pauseability

School principal who is nearing 40 quits his job and goes into the unlikeliest of ventures: Opening a bohemian art space for adults over 16 to walk in and get creative for a dirt-cheap fee of $9 or $12. Materials all provided.


* This is just a small portion of his art shelves

What a dream to pursue! (It’s truly a dream because the money is mostly going one-way: From him into the shop)

Why I write about ex-Xin Min Pri principal Moses Sia and the very aptly-named Pauseability (pause for possibilities), located in a quiet corner of Toa Payoh at the foot of a block of HDB flats, is because Day and Dee spent a stellar afternoon there last week, courtesy of auntie Theresa who chose to spend one of her precious off-days with my kids (and me in the process).

Yes, I did say no children allowed, but because Moses is such a nice fellow and because we went on a weekday afternoon when no one else dropped in, he quite happily allowed the kids full run of his place.

Dee, she saw the rugs and cushy pillows and immediately flung herself on them.



Apart from the fact that she spent the rest of our two hours there randomly picking off boxes of Moses’ art materials (loads of the stuff which adults normally would not let within two feet of a toddler but which all toddlers love, like tiny beads the size of peas, pins and scissors) she was very happy there. And when a baby is immediately happy in a strange place, I always consider that a good sign. Good vibes, that sort of thing.



Day, he had an even better time. Forgoing his afternoon nap, he spent his time making a clay muffin, a clay cat and an acrylic painting. I reckon he also made Theresa very happy because he was perfectly happy to be her art buddy for the afternoon – I was mostly chasing Dee.



Me, I am just astounded by this tiny soft-spoken man with the specs and moustache who looks like anyone can step all over him, but who instead survived the Education Ministry and actually ran a primary school. (he said he used to make Teacher’s Day presents for his staff, I suppose that’s his creative streak!)

He looks nothing like the fire-breathing, stuffy, or at least intimidating principals of my youth and those I met when I covered the Education beat.

Wearing a tucked-out T-shirt, in bare feet and patiently helping Day with his art work while pouring me and Theresa cups of tea, he is the shop’s one and only staff. Nobody covers him if he’s sick. If it’s dirty, he cleans up.

But from what I gather, he even likes to spend time just sitting with his legs up in his shop, enjoying some music, soaking in the art works – done by people who actually come into his shop - adorning his walls.

Though his money is diminishing, like a man who sees the light beyond the pragmatics, he seems ecstatic to be free of bureaucracy; to be doing what he loves, drawing and exploring new art media every day, meeting new people and just having the time to pause. He hardly stopped smiling when I was there.

Truly, truly, truly inspiring and very humbling.

Now I just have to find a friend who, instead of meeting for lunch or dinner or tea (AGAIN), would consider exercising her creativity instead of her stomach.

snapshot

It’s midnight.

At a time when everybody would be asleep back in Coogee, it’s a hive of activity here in our Singapore household.

The kids, of course, are fast asleep. Dee is in by 830pm, and Day, I try to tuck him in by 930pm.

KK, their poor father, swotting away at a quasi-civil service job which gives him 14 miserable days of leave a year, has been inadvertently brought down by the (I hate) Singaporean epidemic of bringing work home nearly every night.



He is almost always exhausted, having had to help an equally tired me struggle through the tiring rigamarole of putting two kids through bathtime, brushing teeth, reading books, patting them to sleep, not to mention squeezing in some marathon training - for he does have his own life and pursuits to go after.

Nights, we typically don’t exchange more than 50 words. (Which is why I am certain that if we were in Singapore, #3 would never have come about.)

Their por por, my mother, is also at the computer typing away.



She, too, brings work home – like KK it’s usually minutes and administrative unecessities which their employers somehow expect them to “find time for” – and she sometimes goes past midnight, which isn't quite right for a 60-something.

Me, that’s my laptop in the picture. Because I want to spend the day looking after my kids, I start my work day after 9pm and end late. Thereabouts 1 or 2am, which isn’t bad already, I know. Freelance writer full-time mums, that's our life.

