my litter

I walk into the darkened room and on the mattress on the floor I make out a few humps all bunched up in a tangle of blankets.

KK switches on the light and says fondly: “Look at them. They look just like a litter of puppies.”



He’s doing his usual admire-the-kids-sleeping rounds.

Of late, the picture has become more compelling because Lu has joined them. Two is nice but three, well three make a litter!
,
KK threw the baby in with them one day and discovered that she would miraculously happily put her head down and go to sleep, surrounded by her siblings, without requiring any of us around to pat / feed / rock.

* On that note, since they all bed down at the same time, sometime between 830 and 930, I have to carefully calibrate their naps: No nap for Day, a nap for Jo no longer than two hours and ending no later than 5pm, and Lu… Lu’s naps are currently all over the shop.

Seeing all three on the bed quite takes my breath away.

It’s not just the sheer amazement that this trio of warmth and life and sweetness all came out of me, but the fact that they all draw comfort from each other.

Even as Lu is consistently shoved all the way down to the foot of the bed such that her head usually ends up very precariously right below Day or Jo's feet, she doesn’t mind when her sibs stir and she gets a shove or a kick.

They love each other.

a primary school

Another no-photo post but the issue has been on my mind: School for the kids. It leads on from some of the things I have been thinking about since the last GEP post.

Day is 5. I am told I have to crank up the war machinery and start plotting my strategy to get him into the RIGHT school.

Now, this is what I have always thought:

* The first school – and thus it will have to be co-ed - will apply to all 3. I visualize all 3 going to school on the same bus (Pri 1, Pri 3, Pri 5), soaking in the same school culture, being able to complain about the same teachers.

* Their school will have to be near home because for years I had to wake up at 5am to get to school on time and it meant I pretty much only woke up after recess.

* Their school will not be a school which churns out 260+ PSLE scores by drilling and over-extending the kids (and parents) so they find PSLE a breeze. You know, the “challenge them (and parents) so much that they will be far better than the average” mentality. It will be one where their love for learning is not stifled by a desperate push to the finish line, where they will enjoy their journey to learn and not just the destination aka exam or test.

* Their school will not be a school where most of the kids are chauffeur-driven / driven to school in big cars. I want their school to have heartlanders and kids of all races. (I have to say this because a friend is saying I should send Day to a particular school because there are no kids there of a particular race. Yes, this is a friend. She’s nice otherwise…)

KK is in completely harmony. To him, every primary school is the same. It’s all up to the pupil. Because of my criteria, I have not really searched for schools because the ones the kiasu parents all fight over are not the ones I want for my kids. The ones I am looking at are neighbourhood schools which develop the kids, not only academically but in other areas.

Now there are some other voices corrupting my stream of thought.

It revolves around my assumptions that over-extending my kids is bad for them, that it would kill their love of learning, that brand-name schools are bad in that sense. Is it necessarily so? Am I over-reacting to my own school experiences?

It also revolves around my belief that I want all three to be in the same school. They are all different. Whilst Day may fit into one, Jo may not.

All girls or all boys schools may have affiliated secondary schools, which makes post-PSLE a little less onerous, I suppose. But if they came in from an unaffiliated neighbourhood co-ed school, it might make things a little more stressful.

There is also the importance of peer influence. Primary school kids tend to want to follow their friends to secondary school, at least, that’s how KK ended up in Chinese High. Perhaps in that sense, who else is in their class matters, because I do think secondary school has a profound influence, more so than primary.

And as an old school friend commented, on my previous GEP post: “Without my competitive and overachieving peers in school and coming from a difficult family environment with not much support (as verified by a class survey in Pri 4), I may have ended up as a clerk or factory operator and never have gone on to university in Singapore and overseas. I am thankful for the smart and overachieving classmates who showed me the possibilities of the world and gave me dreams to achieve.”

Darn. Not that I have anything against clerks or factory operators, but I do want to give my kids the opportunities to do a little better than that.

24 years ago...

I switched schools. I was in one school in Primary 3, and another in Primary 4.

People inevitably ask me why – Oh did you move house?

