at prokofiev

The other day, I subject Day and Jo to Prokofiev.

A piano concerto (Number 2 in G Minor), the sort which comes in four parts and for which you have to keep completely still – no applause – until all four parts are done.

Twenty bars in, Jo turns to me and yawns. “Mama this music makes me sleepy”.

One movement in, Day raises his hands to clap, I stop him. I whisper: “Day, this piece has four parts. We just finished part one.”

His face falls. He dramatically slides off his seat and drops to the floor in a very quiet moment in the very quiet Esplanade Concert Hall.

I, having previously been subject to over-enthusiastic Esplanade ushers who glare at me whenever my kids so much as sniffle, am horrified.

I lean over and whisper: “Day, please get up.”

I imagine pairs of disapproving eyes behind me.

I swing around for a quick peek and I see the wide-open mouth of a man who has slid down in his seat and has fallen comfortable asleep, head on the backrest, hands clasped over his belly.

I start vibrating silently, unable to stop laughing.

Jo asks: “What’s so funny, Mama?”

I tell her that there is an uncle sleeping. She, sitting on my lap, surveys the scene behind me and whispers: “No, mama, there are three people sleeping.”

Prokofiev is an acquired taste.


* Probably much happier at the free-and-easy jazz gig outside.

day's dessert

Another of Day's dessert attempts.



Like the first one (don't like marshmallows or strawberries), I don't quite dig it (don't like jellies).

But again, it's right up KK's alley. The boys lick it all up.

hands

I love looking at hands. To me they are just as interesting as a face.

As a kid, I was obssessed with hands. My eyes would inadvertently shoot to the hands and fingernails of my friends and till today, I remember their hands even more clearly than their facial features.

I remember, every single pair of hands and in particular, the nails. Who had short cuticles, long nail beds, who had dense white nails or brittle semi-transparent crescents, who bit their nails.

Now when I see some of them, the first thing I notice is how some of their hands have changed.

Short blunt nails have given way to long painted ovals. It's like they had plastic surgery. I don't quite recognize them.

I look at my hands.

They are ugly. They have been roughened.

They live a double life, on the one hand doing refined work which earns me an income, and on the other, rough work which defines what I am.

They are dark from sun exposure as I drive every day, heavily lined as I am forever washing washing washing, tender and sometimes bleeding from eczema.

These are the same hands that play the violin and piano, scribble frantically away in teeline as I conduct my interviews, type on the keyboard late into the night.

I look at hands. They tell a lot about a person.

My hands look like those of other mothers without maids.

Like me, these friends of mine, our hands are strong, aged, lined, dry, with prominent veins, with short blunt fingernails. Ugly hands.

When I do my refined work, my hands do not quite fit in. I do not like my hands to be photographed anymore when I am making music.


* Pix of the Housewife Violinist by the sound guy, Susheel Kumar

But it doesn’ t matter when I hug the kids because pretty or ugly, these are their mother’s hands.

I love my hands and I think, so do they.

burnt

Swimming in Singapore from 5pm to 6pm, no sunscreen.



My poor girl.

lu in a pail

She still fits!



Jo tries her darndest but gets stuck at her butt.

mitigating tv

If there’s anyone out there who wants their kids to watch a little less TV, a few (tongue-in-cheek) tips I have learnt about the subject in the past seven years:

Cover the TV. It sounds a little silly. But when we built a box around our TV (as part of a shelving unit, not to purposely cover the TV) and kept that box pretty much covered most of the time to keep out the dust, the TV was no longer that ubiquitous black screen right smack in the middle of the living room which beckoned: Turn me on if you have nothing to do. It takes work to slide that door back. So we only watch TV when we really want to watch TV and usually it’s something specific.


* Now you see it...


* Now you don't.

Make the TV unappealing. Not by choice, but our TV has terrible sound so every bit of dialogue sounds like mumbling, no matter how loud we go, and it doesn’t have any cable channels so all we get is the bland usual: Channels 5, 8, CNA, Okto.

