Fever left on Day 10.
Her skin felt cold and damp (she had broken out in a fine sweat) and she did not wake up once in the night.
How do I know this is for real? I don't.
But her skin temperature felt right. A little colder than usual, but without the core of deep heat which had been there, lurking under her skin over the past 10 days even when the thermometer read 36.9 or less.
I felt right.
It's funny but if there's anything I have learnt from this it's that mums do have a special sense. They know when something is not right, and when something is, even when there's nothing scientific to back it up.
It's amazing.
Thank God.
She's set a new family benchmark.
Next time I'll wait 10 days before I panic.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
a long fever
We have been blessed: The children are strong and hale and hearty and their mother, remarkably bo-chup.
I can afford to wave off every cold, cough and flu which comes our way, no matter how high the temperature, no matter how green the mucus, because I know nature will take its course.
Today I am concerned.
Little Lu has had an on-off low-grade fever for near 10 days now.
I am concerned because:
* Normal fevers don't last more than five days, with medication.
* There are no other symptoms. No mucus, no cough, no cold, just an innocuous gradual warming up of her skin until it hits up to 39 degrees by which time I kiss her forehead and my lips tell the story.
* Her behavior is remarkably unchanged. She eats like a pig and plays like a monkey. Except when the fever strikes.
* The temperature spikes are unpredictable. Twenty-four hours after I sigh in relief, it returns, a mild but definite low-grade temperature.
I wish her throat would turn red, her ears would have some discharge, that she would cough. Anything which would be a visible signpost of some garden-variety viral attack.
There’s nothing.
It is an atypical fever which has struck what has probably been my hardiest child.
A visit to the expensive paediatrician gets us antibiotic Augmentin. He can’t see anything wrong either, but the antibiotics are “just in case”.
“Bring her in if she still has a fever after 10 days. We’d have to do some tests,” he says.
She's sound asleep now. No fever. We're still holding our breaths.
I can afford to wave off every cold, cough and flu which comes our way, no matter how high the temperature, no matter how green the mucus, because I know nature will take its course.
Today I am concerned.
Little Lu has had an on-off low-grade fever for near 10 days now.
I am concerned because:
* Normal fevers don't last more than five days, with medication.
* There are no other symptoms. No mucus, no cough, no cold, just an innocuous gradual warming up of her skin until it hits up to 39 degrees by which time I kiss her forehead and my lips tell the story.
* Her behavior is remarkably unchanged. She eats like a pig and plays like a monkey. Except when the fever strikes.
* The temperature spikes are unpredictable. Twenty-four hours after I sigh in relief, it returns, a mild but definite low-grade temperature.
I wish her throat would turn red, her ears would have some discharge, that she would cough. Anything which would be a visible signpost of some garden-variety viral attack.
There’s nothing.
It is an atypical fever which has struck what has probably been my hardiest child.
A visit to the expensive paediatrician gets us antibiotic Augmentin. He can’t see anything wrong either, but the antibiotics are “just in case”.
“Bring her in if she still has a fever after 10 days. We’d have to do some tests,” he says.
She's sound asleep now. No fever. We're still holding our breaths.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
papa gone
KK works late three nights in a row.
Three nights, we don’t hear the loud click of the door lock turning at 7pm and the kids don’t have the sturdy pair of arms to run into, squealing “papa”!
Each time KK has to stay back, he tells me almost apologetically and I respond: “OK”.
Home alone with the kids doesn’t faze me anymore.
But one of us cracks.
The second of KK’s late nights, I tuck Day in bed. As I pass by his room door on yet another thankless errand the girls send me on, I hear quiet sobbing.
The boy is lying face down on the bed, legs clamped tightly together, arms crossed under his face.
I go over to him: What are you thinking about, Day?
He looks up, mucus running, eyes red and streaming with tears. “Papa… I miss papa,” he squeaks.
KK tucks Day into bed every night. The talk man-to-man in the dark. They play games on the iPhone. They sleep next to each other until Day goes down, which usually takes all of five minutes.
That’s why he misses his papa.
KK, on his return home, kisses the kids and turns to me: “I hate working late. I miss my kids.”
Three nights, we don’t hear the loud click of the door lock turning at 7pm and the kids don’t have the sturdy pair of arms to run into, squealing “papa”!
Each time KK has to stay back, he tells me almost apologetically and I respond: “OK”.
Home alone with the kids doesn’t faze me anymore.
But one of us cracks.
The second of KK’s late nights, I tuck Day in bed. As I pass by his room door on yet another thankless errand the girls send me on, I hear quiet sobbing.
The boy is lying face down on the bed, legs clamped tightly together, arms crossed under his face.
I go over to him: What are you thinking about, Day?
He looks up, mucus running, eyes red and streaming with tears. “Papa… I miss papa,” he squeaks.
