lu smiles

That magical moment is upon us: The baby (1 ½ months now) has learnt to smile.

And a little baby’s smiles are truly wonderful: The truest sincerest sweetest of smiles.

OK that’s the nice part. (I realize I am not very good at waxing lyrical about anything).

What I want to know is: Why, Lu, do you only smile at papa and Tita (the domestic helper)?

Why do you always look at me with a disapproving glare as if to say: Why am I not hanging from your breast 24 hours a day?

Lulu is turning out to be a sweetheart, though. Sort of a quiet observer of life around her, stoic punching bag of suddenly-violent siblings.

She’s serious, the smiles are still few and far between. Though I know this isn’t any indication of her temperament in later life (Dee was a dead serious baby and now laughs a minute a day).

She likes sleeping on her front, and we do put her on her front nearly all the time because she sleeps better that way. Yes, yes, it’s risky (suffocation and Sudden Infant Death Syndrome) but we try to keep an eye on her. Oh who am I kidding? The truth is, if we know putting her on her back will result in her twitching awake in a frenzy 5 minutes later, we just guiltily roll her over onto her tummy.



She likes to be upright. Sometime in the last two weeks she decided she didn’t want to be in any other position than upright, floppy head be damned. How do we know? She cries when she is horizontal, shuts up when she is vertical.



She must be carried when awake. Must. Be. Carried. Can’t lie down for more than 5 minutes. Arms in order of preference: Papa, Tita, Mummy. Only 3 people carry her.

She drinks from the bottle, which I find miraculous because both Day and Dee fought epic battles against the bottle, preferring to starve than to accept the icky rubbery teat. I tried the bottle on Lu after she turned a month old. KK was given the honours and expecting a trial, his jaw dropped when she happily sucked like no tomorrow.

* Lu is wearing Dee's first dress.

milo love

If there is one thing, one gesture, one act which Dee has come to associate with Mother’s Love, it’s Making Milo.



The simple act of stirring in three parts cold milk with one part hot water and one part Milo powder - undertaken at the most inconvenient hours of the day when she feels she most wants me and when I am the most unwilling – represents to Dee the supreme spirit of the nurturing ever-present mother.

Take 630am in the morning. Rolling over to my side, she intones: “Mummy I want Milo.”

I groan. “Five minutes more, mei-mei.”

“Mummy I want Milo… I want Milo…”

I groan. “Mei-mei, go downstairs and ask Tita (Tagalog for “Auntie”) to make Milo for you.”

“No, NO NO! I want Mummy to make Milo. AH WANT MAH-LOO! AH WANT MAH-LOO!!!”

I do of course. How can anyone resist that strident appeal?

Other Milo moments:

* The moment I put Lu on the breast.
* As I am rocking Lu to sleep.
* In the middle of the night.
* The moment I am about to step out of the bedroom after having tucked them into bed and sung them their songs.

day's day

By way of celebrating his birthday, we block Saturday out for him and give him free rein.

Anything he wants to do, anything he wants to eat, anything he wants to buy, anything goes.

This is what he wanted.

“I want to go to Vivocity to buy my Thomas trains.”

To him, Vivocity’s Toys R Us has the ultimate repository of Thomas trains and tracks. It’s his favourite place for window-shopping only on Saturday, he gets to buy.


*He’s in the right-hand corner.

KK hangs around with him. Selecting a Japanese Thomas train box set, KK says: “Day, what about this one? It looks fun.”

Day frowns. Picks up one of the English models – a wooden toll bridge consisting of 1 bridge and 2 tracks – and says: “I want this.”

KK frowns. He thinks Day is picking something silly, boring and too-expensive at $60 while the Japanese set, at $50, is far more fun and value-for-money.

Day, confused, picks something else which KK equally disapproves of.

At this point I’m not sure if he is picking something to satisfy papa or himself. In any case, he stubbornly refuses the Japanese box set.

I come in, tell KK to shut up and tell Day: “Just pick something you really want.”

