why luanne

I don't think we ever waffled so much over the choice of a name, as over #3's.

David's name was the easiest. Day he was from womb onwards and Day he remains.

Dee was just as easy.

For the two, their names just sort of dropped into our laps, easy peasy.

Lu, well.

We had no precedent to follow, no rules to guide us. We didn't care if her name started with a letter "D" or whether it went with Day and Dee. Same rules as last time applied: Must be two syllables, simple and strong.

Some point in the second trimester I wanted very strongly to go with Sonia or Mia. KK was against it, said Sonia made her sound like a handbag and Mia meant grief.

Then (was it he or me? I forget) someone suggested Leura (pronounced Lu-ra).

That is the place where she was made, lovely Leura, a village in Sydney's Blue Mountains.

Only everytime we tried to pronounce the name with the surname (Loh), our tongues tripped up.

But the Lu stayed.

We started calling her Lulu. It's such a nice affectionate sweet name for a little girl.

To make it a little more respectable (for adulthood) I dragged it out and made it Luanne. It's a name I read somewhere in a novel.

Till the day she was born, KK would look at me doubtfully: "So it's Luanne?" and I would reply, equally in doubt: "I guess so". As we haven't come up with anything better and we have to make her birth certificate in the next two days, I guess Luanne is it!

Aptly, it apparently means "Graceful Woman Warrior". Another strong woman for the family, hopefully.

three

And then there were three.

How do they all find each other?

LULU

The little trouper is completely unfazed by her brother and sister.

Must have been an overdose of screaming and yelling and pneumatic drill-like levels of noise while she was in utero, but she can sleep through the most horrific levels of high-pitched screaming without a twitch.

Neither does she mind very much when things are thrown at her or when a particular someone gives her a sharp slap on the head (yes it’s happened). Sleeps right through it.

DAY

The boy is exactly the same as he was with Dee: Curious and very cognizant of the fact that this is a very delicate thing so he doesn’t try to mess around.

I would leave Day alone with Lulu in the same room without worry.

He’s not particularly caring. But is intensely curious – Why doesn’t she have teeth? Why is she hiccupping? Why is her belly button black?

Otherwise, for him, life very much goes on. If anything, he has become even more sensible.

DEE

Ah. Dee Dee Dee.



I would not leave her alone with Lulu for one second. That’s my legs in the picture.

I fear she will twist off the baby’s finger, smash in her soft head or throw a dictionary.

I must give her a point for consistency: Her exhortations of “Beat Baby!” while smacking my baby-filled tummy have stayed singularly on track.

Her favourite move: Stroking the baby’s head very gently before suddenly delivering a heavy smack. Most times, we get Lulu away in time but on the odd (hopefully never again) occasion she got in her move, Lulu didn’t even cringe.

Her next favourite: Throwing toys, books, anything within reach, at Lulu in her cot.

The last thing I want is to remove Lulu completely from Dee while we castigate her (Dee), for that is bound to breed further resentment.

We tell her how she should be treating baby, and I try to get her to do the right thing (which is why she is still stroking the baby’s head), but she still does the evil deeds.

Jealousy? Adjustment difficulties? Terrible Twos? Perhaps. A malignant trio of growing pains that happened to strike at a time when we were the least prepared to administer treatment.

Anyway, in a nutshell, I am spending a lot of time with Dee now. Probably even more than pre-Lulu times.

Explaining, reasoning, setting down the rules once again. And letting her know that she is not forgotten. (Honestly, who can?)

phototherapy suitcase

Lulu, lying prostate like a half-plucked chicken, has been sleeping in a white suitcase for the last two days, bathing in blue phototherapy rays which apparently penetrate the skin and helps her to break down her red blood cells.

She – exactly like her siblings – has come down with the dreaded yellow skin ailment. Measured in numerical units, the paed tells us over 20 is dangerous, when brain damage can occur. When Lulu was discharged, she measured a nice safe 6.4. Monday, she was 17.4

Perhaps fortuitously, the jaundice struck after we were discharged, so instead of having to continue being warded, we could rent the phototherapy machine, a much cheaper alternative.



Although at $420 from Monday to Wednesday evening, it, too, stings.