Honestly, as grateful as we all should be that we are healthy and whole and have work to “keep ourselves occupied” as the Government would say, there is something fundamentally wrong with this picture.

Or am I being too naïve?

#3 is a...

Boy or a girl?

First off: What do I want?

Of course the politically correct thing to say, is that as long as the child is healthy, it doesn’t matter.

And of course, health comes first, no matter what.

But assuming that the child is healthy, on that covetous What-I-Want level, I do have my little secret craving.

Considering that I already have a boy and a girl, which sex do I want TWO of?

I admit: I want another Fat Fairy. My third and last child, a placid calm little girl who will finally look like someone else in the family (could be me or any of the grandparents) other than the papa.

It’s not that boys aren’t cute: I loved Day to bits and it was because of him that I threw in the work towel.

But girls; well, my only experience was with Dee and while she may have her naughty moments, she has an intrinsic sweetness and soft chubby appeal which makes me want to squeal whenever I see her.

Then there’s the hair and the pretty dresses and inherent vanity that makes it so much more fun (for a woman at least) to have a daughter, as completely shallow as that sounds. It’s not something I imagined I would have ever said a few years ago – I’d have said whoever said that was plain stupid – but there it is. On a day-to-day basis, I get such a kick from putting her in her sexy little tight spaghetti-strap dresses.

And then when they grow up – and I know I am making a whole load of sweeping generalizations here – they are more filial, more likely to give money to parents rather than to demand, more likely to want to take care of and be close to the parents.

They don’t have to go through NS, generally look a lot better than their male counterparts somewhere in their teens and after, and here’s what I truly believe: Are more capable than the men. And can do just as well or better academically, work-wise, socially.

I suppose it’s saying a lot that apart from me, two other friends I know of who are expecting are also crossing their fingers for girls.

KK, too, fancies another girl. All we’ve been tossing around are girl names.

OK so what do I have?

TA DAH! It’s a boy.

The gynae could be mistaken; Dee was pronounced a boy before. But doc was quite sure and frankly, the solid white mass between the legs was quite unmistakeable and immoveable as a mountain.

Day has perpetually been calling #3 Greg. Greg Loh. (inspired by lead Wiggles singer) So he gets his way. (NO!!! Not the name, but the sex)

Statistically, I suppose I hardly stand a chance. My mom, KK and I all come from 2 boy-1 girl families.

I must say, though, for a boy, #3 is amazingly placid, calm and nothing – including jabs with the ultrasound probe – seems to flutter him. His hands are still perpetually cupped around his face or serenely clasped as if in prayer, and he is totally unlike Day and Dee.

He is utterly inactive. I barely feel him. It’s as if he’s meditating in my womb 24/7. Which is GOOD. I want a model baby this time round.

a blogging friend

One more thing this blog is officially good for: Meeting people.

Never in my wildest dreams, when I started the blog for KK and myself, did I think I would actually meet up with a stranger who leaves comments.

Well I just did.

Rachel is probably the first person who left regular comments on the blog, and me and KK’s head scratchings of “Who is this?” petered out as Rachel and I started emailing each other.

What Rachel and I had in common: Two first born sons almost equal in age, husbands who furthered their studies overseas, and a common desire to bring our children up ourselves.

Oh yes, ex-teacher Rachel and I both quit our jobs to be full-time mums.

As she reads about my children, I read about her Isaac, a boy just a week younger than Day.

Today I saw him and her in the flesh for the first time, a huge milestone in this blog’s existence. It brought us together.



Yes it’s funny knowing all sorts of details about each other when we haven’t even come within sniffing distance before. I know exactly what toys Isaac has, how he used to have nightmares when he started going to childcare, that he used to read while making poo. I think Rachel knows even more about Day and Dee.

But it’s weird-nice. I know this woman is not a closet Nazi mum.