KK tucks Day into bed every night. The talk man-to-man in the dark. They play games on the iPhone. They sleep next to each other until Day goes down, which usually takes all of five minutes.
That’s why he misses his papa.
KK, on his return home, kisses the kids and turns to me: “I hate working late. I miss my kids.”
Saturday, March 26, 2011
tech hostage
The time has come for me to be held hostage by technology once again.
A mother board failure this time, apparently, which means I cannot download my photos to my desktop and without my photos I am - still the same - uninspired.
Computers. Love 'em and hate 'em.
A mother board failure this time, apparently, which means I cannot download my photos to my desktop and without my photos I am - still the same - uninspired.
Computers. Love 'em and hate 'em.
Monday, March 21, 2011
movie nights
Some Saturday nights we watch movies.
Not at the cinema, which remains a family rarity.
At home, in our living room, on our tiny, little, miniscule, flat-screen TV with the terrible sound so we can never really hear what anyone on the tube is saying, and we have to put on the subtitles. (that’s why we never watch TV. No one knows what’s going on. Unless there are subtitles)
Post-dinner, everyone gets cleaned up and the kids scramble to set up the theatre.
Large pink mat, cushions, pillows, a tent and blankets. They own it. (Usually I'm washing up or picking up something somewhere)
Movie snacks: Always lightly salted Ruffles and a bottle of jasmine green tea. We dim the lights.
It’s decadent by my standards but heck, even I stop work for once to enjoy this indulgence.
Movies of choice: Family-friendly fare, what else?
It’s a challenge to find something everyone likes, but we’ve had our hits. How to Train a Dragon being a big success so far, along with the fabulous Miyazaki oeuvre of which KK in particular is a big fan.
Not at the cinema, which remains a family rarity.
At home, in our living room, on our tiny, little, miniscule, flat-screen TV with the terrible sound so we can never really hear what anyone on the tube is saying, and we have to put on the subtitles. (that’s why we never watch TV. No one knows what’s going on. Unless there are subtitles)
Post-dinner, everyone gets cleaned up and the kids scramble to set up the theatre.
Large pink mat, cushions, pillows, a tent and blankets. They own it. (Usually I'm washing up or picking up something somewhere)
Movie snacks: Always lightly salted Ruffles and a bottle of jasmine green tea. We dim the lights.
It’s decadent by my standards but heck, even I stop work for once to enjoy this indulgence.
Movies of choice: Family-friendly fare, what else?
It’s a challenge to find something everyone likes, but we’ve had our hits. How to Train a Dragon being a big success so far, along with the fabulous Miyazaki oeuvre of which KK in particular is a big fan.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
jo's 5
My darling middle child turns 5.
Of my 24 pages worth of unused blog entries, a good third belong to her and her alone, mostly written a year or two ago, bemoaning her eccentric and ornery nature. She was a real inspiration.
I can laugh now.
What a sweet creature she has become, the least troublesome of the trio (well most times) and the most eager to please.
She tells me she wants to go to the zoo for her birthday.
I plan, I prepare, once again, I flop. Oops.
ONE: Never carry loose strawberries in a plastic bag.
TWO: Never try to walk around with cakey stuff in a hot place for more than an hour before eating it.
Jo’s five cake pops from Starbucks (cake on a stick), one for each of us and for each year of her birthday, are crumbly, over-moist and spoilt.
She, in reasonable mode, stops her crestfallen calls for a proper cake and sucks it up.
We have to make it up with a proper cake.
Lesson learnt from Luanne: At this age, the kids don’t want different. They want normal.
Lifting the occasion was Gu gu’s present: Two huge-ass balloons, Barney and Ariel.
Tight and buoyant, they float along the ceiling. Occasionally we pull them down to give them a hug.
We give Jo a grown-up present.
KK is besotted with it and says: Jo, if you don’t wear it, I will.
Friday, March 18, 2011
lulu's 3
My coy, sweet, infuriating daughter turns 3.
As with everything with her, all I can say is: Already? (unlike Day and even Jo, where everything is Are We There Yet?)
Lulu looks forward to the Big Day.
For weeks before, buoyed by Jo who fervently reminds the whole family every other day that her own birthday is two days after Lulu’s, Lu shyly reminds me every now and then that she wants balloons and a pair of wings.
That’s all she really, really wants.
We get her a balloon. Gor-gor merrily takes a pair of scissors and snips a hole in it.
* Blue for Lu, pink for Jo. Alive and flying before Day kills it.
We arrange a birthday evening out at Vivocity – I would have preferred a non-mall location except the whole week has been nuts and I was done trying to plan for anything – which falls flat.
Her tube balloon, which was to have been fun, explodes with a loud pop and she falls into the fountain, wetting her dress.