Good result though: The reading’s gone down to 11.2 after just two days. Nice.

the zone

I have done it. Gone and had my epidural-less labour by choice and endured my contractions with dignity – hands clasped around my belly while lying prostate on a bed with eyes closed, without moving a muscle.



The natural birth people would rightly point out that that is the least comfortable method of riding out the contractions. But what to do? I was in the hospital where nurses reign and where monitoring devices are strapped around my tummy.



It helped that for weeks I had been wanting to feel contractions. Everytime I felt the slightest cramp a frisson of delight ran down my spine. Somewhat like I had been having constipation for nine months and the cramps were a sign of impending diarrhoea.

So I welcomed them. Everytime a contraction swept over me – the particularly painful ones being after my water bag had been broken – I went into semi-trance and imagined myself opening up, being forcibly pried open, for that minute while the contraction had me in its grip.

“Bring it on! I want more pain! Baby’s coming!” my sadistic mind whispered.

And it worked. I smiled my way through until somewhere around 8cm when I popped on the gas and went into Lala Land. (I should probably have just done the gas from the start)

I have to say, though, that the fact that I had laboured without epidural before (though not be choice) and the fact that I knew it was going to be a quick labour, helped.

If I were a first-time mum facing the prospect of 24 hours of self-hypnosis, no thanks man.

So from the beginning.

7am, I awoke with the teensiest bit of blood and the gentlest sweep of contractions. As the whole world has been telling me to run to hospital the moment something happens, I obediently do.

2pm, seven hours later, nothing much has happened. I have endured a shave (prickly) and an enema (painfully acute) and enjoyed a bowl of porridge while getting down from the bed and walking ever so often to admire the wall of celebrity’s babies born at TMC (Zoe Tay! Chew Chor Meng! Fandi Ahmad!) but the contractions which I so desperately want have died. I am still smiling but the nurses are not (why is she still smiling? She is taking up the bed space!)

The doctor comes along and tells me: Why don’t we break the water bag? Hasten things along?
Me: Can we let things move naturally?
Doc (very nicely): Well if you go home, likelihood is you will have to return tonight at the latest. If you stay here, you are being charged and I might as well do something.

Economics! Money wasted with every hour spent waiting for nature to take its course!

215pm, I said yes: Break it.

Which is when doc whips out her evil hook and smilingly does the deed (she’s always benign and smiling), breaking all the layers one by one until the clear liqua (that’s what the stuff in the water bag is called) gushes out.

At this point, I’m just a big cavity.

I also feel like I have just done my daughter a disfavour: Ready or not, she will have to come out as her home collapses around her.

315pm, an hour of zoning out and I am sweating from pain even though I have not moved. My hands are sweaty and clammy. The contractions, instead of trailing off nicely, are now ending with a distinctly pushy feeling and this is when I am pushed into Labour Ward 9.

Would I have been able to make it through labour peacefully without the gas mask?

I will never know. Once I get on it, within a minute, the world suddenly slows down. I experimentally try to move my hand and it does, limply, after what seems an eternity. I am swimming underwater. The pain is still there but I am out of body, watching someone else labour. I suck on the gas like no tomorrow. I like it.

I vaguely register that KK, who had wanted me to take the epidural, has turned off the ESPN channel after telling the nurse: “I’m scared. My third one but I’m still scared.” I vaguely recall wanting to take off the mask to yell: “Why the hell are YOU scared?” But decide against it.

345pm, the doc comes in, all smiles, China bob (just like mine) swinging immaculately like a waterfall. “Wow that was fast!” she chirps.

She suits up, puts on her rubber boots, and I am placed in a truly detestable position – legs wide open, calves put up on stirrups.

I have to remove the mask – no gas allowed during pushing apparently. I try to speak but my jaw is slack for a while. “I want to push”, I mumble.

By the first push, I unfortunately regain my senses.

Nurse at my left calve, KK at my right calve, doc between my legs, my cheering trio yell “Push! Push! Push!” (as if I needed anyone to tell me that) as doc turns Lulu’s head, while she is still inside. I don’t want to imagine how she did that.

The labour is different with this doc: First, no one puts up a screen so I can fully see what doc is doing, if I wanted to. Second, I am not cut.

