s been swotting like mad.

To me, it’s a good sign that today, the day before the exam, he’s put away his books and has basically been chilling out the whole day. No last-minute cramming, which is pretty incredible.

He’ll deny that he’s well-prepared, however. He says he’s relaxing because he’s had it. He’s studied so much, any more would be like forcing food on someone who is full to the point of vomiting.

blasted double eyelids

When these blasted double eyelids of his showed up on Tuesday, I sighed.

Day's eyelids have never failed to be stellar advance warnings, road signs indicating that there's danger ahead.

True to form, the fever manifested itself a few hours later and he's still having it three days later.

Of all the times to fall ill - the first time for him since we came here - he has to succumb the week before papa's killer exam week.

We would have let him fight the phlegmy cough and running nose that accompanied the fever on his own, but when he started screaming every time he coughed, and waking up screaming, I bundled him off to the doctor in the pram.

Doc, a skinny Chinese chap with a buzz cut and square glasses, peered at me as I described Day's symptoms and in the ponderous silence that followed, I could almost hear him saying: "Why are you wasting your time and my time?"

He clearly thought I was a panicky idiot who should have just let my son fight it out on his own.

I think most people here do that. Don't go to the doctor unless absolutely necessary, that is. Self-medicate, rest, drink lots of water, think holistic.

But true to my Singaporean roots, and to a childhood peppered with numerous visits to the doctor for every little ailment, I didn't feel good about not letting a doc look at him.

After more ponderous silences which were mostly broken by me, he finally decided to prescribe some medicine.

I must say, I didn't think he was going to prescribe anything at all for Day.

I, however, brought it up. In answer to my questions of: "Do you think you can give him something to relieve the cough? Do you think he should be given some antibiotics in case he doesn't improve over the next few days?" he said "Oh sure."

Then - unlike in Singapore where you get the medicine straight from the clinic - I had to pop in to the chemist opposite the clinic with prescription in hand, and pay at the cashier.

Total bill: A$80.

Dee unfortunately, has started coughing too. Inevitable, considering how Day hacks into her face (on purpose). I am hoping the breast milk does its job of protecting her somewhat.

square brain

Day doesn’t do his playgroup crafts like any of the other kids.

He is fastidious, meticulous and careful to the point of being anal.

Today, the kids were given cupcake holders, glue, paper and glitter in a salt-shaker bottle.

Setting his eyes on and staking his claim on the newest glue brush, Day very slowly and carefully painted circular globs of glue of the exact size, to stick ten cupcake holders in a row.

More work went into painting another even layer of glue inside the cupcake holders before he took the glitter bottle, turned it upside down and sparingly tapped the bottom of the bottle for just the right amount of glitter.

While the other kids swarming around him were in a frenzy of artistic exploration, liberally dripping thick ketchupy globs of glue, smearing on cupcake holders willy nilly and shaking out mountains of glitter, Day stood in his own little calm oasis, engineering a perfectly straight line of evenly spaced cups.

Not even the frenetic attempts of another child to dab a spot of wayward glue on Day’s paper frayed him; he simply smeared it across so the cups could be placed evenly, so order would reign once more.



Another piece of Day's cupcake holder art: A field of very straight flowers.

the last stretch

Three more weeks.

Three more torturous weeks till the day KK’s exams finish.

Like running a marathon, this last stretch (of semester one, that is), is proving to be the most arduous.

For KK, most definitely, as he tries to cram six subjects worth of information - most of which he knows nothing about as nothing applies to Singapore – for the exams.

His greatest nightmare (and one that I am sure all of us are familiar with): Staring at the questions for half an hour with nothing to write. Or writing and canceling and writing and canceling…

His punishing exam schedule – papers on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday the first week – means he will barely have time to recover from one paper before launching into the next.

For me, I am breathless from having to juggle the kids the entire day on top of cooking and cleaning. KK was always able to help before. Not now.

For Day, the poor boy is immersing himself in the colourful world of the Wiggles where people are actually laughing and enjoying themselves. The both of us can hardly entertain him.

For Dee... well, Dee always gets what she wants. No one can resist that powerful set of lungs. So it's status quo for her ie. being carried all day by her frazzled mother.