He ends up with a VCD and a breakdown train, which KK later tells him is a rather cool choice.



Then KK does his shopping for his present.

Lulu, hanging from his neck in the sling like a joey, is sound asleep throughout as KK hunts for golf shirts and tries out golf clubs.



The man, however, has no luck.

“I want to eat at Swensens at T3.”

As much as I would not step into a Swensens at this stage in my life (bad overpriced food), I do remember how much I enjoyed Swensens outings in my childhood.

It must be the same for the boy.



He bounces in, cheerfully asks for the child menu, picks the Spaghetti Bolognese, enjoys colouring pictures with the free colour pencils and gets a free balloon at the end of the meal.

He has a wonderful time.

HIs day ends off with a White Chocolate Blondie, an exotic white brownie with ice cream drizzled with maple syrup and pistachios served in a sizzling pan. I guzzled up 90% of it.



Even Swensens is targeting the children ala MacDonalds. Smart move.

For posterity, here are the girls.

unnatural

I am not a good mother.

Parenting, some people find it easier and do a better job of it, than others.

These days, I am increasingly feeling like an imposter. If this were a job and I had a boss, I am afraid my performance appraisal would be dismal. Why?

* I am tardy. I am not particularly on the ball when it comes to changing dirty diapers (I am surprised none of my children have gotten urinary tract infections), I am lackadaisical about tooth brushing (I would rather skip it if I could), I don’t make them wash their hands before meals, I hardly care if they skip into the house and onto their beds with black feet. These are all the sorts of things a domestic helper would probably do better.

* I am dastardly impatient. So impatient I become destructive. I yank and throw my daughter around, I get carried away by waves of anger and, contrary to what every good parent would advice, shout and scream at my kids like an ugly monster mum. As explosive as I get, I have problems disciplining them. Actually, just Dee. Nothing I do gets her to listen and I am feeling very useless.

*I am negative. I can’t good naturedly get through the day, deflecting their tantrums with humour. What happens is that a vortex of anger and frustration builds up with every transgression, so that by 5pm, I radiate a miasma of black negativity. I do not want to look the kids in the eye, I walk past them like they are ghosts I do not see, I ignore them, I want to run away. I usually call KK in an angsty fit, demanding: WHAT TIME ARE YOU COMING HOME? Then he comes home all smiles, the popular funny man, and I feel ridiculous.

I am afraid I am screwing them up. I am afraid they are thinking: Mummy does not want us.

My mother said the other day (in reaction to my screaming fit): If you are going to be like this you won’t last.

Do I really suck at this job?

For all the love I have for them, maybe it’s not enough. Maybe it’s destructive, for them and for me.

Should I just give it up and be a part-time parent (and go back to work)? Not that it’d be easier. I reckon working mothers have it even harder. Then I’d be fretting about whether I am a bad mum because I’m not there.

But maybe, just maybe, if I see less of the kids I WOULD be a better mum. A consistently nice one.

Maybe I am better off hiring a maid, a nice patient domestic worker, who would not shout at them the way I do and do a better job of wiping their backsides.

Discipline? Leave it to the school. After all, my kids are paragons of virtue at school and their teachers never fail to tell me how well-behaved they are (including Dee), jumping up to follow instructions.

The more I feel like I have failed them, the more I want to go back to work. But that’s not right is it? To say: I don’t make a good parent, thus I should see less of them for their own good?

* On a tangent, after writing this, I suddenly realize this Feeling of Failure only started in the last month, after Lu was born. And I realize it’s…

1. The loss of old routine
2. My inability to bring the kids out (I used to bring them out every afternoon)
3. My not being able to engage Day and Dee (I am almost always carrying or feeding Lu while Day and Dee run wild doing things which get on my nerves)
4. Dee’s sudden defiance (oh she kills me)

…which has led to my losing my control and sanity.

Which makes me realize (a lot of realizations!) that it would be stupid to give up because it’s not like I have been a crap mum for four years. I just have to adapt to Lu being in the equation, that’s all.