What this means is that I truly have to push. With each push, I can see doc making very vigorous rubbing motions with her finger. She tells me – again very nicely – that she is trying to stretch the perineum so baby can come through hopefully without even a tear. I like that. As awful as it sounds, I don’t feel a thing because all my pain receptors are maxed out.

I suppose pushing is less painful than contractions. Honestly. It’s just slightly terrifying and a little stressful when I start to feel how big the load is and I think: Can I get her out?

And so I push. I am a screamer. I just had to scream, not from pain but from the sheer force of pushing. I wanted her out fast. I didn’t want to go through hours of this either. Fast, chop chop.

It must have taken five or 10 minutes. Then her head slowly came through, like how I would pass a big bowel. She didn’t shoot her way out, the way Dee did (due to the cut). But slowly. With her head hanging out, I must have been a frightful sight, doc again, very nicely, told me: “OK Sher Maine, take another breath and push!”

Bore down harder, screamed a whole lot more and her shoulders slowly emerged. And that was it. 4.06pm, Lulu was born.

Unlike previous doc, this doc pulled her out and put her on my chest, steaming hot, slightly purple and slimy with blood and vernix. As my hands, fingers stiffly straight, fluttered around her – I didn't’ really know what to do – the nurses prodded a tube down her throat to suck stuff up, which prompted her to cry lustily.

At the same time, there was a hive of activity between my legs which I really couldn’t feel. Then doc tells me: “Well done! There is a little tear, 2cm, but it’s not bad.”


* Doc’s slightly bloody hand on my tummy, pushing down to expel the placenta

Once again, I had to cringe through the ordeal of a needle going in and out.

But she was right.

Post-labour, I could sit straight away and one week on (now) I am perfectly normal with no pain whatsoever.

When I was cut the first two times, I hobbled around for weeks. There’s my very young, pretty, nice and calm doctor Geraldine.



So there’s Lulu’s birth story.

As dignified, natural and cheap as it can possibly be. Short of birthing at home, of course.

a good man

By the light of the moon, her papa pats her to sleep.

Why the moon? Because KK has had to move out of our room where the cot is placed, into the balcony and the balcony is where he’s at most times.

Well not exactly move out, but he’s had to move his activity centre – consisting of noisy TV and “working” area (meaning any available surface) – outdoors, where he gets balmy breezes, moonshine and drizzle if it rains.

Give the man his comfy chair, remote controls and TV and he’s a happy camper.



We always used to just let the babies sleep in the same room, with the noise and lights, but this time I insisted on letting Lulu have a dark quiet room so she can sleep properly – as per Gina Ford.

She ends up sleeping in her papa’s arms anyway, in front of the noisy TV and beneath the balcony light, so I don’t know why I bother.

Anyway, once again, the arrival of the new child makes me want to congratulate myself for marrying the man.

For the hugs, for holding my hand, for taking care of me, for taking Lulu off my hands whenever he is around, for bathing Lulu, for distracting her whenever I need a break from her incessant (night) breastfeeding, for taking such great care of Day and Dee so they don’t feel left out, and all with such level-headed coolness he can fit in a round of golf for himself.

He is at his best right now.

Like any new mum, I am profoundly depressed at the thought of his going back to work.

four days old

And Lulu suddenly opens both her eyes!

dee's two

Amidst all the excitement of Lulu’s arrival, Dee turned two today.

My spunky, naughty, cheeky-as-hell daughter.

Who has changed so incredibly in the past two years – from a grumpy “duh” squalling thing, to being such a sociable independent adorable creature brimming with attitude.

She makes me so proud, honestly, and she makes us all laugh buckets.

We had a balloon and BBQ party for Dee Sunday.

She’s a Balloon girl, she absolutely adores them.

Just pictures because Lulu is dragging me through the mill and I’m Haggard Haggard Haggard. (there goes all my last chance of having an Easy Baby)

Her Camera Smile.



Her beloved Kor Kor. Whom she calls David (she refuses to call him Kor Kor). I suppose she doesn’t want to defer to anyone.



Crowded house. Eight under one roof, and not forgetting the domestic helper (not in photo) which makes nine. And oh, with Lulu, ten.



Sadistic but the kids had loads of fun with the hanging animals.

hello lulu

And she’s here. Luanne. Probably. Until the BC gets done or if we change our minds.

Lulu is what her sibs have been calling her.

Day Dee and Lu.