Make it routine. The first thing the kids do when they head to both grandparents’ place is to turn on the TV. It’s a habit. The first thing the kids do when they come home is… lie down and do nothing. OK, fine. The point is, how much TV they watch where is a habit, sometimes ingrained. It doesn’t matter what programme is showing. They just switch on the TV at their grandparents and stone. I have actually come to enjoy these times because it's peaceful for me.



Enforcing the routine. This is the part which takes work. Anyone can do it, mum or maid or grandparent. They just have to be convinced that kids will find their own things to do, and they will not be bored or un-stimulated without TV. First few weeks, kids will whine and wail. Caregiver can try to come up with something, or just tell the kids to go fly a kite ie. Go entertain yourself. Eventually, kids will get used to it and fill their own time. Will they get into dangerous situations if they are monkey-ing around? Possibly. Some people use the TV to keep kids safe. Like me, when I leave them alone at home. But just not too much.

My stance on TV?

It’s great. I’m not anti-TV. I used to love TV.

TV dosage for Day, Jo and Lu?

Thirty minutes to an hour on weekdays (usually while I’m cooking dinner) and it’s usually DVDs, never TV channels, because they believe the ads. A lot more if I’m tired.

If I go to my folks on weekdays, it’s a lot more TV. One, two hours.

Nothing on Saturdays (unless we have movie night).

Sunday (when they are at the grandparents) it’s hours of full-on Okto and other TV channels.

What do they get from TV?

It’s all very impactful. Day is all inspired by Nigella and tries out her recipe involving peanut butter, banana, bread and butter.

Jo views ads as documentaries.

She comes up to me and says, wide-eyed: Mummy did you know that if you use this toothpaste to brush your teeth, leaves will come out of your mouth?

Or: Mummy, did you know that X drink is much better than Y drink because it contains less sugar? (she doesn’t care when I say water is much better than X drink because water has no sugar)

She also memorizes jingles. Which kid doesn’t?

(By TV, I don’t mean Youtube. That's another thing altogether!)

games going extinct

Five stones.
Rugby pull.
Hopscotch.
Zero point.
Skipping rope.
Helicopter.
Kite flying.

How many of these vintage games can kids these days play?

There was a Games Carnival at Day’s school, in celebration of Racial Harmony Day.

I, there to cover the event and write a piece for the school newsletter, am told by the teacher: These are games which all kids, regardless of race, would play together.

Ah, so.

What is instructive is that few kids know how to play the games.


* Day and his kaki have never seen Rugby Pull. Truth be told, neither have I.

Nobody could play five stones the way those pinafored girls used to in my alma mater, and nobody could jump over the zero point rope like my classmates used to. Me, I could only play hopscotch and skip.

The children, oh, have so much fun playing these games for the first time.

They see the rubber band zero point rope and they squeal, hogging the rope even though they have already got the tick on the games passport which they are supposed to fill.

Day and his friends leap over the skipping ropes. Leap. Stop. Leap. Stop.


* "Aheehaheeha! What are these things?"


* Is anyone doing it right?

Me and Day’s teacher, the ever-ethereal Grace, are one generation apart but we lament in one voice on the loss to today's children.

photo vs video

Is it better to capture memories and moments with a camera or a videocam?

For us, for sure, I am realizing with what is perhaps a dawning sense of horror that it's video. (time to get a videocam, maybe?)

Nobody in this family looks at the photos I have taken in the last seven years. Even me.

We only ever want to watch the videos. (The girls. Boys not interested)

Me, Jo and Lu love gathering in front of the monitor: Viewing, ooh-ing and ah-ing those bad-resolution home videos which were taken with the camera.



We see Lu, a few days old, squirming and screaming away in the bathtub and I inadvertently nudge grown-up Lu by my side: Eh why you like that? Lu shrugs her shoulders and says: Dunno!

We see Jo in her terrible twos, screaming over a pile of French Fries at Macdonalds, snot dribbling from her nose. Yells the reformed lass: I remember that! I remember that! I didn't want anyone to touch my fries!

We hear the baby cries and I remind myself: Never again.