But I still say, I am not a natural at this parenting thing. I really AM quite crap, no natural aptitude.

double-edged sword

Still on Day and his Goodness.

A friend sent me a cautionary e-mail after seeing my post, one which I am taking to heart.

I had a friend who had a younger sister who was a lot more attention-seeking and who would throw tantrums. My friend – because he wanted to please his parents and not worry them further - became very well-behaved and was very sensitive. Much like how you described Day.

So his mom thought that he was the one she didn't have to worry about while putting a lot of attention on the sister.

When they turned adults, it turned out that my friend was the one in trouble. Not bad trouble - but years of suppressing his own wants and thoughts and being 'kwai' had made him very introspective. He never really expressed himself.

He is still not well adjusted and continues to be mommy's boy. I think those years of being too 'kwai' for mommy's sake really didn't help him.

In contrast, his sister who was the terror growing up, is now a more well-adjusted adult. The sad thing was, his mom never knew his internal turmoils. He had grown so used to showing only the 'good' side to his mom, that whenever he returns home, he hides his angst, his frustrations away.

On a side note: Parenting is TOUGH.

4 and 37

Today Day turns 4.

KK turns 37.

The day passed unremarkably.

It was a particularly hot muggy humid day, the sort which generates heat rashes and where all you want to do (if not working in an air-conditioned office) is lie down, turn on a fan and play dead as the circulating hot air parches your throat.

Day missed his nap and spent his birth day battling under-eye circles and a heavy head. Earlier, his school had wanted to celebrate his birthday but as he had repeatedly (I probably asked him 50 times) insisted that he did NOT want any fanfare / birthday cake / party in school, he spent an unremarkable morning.

KK had an even worse day, very unwillingly forking out $150 to buy a bicycle helmet for his expensive original had mysteriously gone missing. By way of his birthday present, he has asked me to reimburse the $150.

Cake-cutting took place on Monday, courtesy of my mother who sponsored an incredibly good value-for-money yummilicious mocha almond ice cream cake from Savoury Fare (forget Haagen Daaz).



Us again. Lu was sleeping upstairs.



Though he doesn't look it, I think Day was very happy with the simple home party, like last year's.

At this stage, he hates crowds and being the centre of attention.

sense and sensibility

The one who deserves the most attention gets the least.

If Day hasn’t made a blog appearance in recent weeks, it’s because, well, I can’t pay him much attention. Between his two sisters, he is relegated to third spot.

And unlike Dee, he doesn’t demand any attention.

If anything, he tells me to go. Like when Dee is screaming – “Go mummy, she is crying”. Or when Lu is screaming – “Go mummy, baby Lulu needs to change her Pamper.”

The entire day, he can literally hold fort without demanding anything of me.

If he’s hungry, he gets what he wants. If he’s thirsty, he pours what he needs. If his clothes are dirty, he gets his own clothes and changes on his own. If he is bored, he knows exactly where to go to entertain himself.

Even better. If Dee is screaming, he pacifies her. If Dee is bored, he entertains her. If Lu is lying alone on the bed, he helps me coo to her and I am absolutely secure in leaving the bub with her brother alone.

If toys are scattered all over, he fights to pack them (meaning I tell him not to pack because Dee was the one who made the mess and she should do it, but he insists on cleaning up after her). If there is anything he should not do, I just have to say no once and he gets it.

We are both so inordinately proud of his sensibility.

No naughty corners, no canes, no beatings, not even a raised voice.

Sometimes he even pre-empts. He senses when I am particularly frustrated. “Mummy are you angry? Mummy are you sad? Mummy am I a good boy?”

And I tell him. Yes, I am angry. But not at you.

He behaves even better when he senses I am pissed.

Perhaps he’s had to grow up in a hurry, with two needy sisters.

I have to make myself remember: The little man is still a child.