* Day and Jo have a swell time, though
The candles on the beautiful strawberries-from-Korea cake, which we were to have cut on the grass lawn, could not be lit as the wind was too strong.
* Pose but no blow and cut
She, so tantalizingly close to the cake, has to watch it go back into the Bakerzin fridge without eating it. Long story.
To everything and to my increasingly apologetic explanations – “It’s OK Luanne. You can change at home. You can eat the cake later. You can blow up more balloons later” – she says OK.
Then, as her siblings go off to watch a movie with their papa, she waits with me at the mall for them to finish. She is tired by the time they're done with Rango.
* Fallen angel.
At least she has her fairy wings. For a while, she merrily skips through Vivocity waving her wand, stars bouncing around her head.
She only gets to do the whole birthday thing when we return home.
And looking at her, I think that’s all she really wanted. Home, family, a cake and a song.
I will enjoy this one for a long time.
Especially when she involuntarily licks her lips at the prospect of strawberry shortcake.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
facing the late-30s
* An instance when the camera casts a kind eye on me. These days, I appreciate it.
Well here we go. I’ve tipped past the 30s mid-point.
If I had wanted to get anywhere I would be near, or already there.
But I remain remarkably content to float along in life lallang-like, occasionally losing my things and my memory, revelling in the simplest of pleasures with no more aspirations for greatness.
A very simple pleasure being that at 36, I look chubbier than I did at 35, 34, 33, 32, 31. (no more childbearing and breastfeeding).
I cannot be bothered with the occasion and swat the date away when I am reminded.
But other people remember the occasion for me and for that, I will always be thankful.
Mum, with her uppity hotel membership, dispenses with her usual tim-sum treat at Szechuan Court during which we accidentally order a plateful of noodle which turns out to be $60 (erm, one scallop and one fat prawn each?). The hotel gives us a tiny free cake and that, is my birthday cake.
* Actually a combined birthday cake for me and the girls
Rachel, a mummy who I met through the blog and whom I have only met once in 2007, unexpectedly buys me and the girls three little cupcakes (pink for Jo, purple for Lu and chocolate for me)...
... when we visit her boy Isaac for a playdate. (she knew it was our birthdays via the blog)
Me for myself? I buy books online. For the first time in my life. I am so excited about my James Herriots I check the mail every day. (usually I check once a fortnight. Or weekly if I am on the ball)
KK? He is terrifically forward-thinking. He buys a strap-on massage chair which drapes over our sofa to ease my impending aches and pains.
* Ernie enjoying the strap-on
Sunday, March 13, 2011
march madness
One: It’s birthday season. Mine, Jo and Lu’s, in the coming week.
Two: Day enjoys his first bona fide school holiday (he never had a break when he was in the childcare centre, but then childcare was arguably a long holiday). He is chuffed.
Two: Day enjoys his first bona fide school holiday (he never had a break when he was in the childcare centre, but then childcare was arguably a long holiday). He is chuffed.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Thursday, March 10, 2011
speccy jo
Just playing.
With any luck, all three will have my perfect eyesight. Or KK's perfect-until-his-late-30s eyesight.
Wednesday, March 09, 2011
Monday, March 07, 2011
precious moment 7
Last in the lot.
It’s tough, gathering precious moments.
Most times they drive me up the wall.
Anyway. Here's a funny photo which is precious to THEM because it cracks them all up. They like spoilt shots.
It’s tough, gathering precious moments.
Most times they drive me up the wall.
Anyway. Here's a funny photo which is precious to THEM because it cracks them all up. They like spoilt shots.
Sunday, March 06, 2011
Friday, March 04, 2011
precious moment 5
Every time I leave the girls, we have a ritual which has evolved from their demands. (Yes, yes I know this is meant to be sweet)
We must kiss. On the lips. Many many times. So we sound like this: Muack. Muack. Muack. Muack. Muack. Muack.
When I leave Jo at bed time, it’s a little more complex.
She kisses my body parts. And expects me to reciprocate. So she kisses my ear. I kiss her ear. So on and so forth.
She goes on until she runs out of kissable body parts.
Then she may or she may not blow me a kiss. This is when she creates a heart-shape with her fingers and blows it from her mouth to me.
It all sounds like heck of a lot of work.
But I am sure I will miss it when the girls start returning home at 2am with alcohol on their breaths and slam their door shut before I can even start squeaking.
Oops. That isn’t going to make anyone want to have kids, is it?
We must kiss. On the lips. Many many times. So we sound like this: Muack. Muack. Muack. Muack. Muack. Muack.
When I leave Jo at bed time, it’s a little more complex.
She kisses my body parts. And expects me to reciprocate. So she kisses my ear. I kiss her ear. So on and so forth.
She goes on until she runs out of kissable body parts.
Then she may or she may not blow me a kiss. This is when she creates a heart-shape with her fingers and blows it from her mouth to me.