Videos are good. It seems to brings us back to the moment far more than a photo can.

lengthening

Sometimes Jo begs me to pinch the skin on her arms and thighs to create little folds.

She wants to re-live her Michelin days.

It gets harder and harder to try and get a plausible, discrete chunk.

When did her legs get so long?



And when did this one start looking like a gu-niang? I miss my baldy.

staying back

Day is getting all sorts of letters from school asking him to stay back for this and that.

And here’s the one thing I never realized: It kills, not him, but me.


* My tired leg at Day's school

Right now, the process of having to fetch Lu at 130pm, Jo at 3pm and Day at 345pm (with both girls in tow) after his maths sucks.


* Girls drinking packet Milo while waiting for Gor

The first time I did it, I collapsed in bed the moment I reached home, snoring until 5 and jumping up in exhaustion (if one can jump up in exhaustion) when I realized I had to cook.

I could get used to it. But I just note it down as yet another thing to sigh over and suck up.

Right now, he has maths.

He’s been asked to join the Chinese orchestra, English-story writing, Chinese story-writing, Chinese speech and drama.

But because these are my guidelines…

* No Saturday classes
* He cannot stay back more than one day a week (for now anyway)
* He must have plenty of time to do nothing

… there’s the one and only maths which was his first choice.

I also now understand the fearful tendency to feel guilty whenever an opportunity is turned down for the offspring.

I mean, what do you do when these are probably good courses which cost a dime? And which can be paid for using Edusave which I cannot use for anything else anyway?

My mind wanders: What is so wrong about filling the kid’s life with enrichment after enrichment course? What doesn’t kill them makes them stronger, right?

I don’t know.

I just know for a fact right now that it would kill me and I’m a lazy bugger, so there.

Nothing else until maths is over.

(And good thing I didn't send him to a super-kiasu school)

terrifying prince of egypt

The kids are terrified by the story of Moses – at least, the animated version.

It started simply enough.

Day tells one of his jokes as we’re driving home in the car: What can cut the sea in half?

His answer: A sea-saw.

I, ever the smart one, dutifully haha, but add that there is a man who could cut the sea in half so the people he was saving could walk through, and his name was Moses.

And I said I’d let them watch Moses’ story on TV. I borrowed the Prince of Egypt for their Saturday session. This one:



I thought the movie was quite stunning.

But for them, I think it counts as one of the most terrifying movie experiences they have had.

The girls cowered and Day mostly retreated into the room to play on the computer.

I, at a gig, was not present to observe. But when I returned to give them good night kisses in bed, they yabbered away:

* I saw the shadow of a whale in the sea when he cut it, said Jo.
* There were pictures on a wall which became real. Can nightmares become real, mama?
* Moses banged his stick in the river and it turned to mud, said Jo. It was BLOOD, yelled Day. Jo is suitably horrified.
* The people were suffering, mama, said Lu.

And the best one: Mum, they threw the babies to the crocodiles.

We should have started on the Bible stuff with a nice picture book.

death of a terrapin

Chocolate died yesterday morning.

He developed the dreaded soft-shell disease where the back end of his shell started to sag and turn brittle like it would break off, stopped eating and slowly lost interest in life.

He never really wanted to live.

Of the equal-sized trio who came our way in April, Chocolate never ate much, never moved much, and while Cinnamon and Caramel doubled in size, Chocolate was ever the same.

On seeing the dead terrapin, Jo and Lu touch and pick him up for the first time. They are emboldened by immobility.



While Day, always the ones to transfer Chocolate from one tank to another, stroke their heads and play with the terrapins, shies away from the dead thing.

Him and me, upset, don’t want to touch Chocolate.

home's on the block

Somebody (or so we are led to believe) wants to buy our entire gorgeous vintage apartment compound.

In property parlance, we have an en-bloc offer.

I open the letter, I read the first line and I go: S*#t.

I don’t understand anything in it, and I only hunt for the supposed dollar amount we will get if we agree to it.

KK’s reaction on seeing the letter: I expected it.