As mature and obedient as he seems, he is entitled to his tantrums, his tears (I never order him to stop crying when he does on the rare occasion) his wants, his sweets, his hugs and his kisses.

And our attention, which we shower him with whenever possible because he is such a nice little fellow to spend time with.

a month of lu

Today marks Lu’s first month in the world.

If I could summarise in two words: Sleepy deception.

OK it probably isn’t quite fair to call it deception since she isn’t trying to deceive anyone.

But egad!

Somewhere in week three - shortly after I waxed lyrical about how much she sleeps, how easy she is to look after and how angelic she is - she became the third of my (typically) difficult babies

Un-put-down-able, forever wanting to chomp on a breast and with a formidable war cry.

Still not as bad as her sister’s, but bad.

Her lovely personality has gone kaput along with her complexion.



Which makes me wonder if WE are doing something wrong. Three difficult babies in a row? It’s got to be our fault. (Or are all babies like that?)

Perhaps breastfeeding on demand (and I do say I probably let her latch on 20 times in ten hours) creates breast-obsessed monsters?

Perhaps our tendency to pick her up every time she yelps makes her think arms are beds?

Perhaps our stubborn refusal to use pacifiers creates babies who cannot be put down easily? (I am a millimeter from picking up a pacifier, though. Why shun modern conveniences for silly ideological reasons?)

Things came to an emotional head Thursday, when a cycle of carrying and feeding and trying to put her down to no avail for five straight hours with no end in sight brought me to my knees.

Lu wailed, I wailed. I tearfully bared an exhausted boob and as she fed in blissful temporary silence, I whimpered pitifully: “I can’t look after you, baby, I can’t, I can’t. I can’t do it.”

So hopelessly pathetic I think it’s rather funny on hindsight. Third time round, I’m still astonishingly useless at looking after my own baby.

Not all bad, though.

We can be thankful that apart from the rash Lu does not seem to suffer from anything else and while she is the smallest of my three, she is growing nicely.

Plus nights, she is angelic once more. Easily put down, sleeps in her cot, feeds two or three times.

Actually, for night peace, perhaps I shouldn't complain so much about day havoc!

On to Month 2.

sharing by number

Sharing. Big issue. It’s just not human nature to share.

These two, they fight.

Me, I count.

Case in point: One packet of biscuits.

He grabs it. She snatches it from him. He screams.

He grabs it back. She screams.

I grab it from him and declare I will dispense the sugary nuggets. Both scream.

My peeved dad retorts: You should have bought two packets! Then each can get one.

My retort: One, I’d have to spend more money. Two, two packets is too many. Three, I can’t very well buy two of everything forever.

So I count. “Mei-mei holds it and mummy will count to 10. Then Day will hold it and I will count to 10.”

And so it goes.

Before long, they start handing the packet over long before I get to 10. I say: “… 5, 6, 7… oh very good Day!”

They get so swollen with praise they start handing it over earlier and earlier, looking at me as they do so so I can pat their heads.

Before long, I quit counting and they are sharing quite civilly.

Ah, here they are sharing their prized biscuits in the car.

dolls

Dee walks past a glass window in which a flat-screen TV is playing, on a loop, videos of Barbie Mariposa.

She stops short and watches, riveted, as Barbie fairies with wings (Barbie Mariposa and her butterfly friends, apparently) flit across the screen.

Then she raises her chubby arms and starts making circles in the air, twisting and curling her fingers, following the Barbies onscreen, being a butterfly. She is dead earnest, frowning.



Day, wondering where his sister is, wanders over from the Thomas train section and peers at the TV screen for a second before going back to admiring Thomas and friends.

I think it’s about time I got her some girl GIRL toys instead of sticking her with her brother’s trains and Lego.

No Barbies though. Not yet.

the dreaded e

Crusty yellow pustules on her ears, her nose, her eyebrows and her scalp, plus a swarming colony of angry red bumps all over her face and chest. (this not-so-bad photo was taken three days ago and it’s since gotten worse)

Nearly a month old (Friday’s the day), Lu’s not quite looking her best.