BUT when it's all over, it will be a truly joyous occasion!

uncle danny

When one is alone and friendless in a new country, every act of warmth, every gesture of friendship, means everything.

Uncle Danny was the first person to welcome us wholeheartedly and unquestioningly into his life.

Ours was a chance meeting: I was walking with Dee and Day to the playgroup. Uncle Danny, stooped and shuffling slowly, was pushing his grandson to the same place.

We smiled at each other but we didn’t say anything until we reached the playgroup. He looked at me, laughed and said: “I guessed you must have been coming here. No one else would be heading here with two kids!”

That day, my two hours at the playgroup was the most intellectually fulfilling. Unlike all the other mothers whom I had talked to previously (and even till now), my conversation with this grandfather didn’t stop at “Oh how old’s your baby? The weather’s terrible today isn’t it?”

From why I was here to Singapore’s dismal media climate to religion, we talked literally as we walked, I accompanied him as he slowly pushed his grandson round and round in the toy car.

Uncle Danny, a retired doctor and Malaysia-born Indian who came to Australia because of racial riots, had plenty of tales of his own, tales which he continued telling when he invited us all back to his daughter’s place for a pizza and orange juice.

It was the first Sydney residence we were invited into and while Day liberally ran across the timber floors and admired the purple wisteria tree, I was suffused with gratefulness.

For weeks after, it became a pleasurable ritual.

Tuesdays, when Uncle Danny came to stay with his daughter for two days a week to look after his grandchild, I would look out for Uncle Danny’s white car, licence plate DAN, outside the house.

We would discuss the weather, politics and life in Australia at the playgroup. After which we would pop by his daughter’s place where he would unfailingly insist on serving us some food.

No matter how I shot dagger eyes at Day, he would say yes to Uncle Danny’s offer of toast with jam and butter, and juice. While I was slightly embarrassed at the one-way hospitality, I felt even more chastened when Uncle Danny hobbled to the fridge to produce the toast with some difficulty.

It also became a ritual for him to carry Day to wash his hands, dry them with a towel, and put on his shoes, an act which took me by surprise the first time he did it as he had to slowly lower himself to the ground, creaky joint by creaky joint, until he was lying fully on one side before gently slipping on Day's shoes.

Everytime I struggled to take over, he would, with a lot of head shaking and waving of his hand, order me to stand up as I was carrying Dee.

What I admired was how remarkably astute he was. Every time I felt bad, he managed to pre-empt any diplomatic moves I was contemplating. Telling me I could just get up and leave, for instance, no need to stay to be polite. Offering us food at the moment when our stomachs started growling. Throwing me a smile and cutting off my apologies with a consolatory “He’s growing up” when Day misbehaved.

In some way, I suppose Day was regarding Uncle Danny as a grandfather figure.

Then six weeks ago, Uncle Danny and his grandson didn’t show up at the playgroup. Day asked repeatedly: Where’s Uncle Danny?

His questions petered out as Uncle Danny disappeared from his life.

I, diplomatic as always, didn’t want to knock on the door to ask what happened. What if he had simply decided that entertaining us was too tiring?

I was wrong.

Uncle Danny wasn’t too tired. He was dead.

I just found out from his son-in-law when I bumped into the family.

Three days after we went out with Uncle Danny, his wife and grandson to the Fox Studios in mid-September, he died. In his sleep. He wasn’t even 70. When we bade him goodbye, he was talking about bringing the kids to the park the next week.

What a difference this gentleman’s kindness made to our lives. I’m only sorry I wasn’t able to return it.

(this) girl and (this) boy

Compare and contrast Day and Dee.

He is a sunshine boy, all smiles and laughter. When KK tries to make Dee laugh, Day watching from the side, usually ends up laughing while she frowns in a slightly suspicious manner.
She is dead serious. One must work very hard to elicit a chuckle.

He loved being tossed into the air.
She hates being tossed. She tenses up and her face, with each successive toss, crumples more and more until she wails. (However, she does fancy being tossed when she is horizontal.)