Baby Lulu.

Lovely Lu.

Here we go Looby Lu.

Lu, Lu, skip to my Lu.

No loo jokes we hope.

And Anne. In future if she so wishes.

Stats:

Born: 18 March 2008, 4.06pm, Labour Room 9, Thomson Medical Centre.
Weight: 3.21 kilograms
Height: 49cm
Head circumference: 34cm (same as monster Day)
Aesthetic highlights: Loads of hair. Looks very much the same as her sibs.

And before I go into the long-winded story of how she came into this world, off the top of my head:

TOP 5 BIRTH MOMENTS



ONE: Finding The Zone. That special place I went to whenever the contractions hit. No epidural, see, exactly the way I wanted it, but I’LL NEVER DO IT AGAIN I SWEAR.



TWO: Laughing gas works beautifully for me. I sucked on the sweetish gas from 8cm (cervix dilation) onwards. Why pay $600 for an epidural when this works just fine?

THREE: Having a hook inserted to break the water bag. And again and again as the doctor smilingly told me – like it’s a good thing – wow this is one of those water bags with a very thick membrane. Wait I have to break it layer by layer. There are LAYERS?!

FOUR: Honest-to-God pushing for the first time. Previous two, I was quickly snipped, episiotomised. This doc believes in letting nature take its course. And so I pushed like I was pushing all my guts out, an expulsive force so great she tore her way through as I screamed like a wounded beast. I probably pushed less than 5 minutes.

FIVE: Being asked in all seriousness: Madam, do you want to take your placenta home?

33

* Pix by Day

And so, I turn 33.

There really isn’t anything to say, though I wish there were more I could say. I wonder if philosophical thought (a dearth of brain cells!) is deserting me.

Lots of congratulatory messages (courtesy of Facebook: How do my friends know it’s my birthday anyway? I remain a Facebook idiot) and presents-wise (I am amazed I still got them):

* A bouquet of pink roses
* A pair of Nike shorts
* A good book
* A gold necklace



The prize-winning question: Which came from my husband?

We had a little party, more for Dee than for myself. But seeing as our birthdays are so close together (and probably that of #3 as well in future), I can well imagine tagging my birthdays as an afterthought to their bashes.

Guests: Just ourselves. I didn’t think it wise to organize a do when I might have potentially popped on the day (sadly I have not popped).

And a family photo which I rather fancy because Dee looks so much like Daddy’s girl while Day looks so much like Mummy’s boy, from size of eyes right down to expression.



At 33, I am glad I have them all, plus the soon-to-be-seen little one.

* Present from KK: The shorts! (because he hates all my other shorts and I suppose he thinks my legs deserve better which I suppose is a good thing!)

kirsten's two

Birthday party photos!

For Kirsten, who was born just two days before Dee and who turns two Tuesday, but who cuts her cake today.



Two years on, despite being both Pisceans born in the Year of the Dog, the two girls haven't quited clicked. And they are different as chalk and cheese. Kirsten does a lot of aimless walking. Dee does a lot of mindless eating.

Dee getting her fill of lollipops and food.



The longish dimples KK has are quite apparent in the above photo, I never quite noticed them before. But then she’s always been her father’s daughter, looks-wise.

Kirsten and her big brother Kieran. Who is full of green lollipop.



And the impossible group shot.

follicular preening

Every morning for about an hour, Dee allows her hair to be put up. Only for that hour before she yanks it all out.

And the preening cannot be done by me. She only sits down quietly for Gina, our domestic helper.



Dee has got incredibly little hair – her ponytail is the width of her own finger -but it’s of the length now where Gina, who is quite the miracle worker with clips and bands, can really work it out. Four months ago it was plumb impossible.

Gina constructs the tiniest skinniest French plait tracks across Dee’s head, weaves a crown across the back of her head so she looks like a Roman emperor or just gives her a gushing waterfall on top.

The girl certainly looks a lot neater, sassier and somewhat thinner with her wispy flyaway hair under control.



Back view. She’s looking at her hair stylist.

#3 at 38 weeks

* Picture inspired by a similar, nicer shot taken of Isaac's Mum by Isaac's Dad. I have to bend over to shoot my toes. Yes, Rachel, that photo really made an impression on me!

Doctor doesn’t want to see me anymore.