A swath of yellow pus on her pillowcase this morning (from her oozing earlobes) sends me scurrying to the paediatrician, $80 consultation fee be damned.

On the red, he tells me it’s nothing more than a heat rash which will go away.

On the yellow, he makes this dreadful pronouncement: “It’s cradle cap. Most babies get it on the scalp but it can also appear on other areas. She also has eczema.”

AGAIN?

I fervently hope the refrain “it’s a little too early to tell” applies in this case. Let it be a one-off case of infant eczema. Like Dee's.

I don’t want this genetic pest bothering another member of this family apart from poor Day (who still has flare-ups and scratches himself silly) and of course, me, the guilty mother merrily passing on the gene.

What to do?

Apply baby oil fervently. Plus the paed dispenses probiotics, which come in powder-filled capsules which I mix in water and feed to her via a syringe. It apparently helps with eczema.

He hints that it may be something to do with what I am eating and passing on to her via breast milk. Hence I am to avoid eggs, milk, dairy products (which she may be allergic to).

first month food

The eggs which on first glance appear to be something Day produced in school are Lu’s first month red eggs.

Some bright spark (actually my dad) said why not use the red food dye to draw smiley faces on the eggs instead of dyeing them all red.

I, cringing at the corniness of it, said why not write her Chinese name.



Mum, relishing the prospect of doing some egg décor on a lazy Sunday, decided to do them all and threw in Lu’s English name as well.



So there we have it. The corniest red eggs ever. All gleefully done up by Lu’s por por.



The eggs are meant to be given out today, at Lu’s first month (dinner) party.

Three hours before the buffet is due to start, relatives have arrived for a noisy spot of mahjong.

Sans buffet food, they have been slurping up the traditional food to be found at a baby’s first-month party.

Pig’s trotters in vinegar, an either you-hate-it or you-love-it morass of pig trotters, vinegar and I-don’t-know-what-else, prepared by my mum.



It is an acquired taste, which I have sadly not acquired. But is apparently required eating for all new mothers because everyone asks me: Why aren’t you eating this?

Chicken soup. No ordinary dinner chicken soup, this, it is a boiled-to-the-max stew of chicken, wolfberries, peanuts, fungus, ginger and cognac, prepared by my dad.



This, I like very much.

Unfortunately, I can’t do both dishes.

Which is why I find it necessary to blog about it because the recipes will very likely be lost from me onwards. Plus, I suspect few from my generation bothers with or fancies such dishes. Sad.

three generations of hair

Dee after her first-time trip to a hair salon.

That makes three generations of women (mum, me and Dee) who have had hair cut by the same rather remarkable man.

Vincent, who runs a one-man shop at Kim Tian Road (where he does everything from cut wash and sweep hair to cleaning the windows), started cutting me and my mum’s hair in the mid 80s when he was in his 20s, and yesterday he just did Dee’s.

There’s Brisa Salon in the background (for anyone who's interested, it's at Block 129, #01-129, Kim Tian Road).



For cutting my hair and Dee’s, he charged us the princely sum of $21. He also remains the only hairdresser whose work can put a smile on my face when I say “cut anything you like”. (which is what I always say to hairdressers because I never know what suits me).

Which is exactly what I told him re: Dee’s hair, when I brought Dee in, kicking and screaming.

She peeped into the salon and started whining: “I’m scared.”

Nevertheless I forcibly popped her on my lap and to my pleasant surprise, the tears stopped when she started to enjoy looking at herself in the mirror with her hair all clipped up and getting snipped, while going: “Mei mei’s ponytail!”.

Did I say she’s vain?

She was a remarkably good toddler customer and Vincent managed to give her a decent wispy bob with a decent wispy fringe (achieved only because we covered her face with a mask, the sort which women use when the hairdresser is spraying things around their head).



Result?

KK absolutely loves it. He likes short hair on his women and he asked if it could be even shorter and funkier.

The maid thinks she looks better with long hair.