Isaac is exactly as I imagined him; all huge doe eyes and plump-cheeked grin, albeit with a much higher-pitched baby voice!

And we knew, the boys have a common love for Thomas the Tank Engine.

It was a strange 30 minutes, meeting up with someone whom I don’t know, yet I know. It was strangely comfortable.

I’m sure we’ll see more of each other yet.

all about that dress

Context: After their bath this evening, Day set eyes on Dee’s dress – another hand-me-down which I had yet to try on her - and decided he wanted to wear it. Not being the sort to have any qualms, I slipped it over his head, and then stuffed his gear onto her.

Straight after, Day shouted: “Mummy take a photo!” And here it is.



Soon after the photo was taken, Dee whined and wailed and tried to tear her brother’s (comparatively) ugly and serviceable clothes off her head. She saw herself in the mirror and she didn't like it. She is gu-niang that way.



Then she chose one of her fanciest blue dresses to wear to bed. Which, again, I have no qualms about. (For there are more important battles to fight)

The rest of the evening, everyone – from grandparents to maid to uncle – all gasp in horror and yell: Why is he wearing a dress? But the more they disapprove, the more he seems to like it. And honestly, why not? It’s cool, it’s light, and best of all he doesn’t have to pull down his pants to pee.

Later in the evening, a M1 delivery lady came to send me a new SIM card (for I had lost my mobile AGAIN). Day follows me out to the front gate.

Delivery lady: Your little girl! So cute!
Me: Er no, that’s my son.
Lady: Ah?
Me: He wanted to wear a dress today.
Lady: Oh.

And then still later, KK comes home. The only reason Day was able to wear the dress for as long as he did, was because KK was attending a dinner.

[ KK strides into the room ]
My mum: You have 2 daughters…
KK: (face lighting up. He thinks she is referring to #3) Oh is it?
[ He catches sight of Day ]
KK: Oh no Day! Why are you wearing a dress? You’re not a girl, you’re a boy!

He then forcibly peels it off over screaming Day’s head and forces an ugly white tank on him.

Still later, father and son have a talk.

KK: Day, you’re a boy, not a girl. You have a gu-gu bird…
Day: No I don’t. (fingering his crotch) It’s flat flat and it’s a V.
KK: No, you have a gu gu bird!
Day: No, I want to squash it. I want it to be a flat flat V.
KK: No, it’s an elephant with a long trunk.
Day: I don’t like elephants. I want it to be a V. I want to be a girl. I want to wear a dress.

click

Instantaneous click at first sight: Day and Kieran.

OK not exactly first sight; the boys first met when Day was eight months old, but after our Sydney hiatus, they might as well have been complete strangers.

So my jaw dropped when Day - typically not a very sociable fellow – latched onto Kieran, who’s a year older and the son of my TJC buddy Jason, quite happily and didn’t even care if I was there.



Honestly I have never seen him so happy with a peer: Holding onto Kieran’s hand while running wild together, feeding each other French fries from Macdonalds, laughing every other minute and just talking. Actually talking.

About what? The only wisp of conversation I overheard was when Kieran raucously laughed his head off about the “fatty bom bom” and Day cackled in return.

It was almost traumatic when we had to tear them apart at the end of the night and they had just met each other for two hours.

How I wish the boys could meet a little more. But what with Kieran staying far away, plus he being in full-day school Mondays to Fridays, it’s hard to squeeze in anything in the equally packed weekends.

It was a different story with Dee and Kieran’s sister, Kirsten.



Both the same age (18 months), they are not quite at the age where they would socialize, so barring one episode when Kirsten took an interest in Dee’s belly button, they mostly ignored each other.

But they both sure look a whole lot prettier than when they were Ugly Babies!

Now our two families have only to wait to see if our #3’s – both due around the same time next year – get along too.

#3 at 14 weeks

The sonographer asked me: Are you sure your due date is end March?

I said: I think so. That’s what the gynaecologist told me.