“Haiya the little darling still doesn’t want to come out. I hope I don’t have to see you again next week!”

Unlike Dee, whom everyone swore would come on or after her estimated due date, #3’s is a case of over-staying expectations.

Everyone (including doc) thinks she is going to be as early as her sister or even earlier, and so, as the days drag on, it becomes a bit of a yawn.

The only reason why I would want her out pronto is because she is getting bigger and rounder and fatter by the day, which potentially makes pushing harder.

She’s apparently already bigger than when Dee was born, and I do remember thinking “This is impossible!” while I was trying to push Dee out sans epidural.

Other than that, I am rather enjoying myself.

For some odd reason, perhaps because there is no more work to do and I get lots of sleep and rest, it has actually gotten easier carrying #3. She doesn’t feel the least bit heavy – she felt heavier a month ago – the aches and pains have disappeared and I am full of beans.

OK stats.

Current state of dilation: 2cm.

State of the cervix: Very soft.

Baby’s weight: 3kg or so

their first show

Are we the only ones or do parents who bring their children to kiddy shows end up watching the kids more than the show?

We were entranced at Disney on Ice, which was at the Singapore Indoor Stadium.

Not by the ice-skating antics, flying performers and snazzy choreography, but at how Dee, her stretched-out legs barely sticking out from the seat, clapped in rhythm and craned her neck this way and that trying to see as much as she could.



And at how Day seemed more interested in going to the toilet or peering in the dark at the kid behind us who was munching on a packet of crisps, and then intoning: “Mummy I’m hungry.”

The tickets to the show – something we would normally never pay for! – came courtesy of a university hostel mate I haven’t seen or talked to in a decade, but who linked up with me on Facebook, started reading the blog and dropped me a line out of the blue asking if I would like four complimentary tickets.

A few nights ago, Yvonne actually drove over and hand-delivered her Awesome Gift.

And though KK was the hardest nut to crack (find me a man who doesn't mind being dragged to a kiddy show) we all ended up having a great stress-free time (No crowds, no parking problems, no difficulties finding food).

Dee, I think, enjoyed herself the most.

rocky and rice

Rocky and Rice: Not some culinary experiment.

It’s Uncle Choon’s friends from Down Under on a backpacking trip through Asia, come stay with us for several nights and who have made quite an impression on Day.



Rice: A very preppy Taiwanese biotechnologist by training who acts way younger than her years.

Rocky: A Buddhist vegan who shaved off his waist-length locks before entering Singapore last week, because something about the visa made him think long-haired hippies would be barred from entry.

I said I would have saved the hair and skipped Singapore if I were him.

Anyway Day likes Rocky.

The night he found out Rocky ate nothing but vegetables, he did the same for his dinner.

When Rocky lay down and slept in our garden, Day did the same. For a while. He doesn’t quite get the bit about admiring stars in the sky and just enjoying lying still in the great outdoors.



He loves patting Rocky’s prickly head and Rocky, who seems like nothing will ruffle the calm waters of his gentle temperament, just smiles through it.



This morning Rocky tried to teach Day how to play chess.



It's good for the kids to meet folk who are not always rushing off to do something or other, or who always have something on their minds, or who are always ordering them about. (Everyone around them is guilty of one or the other. Me, I'm guilty of all three!)

And how, how, how I thirst for backpacking! Maybe I can stuff them all into Nepalese porter baskets and visit the Everest base camp sometime soon.

birthday months

In one fell swoop, my mum settles all the birthdays.

With two in March – me and Dee – and three in April – KK, Day and Choon – it makes terrible health sense to buy five cakes.

So one big timsum lunch (Szechuan Court at Swissotel the Stamford, again) and one chocolate cake later, it’s all covered.



Kids-wise, while I might have had parties for them any other time (perhaps one for both Day and Dee), I don’t think I am up to it this year.

Health and happiness to us all!



Dee is petrified. Same candle problem.

cot play

The cot's up. Kids are being Gremlins, treading on the baby's mattress with their black feet and severely testing the cot's resilience. Argh.

wayang kulit

Almost at the end of the line, complete with big butt, big belly button and big tummy (somewhat distorted due to light and shadow but this comes close.)