I think the style looks stellar from the side and the back. From the front it doesn’t look so great, for some reason. I think her face is too big and wide.

Maybe she should just stick to a straight blunt bob.

Good thing is, I can say goodbye to struggling with her knotty hair and running after her as she flees from the comb.

Bad thing is, Vincent is considering becoming a taxi driver because it’s so difficult making ends meet.

That would be a tragedy.

nightingale

Dee loves to sing.

She doesn't sound very good; pitchy (ah Randy Jackson!) croaking is more like it.

She doesn't care.

She sings when she plays, she sings when she walks, she sings herself to sleep.

In school, where the tiniest traces of aptitude become lofty labels, Dee is the class Singapore Idol (like another boy is the class Beckham).

And when at home (never in school) she loves making up outrageous lyrics to the tunes. Involving mostly bodily discharges and body parts (again). When she does, she sings one line and chortles at her own bawdy humour before mauling the next line.

I'll say: I like these bawdy songs best! They're a riot!

* Unfortunately I haven't managed to catch her improvisations on video. Here she's singing "I can sing a rainbow", one of her favourite songs.

then and now

Then: Cloth diapers.
Now: Disposables.

Then: Maid bathed the baby while I watched.
Now: I bath the baby while the maid watches.

Then: Maid cut baby’s nails after a month. I watch.
Now: I cut baby’s nails after a week. Maid watches.

Then: Baby cries. We go “OH NO!” Panic all around.
Now: Baby cries. We go “oh well”. We take our time.

Then: I read the newspapers to a month-old baby (oh my God it embarrasses me to admit this but I really was an idiot)
Now: Eye contact and singing. Enough stimulation.

Then: Expensive paediatrician.
Now: Cheap polyclinic.

Then: Photos every day.
Now: Photos every other day.

Then: We sleep with baby.
Now: Baby sleeps in the cot.

Then: Baby goes out everywhere. (with me).
Now: Baby stays home (I don’t go out).

Then: I find every excuse to pick baby up.
Now: I find every excuse to put baby down.

angelic lulu

She’s the easiest one we ever had.

I hope I’m not shooting myself in the foot; at times, after I blog about things, the complete opposite happens.

But three weeks of life with Lu and well, she’s an angel (relative to her siblings, for that’s all I can compare with!)

She’s been mostly doing nothing but feed and sleep the first two weeks; and I do mean SLEEP. She would sleep something like 21 out of 24 hours with the rest taken up by feeding time. So odd was the feeling of having a newborn who didn’t wring me dry, I actually wondered if there was something wrong with her.

Third week she is getting a little princessy but who cares when she gives me good nights? (three or four feeds and straight back to the cot with no crying is all).

Yes, she has sleep issues but half the time we put her in the cot and she actually stays asleep. The other half she jerks awake and screams and we have to rock / carry / breastfeed her back to sleep but that’s not too bad a statistic is it?

The worst she’s done is to have six-hour jags in the day whereby she can’t get to sleep and I am tired out by a cycle of hourly feeds, attempting to put her down, picking her up again after she screams, carrying her, feeding her again … but again that’s not too bad is it? As KK says, nothing beats Dee, who was like that round the clock, demanded the most out of everyone around her and who screamed like a siren.

Lu is utterly sweet in demeanour. She doesn’t twitch much, she sort of looks around in a very slow, sagely manner and complains about very little.

I’m not sure actually if it’s Lu or if it’s us.

Perhaps we just know how to do it better. I am that much more confident of breastfeeding, KK is that much better at rocking babies to sleep, we are that much less panicky whenever baby cries. Perhaps Lulu senses it and is calmer (and more angelic) as a result!

random shots today

We're still not quite sure who she looks like. This is one of her better photos. No, she's not very photogenic.


The loving Big Brother.


KK's hand protectively on Lu's head, just in case Dee takes another swipe.

ziyan

In the end it came down to:

ZIXIU
ZIQIAN
ZIYAN
ZIHUI

My dad, once again, came up with a list of possible Chinese names for Lu, just like he did for Dee.