She said: I doubt it. Looks too big for 12 weeks. It looks about 14 weeks now, which means your corrected due date is 17 March.

Which - if #3 complies - makes it a day after my birthday and three days before Dee’s. How utterly boring. Three out of five family birthdays falling within four days.

Just about big enough to fit into the whole of my hand now, #3’s ultrasound persona captivates me.

She (because all fetuses are generically female until the sex organs can be seen) is the least active of my babies – so far. Never kicking, hardly twitching, (Day was the most hyperactive in utero) her delicate hands are always cupped around her face and always at the moment I wonder if she is actually alive, she waves. The smallest and gentlest of motions, but a wave nonetheless.

She is perpetually facing the ceiling when I lie down on the bed, so the ultrasound always shows her full face. Sharp, pointed, with two huge black holes where her eyes are, she looks like the archetypal alien albeit a very delicate one.

Even though this is my third pregnancy, and even though I am deploringly blasé, hardly bothering to remember which week I am in or keep the ultrasound photos the docs print for me (who can see anything anyway?), the sight of baby onscreen, alive and moving, never fails to move me.

She’s absolutely beautiful and I’m so proud to have her.

* If anyone is interested, the scan's purpose was to ascertain if #3 has Down's Syndrome by measuring the thickness of her neck fold. At 1.9mm, she looks alright. And for the first time, I also did the scan at NUH, where the cost ($192) is about two-thirds that of Thomson Medical where I had always gone to before.

her first kiss

Somewhere in the Botanic Gardens, in a wooden pavilion by a lake, my 18-month-old daughter bestowed her first lip kiss on a boy.

Her Prince Charming: 22-month-old Ethan, son of my photographer friend Huifen. They sidled up to each other, he looked up, she looked down, and with eyes wide open, the babies smacked each other on the lips.

Lest anyone thinks she is too virginal for words, she has kissed us, and Day, plenty of times, on the mouth. But see, Ethan is the first boy outside of the family she has done the deed with.

Here’s the cool dude. And to think when we last brought the kids out for an outing he was still in mummy’s tummy. (Yes that's how busy everyone is.)



So Huifen – of course! – asked me if we should set up a date 25 years on for the duo. To which I said, if Ethan turns out like his dad, I’d be most accommodating.

The girl, in fine form, spent the rest of the evening downing slice after slice of picnic ham, Ruffles potato chips and green tea, completely eschewing the healthy carrot-with-miso-paste dip which Eugene, Ethan’s daddy and a fantastic chef, had prepared.



He, by the way, the kind of man who always manages to turn any outing – whether by the beach or park – into something vaguely luxurious. A good husbandly quality, and one, like I said, which I thoroughly approve of for Dee’s future dates.

Day on the other hand, didn’t care for food. When he saw, however, that there were three cameras being deployed, he cheerfully took up Xueying’s offer of her cam, and proceeded to snap pictures of everything, including not very nice ones of me.



Day's pix of Xueying, however, was rather nice, I thought.


Pix by Day

And our group shot. Coming from Huifen the photographer no less: “Hey not bad! At least he got our heads and legs in the picture! Some adults can’t even do that.”


Pix by Day

The other half of Day’s time was spent obsessing over feeding bread (meant for our sandwiches) to the fishes.

bird's nest

So a friend of mine swears that after he plied his wife with daily bird's nest for the entire duration of her pregnancy, baby emerged with rosebud-smooth skin and as a toddler, is milk-white in colour. And still smooth as a flower petal.

I don't buy it. As in, I don't believe him and I can't afford it.

KK, however, suddenly came home one day with a pack of bird's nest, bought from the Esso petrol station he passes (yes they sell bird's nest at petrol stations nowadays) when he walked home from the bus stop.

Upon witnessing my delight - I love bird's nest with a passion - he has taken it upon himself to constantly restock supplies, so I am never short of my daily dose.

It's prodigiously expensive (about $50 for a 6-pack) but I'm not complaining.