I hem and haw and I say, No lah, I just changed schools. Then I quickly change the subject.

The real reason I changed schools is because I entered the Gifted Education Programme, and the reason I don’t like to talk about it, is because I Hate. Hate. Hate. The label.

A fellow RGS alumni at my ex-workplace once came up to me to say: “Eh weren’t you in the gifted class?” And that was the worst thing I heard that day.

Just typing out the words Gifted and imagining it on the blog, my ears are reddening and I am thinking: Should I?

Well why the hell not? I’m 34, confidently nonchalantly heck-care about all the hang-ups in life I may have had as an awkward teen and overly-conscious 20-something. At 34, nobody cares if I was once-upon-a-time gifted.

Plus blogging is therapeutic. This is the first time I have ever openly acknowledged the tag which defined me from Primary 4 to Sec 4.

I am nostalgic because today the GEP held a Reunion Tea for us all. It’s the 25th anniversary of the scheme and I am a pioneer, 2nd batch.

I am nostalgic because coincidentally right now I am writing a piece on Parenting a Gifted Child for a magazine.

I am nostalgic because in thinking back on my past and writing the piece, I wonder about my children.

And you know what? I really don’t want them to be labeled gifted.

They may be gifted – Who cares? Who knows? Who defines the damn term? – but as long as they are not LABELLED, I’m good.

It’s created in me, a lifelong fear of having to live up to a reputation. It’s made me always want to start from zero, to work with people who have no expectations of me or better still, think the worst. Then I’d like impress the socks of them.

I have hang-ups about working with or meeting people who think highly of me. Which is vicious because at some point in your career people NEED to have high expectations.

Why? For the life of me I can’t even recall. My GEP days are lost in a haze, my grey cells gone the way of breast milk, straight to my babies. I only remember snatches of nasty discriminating teachers and students.

Even now, I wonder if it was all a big mistake. I really didn’t think I was worthy. The academic results sure didn’t show it. And what do I have to show for all the Government's investment in me now? Three kids?

Was the GEP good for me? If I were asked, I’d say no. For seven years I was cowed. An already shy girl silenced into muteness by peers who were truly brilliant, articulate and confident. A GEP friend once said I was a mouse. I didn’t find my voice until I went to TJC.

Back to the kids.

When I left the event, the GEP Big Chief came over and said: I heard you have 3 kids! Maybe they will get into the gifted programme too.

I gritted my teeth, smiled what I hope was a convincing smile and said very loudly: Well, who knows? Hahaha!

boy birthdays

And so, Day turns 5 and KK turns 38.

It’s funny, every time we do the kid’s birthdays KK likes to say: And we are one step nearer the tomb.

Which sort of puts things into very grim perspective.

Anyway, a recap:

FARECARD FOR FIVE

Three things I tell Day about being five:

One, he has to wipe his own backside after he does the big one
Two, he can forgo his afternoon nap
Three, he gets his own farecard

The last was rather exciting for him as he’s quite obsessed with the MRT train at the moment. As he pores over the bus guide I bought at his request, he has memorized every station along every line (NS, EW, Circle) in order and is thoroughly pissed off when we take the LRT and I command him to scoot under the turnstiles because I don’t want to pay his fare.

"But I'm taller than 0.9 metres!" he chirps.

So I bring him and Jo to the Bedok MRT and buy him his first farecard! I make a big deal out of it because it’s his present. (it’s all in the marketing, isn’t it?)

I tell him he that as he turns five, he has the honour of owning his first farecard.

He loves it, the farecard with the picture of the yellow bus, continually caressing it.

Of course we take the MRT.



During which he keeps up a running smart-aleck commentary which – I have to be objective here – must have pissed the hell out of all the grumpy commuters around. Things like “Oh, look, the switch on the track!” or “We are at Kembangan now, then it’s Eunos and Paya Lebar and Kallang…” or “How come the LRT only has one coach but the MRT has many coaches?”

I was very conscious of possibly coming off as a high-falutin’ fart trying to acquaint her kids – who clearly seldom taken the MRT – with public transport, excursion-style. It didn’t help that I was taking pictures of them in the train.