The last attempt wasn’t that many years ago, just before we moved in.

It didn’t work then. No reason to think it will work now. Plus it all seems a huge hassle.

But living here, the en-bloc guillotine is constantly hanging over our heads.

We love our home. We really, really do.

Even though the buses are still noisy and even though the 36 steps are still a mountain to climb, it somehow makes the summit that much more breath-taking. (every time we reach our door we are panting)

Two years in, we’re still “renovating”. We just did up Day’s room, our study area and I finally painted on the key tree on the wall.



(For the most absent-minded person in the house to hang her keys and not have to search high and low several times a day.)



This home is very home-made and there’s been a helluva lot of heart put in it.

It would be impossible to find another home like this one. With nice, big, square rooms, a sensible layout, two functioning balconies (not a planter box) and things like the old air vents.

And for all the dire threats of how troublesome it would be staying in an old place, we have been here exactly two years and nothing has failed us.

But, life is funny.

For a lark, I ask the kids how they would feel if we move from our home to a condominium, and for fun, I point out a specific condo.

Day: Condo lah. What’s the point of buying a tennis racket from Darwin and bringing it all the way back to Singapore and I have nowhere to play? I also like being near the library, I can borrow books. (he pauses to consider the location) And it’s nearer the city, too.

Jo: Condo! I like to be near a swimming pool. But can we please bring all my things over, please? Please?

Lu: I want to be with mummy and papa.

It’s obvious whose answer we like the best.

But I feel so old. For wanting things to stay the same.

sleeping dilemma

None of this is going to make sense to anyone but KK and the kids when they grow up.

It’s about the sleeping dilemma.



Three bedrooms. How hard can it be? One for the couple. One for the sisters. One for the boy.

Here's the dilemma. It reads like some maths problem sum with the question being: Where should each member of this family sleep?

KK likes the fan full blast. I like the fan at low speed with a blanket. (yes we are exactly like Sumiko and hubby and yes, I read)

Day wants to sleep with his sisters even though he probably has the most comfortable room. He says: Everyone gets to sleep with someone except me. It’s not fair.

I cannot let Day sleep with his sisters because he needs peaceful unadulterated sleep to wake up early, and the girls are very disturbing bed mates.

Jo hates sleeping in her room with Lu because Lu involuntarily sleep walks over in the night to my bed. Jo sobs: Lulu leaves me and I am all alone and I am scared!

Lu hates sleeping in her room. Her favourite room is Day's room.

Both girls think there are monsters in their room.

Both girls refuse to sleep on the upper deck of the bunk bed – which is completely unused - and end up squeezing below in the bottom.

Consequences:

A lot of merry-go-rounds.

I am the ONLY person in this household who sleeps consistently in the same bed every night.

KK, Day, Jo and Lu merrily change beds depending on mood.

Bed-time is hell as all the kids bargain with me and is a contributing factor to why bed-time is one of the most stressful times of day.

nice and naughty

These two are giving off very different vibes now.



One acts sweet, the other acts sam-seng.

Another day, I dress them up, Jo puts on a huge Hello Kitty ring, strikes a pose and very loudly tells me to take note of her poised foot.



Out of the house, Lu pulls on the wellingtons and promptly seats herself on the sidewalk, something which Jo would never do because it's so dirty and unhygienic but which is something I would do even now (I joined Lu on the sidewalk).

sudden silence

I’m minding my own business in the room, sending out an email to a client.

I hear the front door click shut but my mind is mired in schedules and interview questions.

Awareness, when it comes, is startling: The house is dead silent.

The usual cacophony of screams, yells and bleats is missing, gone, I suddenly realize, when the door clicked shut.

Oh no.

I run to the living room and a quick 360 degree look tells me that the kids are all gone.

I run to the front door and open it.

Up drifts the reassuring usual cacophony of screams, yells and bleats. From the sound of it, the trio have only reached the ground floor. Fortunately, Lulu probably took a longer time with her shoes and going downstairs.

I yell: Kids!

Day shouts: Yes, mum?