He was very energetic, the kind of wiggly baby who will fall off a sofa or meet with some sort of hyperactive accident.
She has never had an accident. When not crying, she sits or lies placidly, chewing away at objects like a gentle cow eternally chewing her cud.

He wants to do things. He learnt to crawl and walk in a hurry.
She wants others to do things for her. If she wants something, she continues sitting on her ass and starts screaming for someone to give her what she wants.

He wasn’t afraid to try anything. Lunging, falling.
She thinks very hard before deciding if something is too dangerous. For the past two months, she has slowly been extending her reach from her sitting position but is still too scared to make that leap from sitting to crawling.

He learnt by doing.
She learns by watching.

He ate anything and everything voraciously.
She is naturally suspicious and takes dainty little morsels.

He never pouted. Not once.
She pouts. A lot.

He splashed around a lot at bath time.
She avoids splashing as she doesn’t like the water getting into her eyes.

He always flipped over when I tried to change his nappy. Always. Which made nappy-changing a most difficult task.
She never flips over when I change her nappy. She lies still and prostrate, watching me quietly while I wipe her ass.

He drooled a lot.
She hardly drools.

wiggles or hi 5?

Hands down, between these two Aussie kiddy entertainment groups, the winner for us is The Wiggles.

I cannot explain the appeal of four middle-aged Australian men – aged from their mid 30s to mid 50s – swiveling their hips and flouncing around in what some people would term a “gay” manner. (Since three of them have two kids each, however, it’s probably just work)

Neither can I explain the poetry behind the prosaic lyrics of their (mostly) original songs, Day’s favourite being:

Hot potato hot potato
Hot potato hot potato
Hot potato hot potato, potato
Potato potato potato

I am even more hard-pressed to explain why KK sometimes puts on the DVD for his own listening pleasure, or why I gleefully wiggle along with the quartet (after drawing down the blinds) till I’m out of breath. (for those in the know, my fav dancing song is D.O.R.O.T.H.Y, the moves are very YMCA-ish)

But I can fully understand why they are Australia’s highest earning entertainers. Wikipedia says they grossed more in 2005 than AC/DC and Nicole Kidman combined.

No wonder. For we, despite our thin wallets, have contributed to the Wiggles fund too.

Day now owns two Wiggles DVDs, bought for the princely sum of A$50, and I don’t know how much more I have spent on renting the damn things for him to assess. (the good ones, we go on to buy) He watches them ad nauseum, four, five times a day or more.

Why am I writing this now?

Because one of the Wiggles – the one who can sing and who wears yellow, Greg – is sick (from a mystery illness that makes him faint all the time) and they are searching for a replacement. The first to be replaced after the band’s 15 years of wiggling.

See how I talk about them as if they are relatives. Shocking.

I’m not sure if it’s a good thing, but if there’s any one sound track that, in future, would instantly transport us back to our Sydney experience, it would be the jaunty tunes of The Wiggles.

Here’s a rather boring video of Day doing the Hot Potato.


As to Hi 5, well. The one time I borrowed one of their DVDs, Day tuned out after five minutes. KK frowned ferociously at the bubblegum pop, made-up faces, tarty girls/buffed boys, and flat out refuses to watch anymore Hi 5 after one of the programme segments taught little girls (and boys perhaps) how to paint their toenails.

25 per cent

We’re a quarter of the way through.

When I count the time we have been here, I find it unbelievable that we have only been here 3 ½ months.

It feels like it’s been forever.

Time passes so slowly it crawls past. I have never had such an abundance of time.

There is a placid sameness to our days, devoid of public holidays and social appointments, that makes it impossible to keep track of dates.

The days run into each other and on occasion when I am asked: “What do you do on weekends?” my answer is, the same as any other day. Saturday and Sunday is no different from any other.

In many ways, it’s exactly the life I wanted to live when I insisted that KK pursue his Masters dream with us in tow.

It’s the simplest life I have ever lived.

No TV, no phone calls, no politics. Life is only about the present.

But when all this is over, this might well be an experience that I will remember fondly till the end of my days, but not want to re-live.

It will best remain a memory. A beautiful one that should not be pursued once again.