And honestly, it's such a completely sweet thing for an impoverished husband to do! (I never had bird's nest or anything the least bit gastronomically luxurious for Day or Dee.)

I now wait to see if #3 does indeed have the best skin in the family.

beautification

Down with the dowdy mum!

Cheers to the… slightly better-looking mum!

With that optimistic thought in mind, I stepped into the Swirl boutique at Stamford House – owned by my NTU school mate and ex-Life journalist-turned-fashion-designer Suzanne, and another NTU school mate Evelyn – to take a peek at Dotted Line’s new range.



Designed by my primary and secondary school friend Dot, I swore I would buy one of her pieces when I saw her first collection in October (remember I was then in Sydney, wear-rotating my three T-shirts) and I wasn’t going to pass up on her invitation when I returned!

Here I am, with the two remarkable women who gave up their jobs to go into fashion design.



Suzanne, ex-journo (wearing one of her creations, a high-wasted skirt), and Dot, ex-investment banker with 31-week-old Baby Sung in her belly. (By the way, Jo, if you’re reading this, I’m wearing the dress Pris sent to me!)

Bearing in mind that my tummy is going to swell and probably not be flat for some time, even after #3 is born, I really had very little choice of the clothes which are mostly designed for working women who want something stylish and feminine.

In the end I picked this.



Yes that’s a dressing room shot. Yes I know the dress can hardly be seen but I'm not Karen Cheng! It’s an incredible dress that wears like a comfortable T-shirt, looks a million times better, and can stretch to accommodate #3 for a good few more months.

Best of all, I’m just so proud of the fact that I’m wearing something my friend designed!

And I bought it in a shop which another friend owns! That’s my newly acquired 9th Street Plum dress in the Swirl bag.



Speaking of which, Swirl is such a pretty vintage-y place. It’s the sort of place dripping with chandeliers, soft toys strewn all around, old-time typewriters for customers to type in their comments.



I like. Just the place to kill the dowdiness.

journos come a-knocking

If there is one bunch of people who literally saw me through my transition from frazzled journalist to contented mother, it would have to be my ex-colleagues from the newsroom. (I’m the only ex, they're all still chasing newsmakers)

They were there with me during that disastrous and never-to-be-forgotten post-wedding session where, after shedding my evening gown and abandoning KK to count the angbao money, I traipsed down to the hotel bar only to be subject (along with the rest of the group) to a major scolding by the boss – a guest at my wedding - for being crap reporters of course.

They were there when I made the horrendous discovery that I had a baby in the belly, Tracy being the second person I surreptitiously told after KK, and Arlina being the one who cackled uproariously when I told her KK’s surname was Loh, and started concocting one corny name after another for the baby, all of which I did not find very funny but which made her crack up even more.

They were there when I decided to throw in the towel - Theresa being the most miserable that I was abandoning her to fend for herself on the community beat, but also the most determined to be Day’s friend since he was born - and three years on, they are still there!

They came a knocking on Saturday, not to see me, but to see the kids!

Tracy, back from Beijing on a short break and bearing a bagful of bread so she could witness Dee stuffing her face, Arlina, Ms Svelte after all that jogging and traveling, Theresa, Day’s biggest fan, and the guy who goes around smoking and schmoozing with lawyers in court all day long, Chee Kin (a bit odd, this one, really the thorn among the roses, but he’s a hoot and surprisingly good with the kids).

Day and Dee with the Bad Influences. (I dare not imagine how many not-so-nice words Day picked up in the course of sitting in on our raucous conversation, one of them being a body part)



Theresa with her beloved Day, whom she finds really “smiley” and “sweet” and “so cute!”



Though she’s always wanted to be his friend, it’s only recently that she won him over; by inviting him to her birthday party. Once he had a bite of her birthday cake, he started calling her his friend.