It’s not difficult to visualize her lying all curled up, upside down, in my oval egg sac.

uncle choon visits

Excitement in the house today with the impending arrival of their Favourite Uncle, an arrival which was nearly delayed by the unfortunate demise of a bird somewhere in the nether regions of the aeroplane taking Choon from Darwin where he dispenses diet advice back to Singapore.

The smashed bird proved inconsequential. Once again, at 7am-ish, Choon strode into the kids’ room and scooped still-sleeping Day up.

The boy, who has been hearing about nothing but Kaofu Choon’s arrival from me the last few days, sleepily put his arms around Choon’s neck but woke up pronto when he was greeted by a mountain of Aussie sweeties, from giant chocolate Easter eggs to lollipops to gummy sweets to Smiths’ chips.

I doubt Dee remembers Choon. But as she likes everything her brother likes, she took to Choon like a fish to water.



The household is complete. Everyone is happier.

As crowded and messy as it is – Choon has to share a bed with Day – it somehow feels right.

#3 at 37 weeks

She is biding her time.

Sluggish and slow owing to lack of space, her kicks no longer hurt.

She is furled up like a bat and the ultrasounds no longer make any sense.

All I ask the doctor when I go is: What’s her head circumference? Because that’s all that matters, whether I’m pushing out an orange or … a big orange.

Actually more than that; don’t think many oranges have a circumference of 34cm (that was Day’s head).

Between last week and this, I put on 300g. She puts on 400g. Something doesn’t quite add up here.

She is probably near 3kg which is nice and small but viable and manageable.

KK thinks my tummy is small. I complain but as I can still do a sit-up from the bed on my good days, I think I’m OK.

In the last few days she’s also dropped further down because I don’t feel breathless. I imagine her legs are no longer bracing against my lungs but now her head’s on my bladder. For every sip of water I take, I have to pee.

Both doc and KK have issued very stern warnings: Go in when I feel the slightest contraction.

No one wants a repeat of Dee’s rush job.

I, on the other hand, am loath to rush to hospital, a place where the smell drives my heart rate up.

But they, they are quite ready for the baby, I think! (as in, they are usually so pre-occupied with each other they leave me alone)

bright and dark

Bright happy pictures on the left courtesy of Day: Who is still into yellow (his favourite colour), all sun and good cheer. Top, rainbow. Bottom, train.

Sour pictures on the right courtesy of Dee: Who has a penchant for dark colours particularly black and brown. Top, a piece of shit. Bottom, a koala (so she says).

I fold them boats and tell them to paint them.

Predictably, Day paints his yellow and she paints her brown.



I doubt it means anything. She appears to be a far more cheerful soul than her brother.

a new eye

No I have not popped.



The strange thought occurs to me that I probably miss my camera more than I would miss my husband, if he were to go away for a time.

Every day I lament.

Finally I send the S3 in for repair.

My heart drops when the service centre tells me the parts are corroded – the likely result of not bringing in the camera instantly (it took me two weeks) but hey, what’s a pregnant lady with two young kids to do? – and I might as well get a new one.

She offers me the option of trading in so I can get a near $200 discount.

Once more, I don't look beyond Canon.

Straight off, I fancy the G9. My first and eternal favourite digital camera remains the G2 (already extinct or else I would snap it up), and I reckon the G series might still possess that odd mix of warm colour, crystal clarity and clear contrast which so inspired me.

But then Arlina recommends the Ixus 860.

She, the snap-happy traveler of the seven cameras, says the pictures have great colour, the cam can take wide-angle shots, nice night shots and is quick to snap.

What sells me is that she says pro photographers love it too, as an off-duty portable cam.

Since she was the one who got me to buy the G2 in the first place, I am swayed.

This time, I do make a trip down to the shops to try out the cams. The G9 is not as impressive as I figured, the Ixus is larger than life, so I get the latter.

The price - $531 instead of the G9’s $714 – is another huge plus. Actually that was the main determinant!

So now I have myself a dinky wristlet cam.

My only qualm is that I have been spoilt by the S3’s 12x zoom, which is almost necessary to snap lovely candid close-ups of kids without their knowing.

I can’t wait to see to see through my new eye, though, and see if it proves more inspiring than the S3. (which didn’t quite work for me, frankly)

Dee through the Ixus. Miss Piggy took her pet piggy to bed tonight.