Only this time the list was much shorter because he said the first character – Zi – had to be consistent with Dee’s Zijun, as they are sisters.

I liked Ziqian but KK said “qian” sounds like “owe” and he doesn’t want a name which implies she owes anyone anything.

In the end Ziyan just kind of sounded the nicest.

Meaning? Purple bird.

Oh well.

faking his chinese

Day’s Chinese teacher is Ding Lao Shi, a young earnest Chinese national who believes she can change the world by imbuing her young charges with a love for Mandarin (OK I am exaggerating but she is so earnest / hardworking / sincere she comes across as being that way).

Every time she sees me, she corners me and asks me effusively in Mandarin: “Did Sheng Wen sing the Chinese song to you? Did he read his Chinese books to you? Did he? Did he?”

Her crestfallen face whenever I say no is priceless. “But he always says it so well in class! Really!” she exhorts, before she tries to pull Day over for a live demonstration. He always refuses.

Honestly, I have no idea if he can speak the language. Not a word of Mandarin passes his lips at home. I am not particularly concerned.

The other day, though, as I was in school a bit longer to spend time with Dee, I happened to be present during Ding Lao Shi’s class.

And there was Day, standing in front of the class as his classmates sat clustered around his feet, reading an entire Chinese book in what was presumably a demonstration by a Boy Who Can Read Chinese.

Upon catching sight of me, the enthusiastic Ding Lao Shi bade me come in and, flipping the book back to page one, got Day to read it all over again.

And he did. Perfectly. Word for word. At a fast clip.

I, however, am not Ding Lao Shi. I saw the book he was reading from and I realize he is probably no more capable of reading Chinese words than his blonde-haired classmates.

Once home, I took out the book. Only this time I covered the hanyu pinyin (hanyu pinyin being the English phonetic transations of the Chinese words).



And he couldn’t get through one sentence without his English aids!

My, we laughed our heads off!

the pink school bag

A gift, the cute-as-hell Strawberry Shortcake haversack (candy pink) was something Dee would play “go to school” with.

Until Wednesday.

The bag was packed with diapers, a change of clothes and a water bottle and my little girl, bag on her back and all dressed in matching pink, went to school for real.



It is not my intention.

I had no plans to send Dee to school until she turns three or even later.

It was KK’s wish.

While I was in the hospital and he was on paternity leave, he had to look after Dee in the mornings.

After (just!) two mornings, he declared: She must go to school. The whole morning she ba-long-long (something which means wasting time; I think) around the house and I hate seeing her waste her time when she can learn so much.”

My immediate response:

What is wrong with letting her ba-long-long?
Who says she is not learning?
Which expert says a two-year-old must go to school?
Who is going to pay her school fees?

In the end, it was the immediate need for me to resume writing that got to me. Juggling Lulu and Dee in the mornings leaves me very little time to do any work. (answer to fee payment: Me! Argh.)

Plus I realized that with having to bath/feed/carry Lulu, I can’t do any of the usual things I did with Dee (jigsaws, drawing, painting) and she ended up vegging in front of the tube (though actually I don’t mind that too much either).

The million-dollar question: How was she?

It’s been three days and her experience can probably be summed up as an Escalation of Grief.

Day One, hardly any tears. She looked at me as I waved goodbye.



Day Two, she clung to me the moment I brought her into the classroom and apparently (I had already left) cried until she threw up.

Day Three, she clung to me and shrieked the moment I pushed the pram into the gate.

When I collect her, however, in the moments I peep at her before she is aware of my presence, she looks absolutely thrilled to be in school. She's always been steady pom pi-pi!

Day is in the same school but they are in different classes.



In any case, I like that she is on her own, she can’t always be following her gor-gor around.

Do I miss her? Yes. Just like it was with Day when I packed him off to school, I am sentimental about our mother-daughter mornings.