The relentless yelling (journos, when not listening to other people talk, talk really loudly), bitching (what else do journos do when they get together but get all the latest dirtiest gossip) and posturing (I refer to Ms Arshad and her portrayal of the “hockey backside” of a certain politician which made me almost die laughing) only let up when we finally left my place for dinner, and then cake for Chee Kin’s birthday.



Yes, I brought Day along at KK’s request. I don’t know how he put up with us - he was a perfect angel all throughout dinner doing his colouring - but here he is, covering his face. I think he had quite enough.

word phobia

Why haven't I been blogging?

Because I just vomited out nearly 7,000 words in 24 hours - while squeezing in an outing for the kids to Ikea, Macdonalds and to the neighbour's house in the same time - and I'm so sick of WORDS.

And oddly, unlike at Coogee where the camera was my muse, I find myself hardly being able to muster up the enthusiasm to snap a shot. Much less write.

Is this what stress does to you? Little wonder I was so prolific in Sydney.

As I nurse a crick in my neck, slightly blur vision and a throbbing headache, however, I have to give one billion thanks to friends who think of me when they need writers.

And like running a marathon, I motivate myself with a little mantra:

10 words = 1 bowl of fishball noodle
100 words = 1 Hang Ten T-shirt
1000 words = 3/4 of Day's school fees

I've got to get going!

por por turns 61

This year I forgot to get a present for my mum.

So I told her: "Well I'm the only one who has managed to give you grandchildren. Three some more."

Lame!

jc days

* Grace, Bridgette and me, minus 15 years

On the night of my junior college’s 30th anniversary dinner, I walked in, toured the place where I had some of the best years of my life with one of my best JC friends Jason, before we helped ourselves to the $50 per head buffet dinner. Without paying.

MY BAD!

Apart from the fact that we felt very much like our junior college selves as we dared ourselves to do the naughty deed (we laughed so much creeping across the dark soccer field balancing Styrofoam plates we felt years younger) it isn’t that we didn’t want to pay. We fully intended to. Cross our hearts.

But as registration for the dinner had closed days before the event, and as we missed TJ so much, we just had to go and have a look at all the school niches where so many of our first experiences took place.

Then it just so happened that after our hour-long walk, we felt so bloody hungry, and the paying diners were already sated with food that was still piling high on the tables, we took a shot.

And what a great shot it was. (don't mean the crappy photo, but our dash for food!)



Instead of sitting under the big white canopy plonked in the middle of the soccer field, with a tableful of strangers, listening to principals make long speeches (I wondered why any of the alumni would want to be subjected to the worst part of JC life, to which Jason said they should have had a mass dance... "Too Legit to Quit!") and carrying on an auction ($3200 for an aerial photo of TJC!), we were the only two perched on what to me was the epitome of TJC: The grandstand.



A table and two chairs had been serendipidously left there and we, whooping and singing our (frankly horrendous) school song (“It matters not where we are from, to Temasek we now belong”) dined on lamb stroganoff, with the stars above, with nobody else around us.

Amazingly, none of the hundreds of alumni who turned up, even bothered to walk around the school. We seemed to be the only ones.

And what I found slightly distasteful, was how metal barriers had been erected everywhere. Air-conditioned lecture theatres which played host to student’s nocturnal activities, open-air roofs which were used for Astronomy Club viewing sessions (and more nocturnal activities) were all locked up and we were kept out.


* This is the entrance to Lecture Theatre 2

Fifteen years on, these kids are clearly living under much greater duress and security threats.

I am sure they are still having a swell time though.

And I will not hesitate to send any of my kids to TJC, much more so than to any other bigger-name JC.

For me, whether it was the boys, getting out of the intimidating Rafflesian shadow, escaping that sickening label (fellow RGS classmates will know what I am talking about!), making friends with people from truly humble homes or finally feeling like I could stand out in a place which had heart, TJC was where I shed my lifelong mantle of shyness and became who I am today.


* The Orientation group. Me, Marjorie, Jason and Jianxing, minus 15 years