But they enjoyed it alright!

DEMPSEY DAY

We hang out at Dempsey on a Friday morning. Nobody goes to Dempsey on Friday morning so it’s just perfect except for the 41 degree (as registered by our car thermostat) weather.

We hit Ben and Jerry’s. Empty except for us. Lovely furniture, lovely high ceiling, lovely loft, lovely ambience.



The kids hit Go-go Bambini, where I was 1 1/2 years ago with Clara and June. Day pronounces it’s “better than the Kallang” one because he likes the music floor-keyboard (you dance on the keys to make music), the red very-slippery dip and the rock-climbing walls.



CHOCOLATE CAKE

I hit the mall with Lu to get the boys a cake. A heart-shaped chocolate one with chocolate balls.

Evening-time, me and Jo bring it up to the balcony for a surprise.

What surprises me even more is that the girl then pokes all the candles into their holders and arranges them very neatly on the cake. She’s quite well-meaning that way.



And at the moment I have a revelation: Thank goodness for girls. Because Jo is excited about the event and is clearly all ready to sing song / blow candle / cut cake. Girls Respect Events.

The boys are watching TV and are clearly reluctant to switch it off for a stupid cake-cutting ceremony.

Two more cake ceremonies:

One at home with the grandparents.



One at school with the kids.

awww

Altogether now!

"I love you, you love me
We're a happy family
With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you
Won't you say you love me too?"
- "I Love You" song from Barney, sung to the tune of "This Old Man"

street smarts

Some people are just more savvy than others.

Maybe it’s got something to do with nature, maybe it’s got something to do with nurture.

As a general rule, I suppose those who have had a harder life are forced to be more street-smart than those who were born with the proverbial silver spoon in the mouth.

However, of these two (because Lu is really too young to tell), considering they are brought up in the same environment, I reckon I can safely say that our Jo is genetically more street-smart and better able to fend for herself.

The evidence:

* After papa buys her a bag of cookies at the café and tells her that he will open it for her when he gets home so everybody can share, she goes up to a waiter of her own volition and asks him to cut it for her. So when KK next sees her, she is happily munching away on a (surprise surprise!) opened bag of cookies. I remember Day at the same age, it took endless cajoling before he even dared to open his mouth to whisper for a latte for KK at Coogee.

* She is very aware of what is around her. On occasion, when I miss something (and I am the perpetual scatter-brain), I ask her. Like “Jo where’s mummy’s wallet?” And she tells me “Upstairs on the blue bed.”

* She does not forget, and relentlessly pursues her agenda. Like she bugs me for a cup of Ribena before bed-time, repeatedly, and I repeatedly tell her she has brushed her teeth and she can have it in the morning. First thing in the morning when she wakes up, she rubs her eyes and intones: Where’s my Ribena?

* She is very money-conscious. She has successfully badgered KK into buying her a little purse and the dollar she most wants to have in it, is the blue one. She also likes the process of paying for things and getting change.



* She is very aware of people around her - me in particular - and if they fall short. She’s caught me a few times not looking left and right when I cross the street. “Mummy you didn’t look left and right!” she says, in a very accusatory tone.

* It's really hard to pull the wool over her eyes. Can't recall any instances, but it's just really hard. She's naturally suspicious.

For fact, she is way more alert than me and Day. Me and the boy are generally sotong, anything-goes kind of people, destined to be bullied left right and centre by the likes of… our Jo!

samseng lu

I took this photo while she was out on the porch.

That's her favourite activity now. Walking up and down the slope.

I love watching her as she gains in strength and confidence every day.

Everytime she catches my eye, she gives me that precious buck-toothed grin and torpedoes into my waiting arms.

Her smiles warm my heart!

She is a wholesome cheery mischievous little bub, more like her brother in demeanour than her sister.

But what the girls share are croaky voices, only Lu's seems a little huskier.

She doesn't look so good in a dress, though. It's the hair.

hard work

Has the recession affected us?

Not KK. Thankfully construction is a sector which is still up and kicking.