Reading the newspapers together (she always went for the food pages with the huge pictures), playing with her toys, constantly snacking and going out with the neighbour (in their car. I had stopped cycling for months) for breakfasts to nearby Bedok or Siglap. Dee in the neighbour’s car.



Her favourite was roti prata from a void-deck coffee shop and chicken porridge from the Bedok market.



Next one to cycle out for breakfasts: Probably Lu. When she's near a year old.

not enough milk?

Third time round and it still rankles. Drives me nuts. Makes me want to kill someone.

I refer to that horrible comment: Baby is not full. Are you sure you have enough milk?

ARGHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

I don’t fault the asker.

I have realized that apart from KK, anyone else (and I do mean anyone, from parents-in-law to domestic helper) who is helping me to look after my babies will always, ALWAYS make the comment.

And not surprisingly; when Lulu cries and arches her back and her mouth starts roving back and forth and the caretaker is helpless to do anything but to carry a screaming baby, they logically assume the baby is hungry. It is the only solution they can fasten on.

What I am surprised at, is how the comment still gets my heckles up.

And how it never fails to make me feel insecure about whether my baby is getting enough. It always puts me in distress. I can’t quite ignore or laugh it off.

Even though I know I have fed two babies for 18 months, I actually think, what if third time round I REALLY DON’T HAVE ENOUGH?

If I were a milk geyser, I am sure no one would say anything.

But I have never been. My issue has always been “maybe not enough” and not engorgement. I have never been engorged in my breastfeeding life. Not once.

Plus, even though I now know for a fact that babies tend to want to suck for comfort rather than nutrition, nobody really believes she wants the breast because she is sleepy and not hungry. So (as usual) I end up giving her the breast ad nauseum. Just to make life easier for everyone.

Anyway, a report on Lulu’s breastfeeding progress:

* She never feeds from both breasts at the same sitting. Like Dee, she finishes up with one side.
* First week, I was desperately waking her up to feed so my milk will come in. I have never had a sleepy baby so it was a bit of a problem in the opposite direction.
* Second week, she still doesn’t feed like her brother and sister did (they were barracudas). Sometimes two, three or even four hours apart, I can’t believe my luck at finally having a “textbook” baby.
* Third week (now) she is theoretically going through a growth spurt and I have been feeding her hourly, but only one side each time.

Is she growing well?

She doesn’t seem to be like Dee, who filled out like a balloon. She is still on the skinny side, I think, but I am not particularly concerned since she is putting out loads of pee and poo.

our middle child

A friend said she would not have three kids. If she did, she would make it four. Just so she can avoid the middle child syndrome.

With three, we now have a middle child: Darling Dee.



As there is no way I am having a fourth, looks like Dee is stuck in what someone calls “a rock and a hard place”.

Where theoretically, top honours goes to brother Day (her achievements are ignored as he has been there, done that) and sentimentality goes to baby sister Lulu (third / youngest child traits: Spoilt rotten).

Where she will apparently be ignored, have to fight harder for our attention and feel less loved.

KK remarks: “No, I don’t think so. We are paying her a lot of attention.”

I say: “That’s because until two weeks ago Dee was not the middle child. Can we say the same 5, 10, 15 years later? Or even 6 months down the line when Lulu starts getting cute and grabbing our attention?”

I’m sure the syndrome is a very real one, and is probably in the natural order of things. In the sense that without knowledge, parents with a trio will naturally raise their kids such that #2 exhibits the middle child syndrome.

I suppose knowledge makes all the difference.

Making much of her achievements, respecting her opinions, seeing her as an individual.

And I am heartened by the fact that middle children I know are not exactly screwed-up.

Arli, who just wrote about being a middle child, is brilliant. My mother is … my mother! My brother Choon is probably the nicest and most well-adjusted of the three of us (me and Teng have issues).

And oh, my husband is a middle child.

Come to think about it, KK, Choon and my mum have one thing in common: They are all dead easygoing (a middle child trait, apparently).