Me: Where are you all going?

Day: To buy sweets!

Which is fine and good. Day and Jo have gone off on their own before on a whim to buy sweets from the petrol station, when Day feels he has money to spare. (he likes treating his sisters)

I freaked out because:

* They brought Lulu along.
* They didn’t tell me they were going.

I dragged Lulu back up. She was indignant, pouty, pissed that her momentary freedom had been crushed. She had also wanted to choose her own sweets.

Big two take a long time.

Day later tells me it’s because Jo wanted everything and he had to drive home the message that he only had $2. I am told the petrol station auntie was very amused and asked them more than once if they were alone.

Jo took a long time to prioritize and come to a final decision.


* Lu meeting her sibs as they run back from the petrol station. I got so worried I went down with Lu to look for them, just as they were running back.

anniversary

This year, we tell the kids the meaning of a wedding anniversary and why pa and ma have to go out for dinner.

Jo protests: But I want to go too!

They are befuddled and a little confused: What's the big deal?

But we successfully make a run for it, thanks to my folks.

Highlight of the night: Fried potato, bacon and octopus. Wow wow wee.



And an incredible sale at Robinson's where we gleefully pick out a frying pan with a lid and other stodgy items from the homeware section.

What we have become!

lu's art

Lu, it seems, enjoys a reputation in class as a good colour-er.

Her teacher said so.

Which is weird because up until recently, she would make a fist and grip the pencil the wrong way round, so her thumb would be nearest the tip.

She refused to be corrected. I wondered when she would ever get it. Now she has.

These days, colouring is her favourite thing to do, just like her siblings a long time ago.

She makes me draw things in her yellow notebook - she tells me what she wants and most often it's a turtle - and she sits down to colour in earnest, humming a little tune.

Colouring a cat in February (she only did the cats)...



... a rabbbit in April...



... a self-image in June.



I love her tuneless colouring hums. These are the hums of a small person who is completely at peace and happy with herself and the world.

Finished, what she always does is to flip the paper around, come to me and make me close my eyes.

“TA-NA!” she announces as she turns it around.

Of the three, she is most keen to show off her work to me even if her sibs laugh their heads off at her masterpiece.

An indulgent video of her TA-NA. It is utterly her, cheery all the way.



This family of turtles is one of her first drawings. Jo states: Yuck. So ugly.

Day is very diplomatic and laughingly asks Lu: How come your turtle has so many legs? Lu retorts: Ya wat, turtles have many legs.

once-a-year kids

It’s scary, the once-a-year kids.

Once-a-year meaning exactly that: The babies and kids who are seen once a year and who harden the edge on the passing of time.

I also call them the Chinese New Year or the birthday or the overseas babes.

Rei comes visiting again. Mama Pris is an expat wife who was in Beijing, now in Jakarta. Everytime I see Rei, she is a little taller, a little prettier, a little chattier. Of course.



And even though we see Rei so little, the Chinese-speaking babe (she had a Beijing nanny) remembers us. Our house, the cooking set, me and perhaps the kids. She doesn't want to leave.

Day remembers Rei, for sure, and I think all three kids remember Auntie Pris because she once very earnestly told them that sausages contain all sorts of icky pig parts, maybe even pig brains, and that is how Jo limits her sausage intake.



With Day, Jo and Lu, time crawls past. It’s not a matter of time flies, more of “Is it only 4 o’ clock?”

no kids for jo

She suddenly bursts out tonight: "Mama I don't want any children."

Why not?

"I don't want to wipe their backsides."

But, but (I splutter, caught up in the unexpected horror that my child won't pass on her lovely genes), they will learn how to wipe their own backsides when they get older.

"But mama I really don't like wiping up diarrhoea."

It's the same reason she gives for no longer wanting to keep a cat anymore: The fear of having to clean up and wipe up.

It brings to mind a 20-something corporate hotshot I once met at a dialogue session, who stood up and arrogantly declared to the minister that she refused to have a child because it would vomit all over her Louis Vitton bag.

Oh, Jo.