It all sounds like heck of a lot of work.
But I am sure I will miss it when the girls start returning home at 2am with alcohol on their breaths and slam their door shut before I can even start squeaking.
Oops. That isn’t going to make anyone want to have kids, is it?
Thursday, March 03, 2011
precious moment 4
It’s 9pm and both Day and Jo have dropped off to sleep.
Lu, who had napped, is bright and cheery, once again basking in the glow of getting 100% attention and not her usual 33.3%.
KK drinks a Coke, I read the newspapers, Lu draws. Her paper, pens and stickers are all over the table.
At 930, I get up. “Lu, it’s time for bed”.
She stands up, holds up a palm: “Wait, mummy. Wait.”
She takes KK’s cup into the dark kitchen and drops it into the sink above her head, takes the cloth out to carefully wipe up the Coke rings on the table, scurries back into the kitchen to hang the cloth over the oven handle, runs back out, puts my newspaper where it’s supposed to be, picks up her pens and snowman drawings and keeps them neatly in the drawer.
Action for action, it’s what I do every single day. KK and I are amused silent observers.
Everything is immaculate.
Her eyes are shining bright as I gather her in my arms and kiss her chubby cheek.
* Chubbiest cheeks in the family
“You’re WELCOME, mummy!”
* She only does this when she is solo. If Big Two were around, she would probably have thrown more pens onto the floor.
Lu, who had napped, is bright and cheery, once again basking in the glow of getting 100% attention and not her usual 33.3%.
KK drinks a Coke, I read the newspapers, Lu draws. Her paper, pens and stickers are all over the table.
At 930, I get up. “Lu, it’s time for bed”.
She stands up, holds up a palm: “Wait, mummy. Wait.”
She takes KK’s cup into the dark kitchen and drops it into the sink above her head, takes the cloth out to carefully wipe up the Coke rings on the table, scurries back into the kitchen to hang the cloth over the oven handle, runs back out, puts my newspaper where it’s supposed to be, picks up her pens and snowman drawings and keeps them neatly in the drawer.
Action for action, it’s what I do every single day. KK and I are amused silent observers.
Everything is immaculate.
Her eyes are shining bright as I gather her in my arms and kiss her chubby cheek.
* Chubbiest cheeks in the family
“You’re WELCOME, mummy!”
* She only does this when she is solo. If Big Two were around, she would probably have thrown more pens onto the floor.
Wednesday, March 02, 2011
precious moment 3
I lie down and sleep next to Jo, which is a rare moment because by and large we do not sleep together.
I hear sniffing.
I ask: What is it, Jo?
She turns to me, tears trickling down her face: I am crying because I love you so much, mummy.
I love you more than the earth (accompanied with big hand gesture), I love you THAT much.
The photo is posed. But she was really, really crying that night.
She kisses me on my cheek.
Kevin Kern is playing from the iPod next to us (Jo sleeps to Kevin Kern every night) and it’s altogether a very maudlin moment.
I want to laugh but I manage to keep it down.
Never in my life has anyone cried for the privilege of sleeping next to me.
It’s quite astounding.
I hear sniffing.
I ask: What is it, Jo?
She turns to me, tears trickling down her face: I am crying because I love you so much, mummy.
I love you more than the earth (accompanied with big hand gesture), I love you THAT much.
The photo is posed. But she was really, really crying that night.
She kisses me on my cheek.
Kevin Kern is playing from the iPod next to us (Jo sleeps to Kevin Kern every night) and it’s altogether a very maudlin moment.
I want to laugh but I manage to keep it down.
Never in my life has anyone cried for the privilege of sleeping next to me.
It’s quite astounding.
Tuesday, March 01, 2011
precious moment 2
Lu screws up the DVD remote control, the last straw in a long frazzly day. I yell, throw a tantrum, storm into my bedroom and sleep.
I stir when I hear a little whisper – “Mama here’s something for you”, and I semi-open my eyes to see Day scooting out of the room.
He’s left a note on my pillow (Which I have bloody lost but it said something like this):
Mummy, Two-year-olds are like that. I will repair the DVD remote control for you. Love, David.
I smile and close my eyes.
Just before I drop off again, I hear Jo come in. She leans over me, kisses me on my cheek and says: “I love you, mama” before tip-toeing out of the room.
I stir when I hear a little whisper – “Mama here’s something for you”, and I semi-open my eyes to see Day scooting out of the room.
He’s left a note on my pillow (Which I have bloody lost but it said something like this):
Mummy, Two-year-olds are like that. I will repair the DVD remote control for you. Love, David.
I smile and close my eyes.
Just before I drop off again, I hear Jo come in. She leans over me, kisses me on my cheek and says: “I love you, mama” before tip-toeing out of the room.
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