Me, yes.

I am writing this in a fit of frustration. I'm so fed up. In these bad times, I really have to fend for myself and I just want to throw in the towel. Towels.

Just abandon the entire lot of thankless irresponsible penny-pinching clients and ask for a supplementary credit card from KK.

Honestly.

Putting hard work into articles that are later cancelled (so no payment), having to chase chase and then chase some more for a miserable bloody $200, clients who delay and then delay so I suddenly end up with a mountain of (cheap) work on my head.

In a nutshell, what's happened in the last few months is: Late payment so I have to waste time chasing. Poor payment so I am forced to accept jobs which pay nuts for a lot of work (but I accept because I am afraid of turning down jobs now). Clients that now demand the sky and the earth so for that miserable pay I have to work like a dog.

I'm still as professional as I can be, doing the best I can and if it's not enough, listening and being nice and doing the extra work. But man.

Same on the music side. Clients which I spend time meeting and sending dozens of emails to who then decide after all that they don't want us.

Damn and damn and damn!

My property agent friend tells me: "My God at least I get four figures after closing a deal. Your work is really not worth it. Why don't you become a property agent?"

I tell her writers are cheap. Will never get rich. But like charity workers, writers write because they love it. They have to pay the price for doing something they love, especially during a recession.

What I really really want to do now, is to switch off the mobile, shut down the laptop and retreat somewhere where no one can reach me. I want to be irresponsible, I want to be a bitch, I want to just shoot my freelance career to shreds.

jo's mole

For posterity, her first mole on her right arm.

She is mighty proud of it, brandishing it like a brand-new tattoo and clamouring for more. Because Day, well, already has 10 since the last count.

The specks seem to appear when they are roundabout 3 to 3 1/2 years.

Lu has none.

While me and KK are now counting age spots.

* Also, she's Jo. Not Dee. We have never called her Dee - it didn't seem to sit well on her and she's only ever been Dee in cyberspace. So from calling her mei-mei (now no more), she's quite naturally gone on to being Jo, or Jojo.

boob stocking

Five bras have lasted me for the last five years, all Arabella Bs from Deb's store Maternity Exchange.

The other day I reluctantly had to dump one of my beloved Arabella Bs - my very first one, the white-turned-grey one with the almost-falling-off strap and the indefatigable elastic which had finally come loose after years of almost-daily use. I had literally worn it to shreds.

My breast friend, my boob stocking.

I wish I could get more. Only Arabella B (based in the UK) has stopped production (it wasn't popular with the Caucasian women, presumably because it's probably too filmsy for bigger folks).

For mums, trying to get a good bra really sucks.

For one, there are nursing bras and then there are nursing bras. I went through some horrible ones (Mothercare ones being the worst of the lot) and in the early days with Day, I used a nursing bra with cups that could be unfastened, but it looked awfully crumpled under a T-shirt.

Then Deb came to the rescue with her imported Arabella Bs, which were pricey considering that the bra looks like a Bee-Dees training bra and folds as small as a panty, but was worth every cent.

For another, normal non-nursing bras don't fit. The boob boosters have got their ads right: Children do do horrible things to women's boobs.

Although the doctors all say that it's pregnancy and not breastfeeding per se which causes sagging and volume loss (such that the top of the boob looks like a cliff instead of a nice dome which refuses to nicely fill up a normal bra cup), I'm not quite convinced. I suspect breastfeeding is really the culprit.

Anyway, it's probably time for me to head straight back to Maternity Exchange to find a new breast friend. Probably imported because the best nursing bras are all from overseas anyway. I hear there are some Japanese ones for smaller women.

And once I stop breastfeeding forever in 6 months time (that's my 18-month deadline for Lu and why forever? Because I'll have no more kids!), I can't wait to see if I can shop from normal shops like Women's Secret or whatever. (see I don't even know)

friend control

If I may describe one of Day’s best friends: A boy, loud and brash, who I often have to ask to repeat himself because he speaks like he has marbles in his mouth, spends his entire afternoons and evenings after school in front of the goggle box, loves Ben Stiller-Adam Sandler type movies, dislikes books, loves guns and mock-shooting Day and Dee, treats the car as a playground (never sits in a car seat), chomps on chocolates and sweets and Big Gulps from 7-11 ever so often (and as a result has 4 cavities one of which resulted in infection and a swollen cheek), sleeps late, does not have an afternoon nap, is dragged kicking and screaming to school the next morning, drinks copious amounts of milk from the bottle, has to be fed his meals by the domestic helper, has to be changed by the domestic helper, and on occasion shits in his pants.

KK tells me: I don’t like Day to mix with him.

I know what he means.

Especially when Day is liberally plied with sweets and Coke, starts wanting to watch TV the whole afternoon and turns a fierce eye on me: “Why do I have to sleep in the afternoon?”

Not to mention the mock gun battles he now likes to engage in.

But the idea of stopping Day from mixing with his friend just because of some puritanical notion on my part is repulsive.

And to be frank, I like the boy. He’s a bit of a lout, but he’s a good boy at heart.

As the kids grow, they will probably start befriending and getting influenced by characters which we may not necessarily approve of.

I don’t suppose I will stop them. Oddball friends who are not perfect make for mighty interesting company.

But I will tell them what’s not great.

Like Day: He has become ever more careful about sweets and his tooth-brushing ever since we very matter-of-factly explained to him that the holes in his friend’s teeth were probably caused by eating too many sweets.

snapshot

* By Dee

We are sitting in the Ten-Mile Junction (so aptly named because no one outside of 10 miles, or even 1 mile for the matter, will come near?) LRT station, waiting 15 minutes for the next train.

It's a typical scene. The kids jump and scream and run circles around me. Dee grabs my camera and commands her brother to make funny faces. She snaps, orders him round to SEE! SEE! SEE! and they laugh till they are all slitty-eyed.

I, looking for all the world like a tiny malnourished domestic helper or substance abuser, sit very still in one tiny corner with my chin on my knees.

Occasionally I bark out an order. "JO TAKE CARE OF MUMMY'S CAMERA!"

walking lu

Today was IT!



Lulu suddenly got fed up with getting her hands dirty, stood up and started padding around.

I’ve always loved it whenever the walking milestone is reached and it’s one of my favourites.

It’s such dramatic evolution! One day they’re on all fours, the next day they’re upright.

She’s been doing two, three steps for a week or so now, right after her birthday, before dropping back down. We always applaud!

But today, like I said, was it.

Age: 12 1/2 months. Why her age even matters is because KK says that of all the three, he feels the most triumphant and ecstatic about Lu's walking because it was long-awaited. R-i-g-h-t...

She’s like Dee, though, when it comes to her walking psychology. Cautious.

Sometimes she holds my hand if I’m standing next to her, but unlike Dee, she does not seek it.

On another note: As can be seen from the vid, yes, she is bald. Again.



What can I say? Will this girl ever have long hair? Will it reach her shoulders by the time she is two? At her current growth rate of 3cm in five months, I doubt it.

It wasn’t me who gave the green light.

My finger is pointed at KK. Who decided to cut his hair and Vincent once again exhorted the benefits of repeated shaving, and KK decided that Lu’s hair had to go, once again.

“She’s always sweating and scratching her head,” he said.

I didn’t mind particularly. And if it results in thick glossy hair, so unlike mine, I’m all for it. So her wispy mop went off. Here's the last photo of her first re-growth (after the first shave).



This time, she was a lot more aware of the shaver and screamed a lot more.



But I think we were all happier.

The shaving revealed rash-ridden patches of scalp which must have bothered her, KK had a field day bathing her (no need to shampoo) and honestly, I think Lu looks beautiful bald.

It sort of ups her cute quotient. KK and I just found her (and her cold prickly wet head) too damn cute for words.

Especially when she starts pawing her newly prickly head in bewilderment.



I tried to sell the idea of Being Bald to Day and Dee, but they flat out refused.

I’m not going to shave Lu again. This will be the last time.

getting around

The easiest way.



One of our best buys from Sydney.