party pooper lu

Last year she was stellar.

This year she is Madam Mope.


* Birthday girl Lexi with the fairest hair

I have to beg her to play the games of which she only played half with sullen expression.

Why? Who knows? They change an awful lot.

more kids read blog

A girl looks me in the eye today and said: Why didn’t you tell us you had a blog?

She’s 10. I started writing about her in this blog when she was two. She stumbled on the blog while randomly Googling her mum’s name and realized her family was featured.

God help me, I’m old.

And again, it gets me thinking about the impact of my writing on the people around me.

The blog has always meant to be personal: A loving detailing of their growing lives which they can read when they are older, a documentation of people whom they may already have forgotten, of things they said and did, first experiences, a reminder of places they visited which may be random wisps in their memory, a look into mummy’s thoughts which may explain why I behaved a certain way in their childhood.

The people part is key. And that is why I write about people like her. Because they were a very important part of Day, Jo and Lu’s lives and I don’t want my children to ever forget them and the special times they had together.


Me, I have forgotten just about everything of my childhood.

But I know that not many people like to be ‘featured’. And I don’t know if they always like what I write.

Today, the little lady and her brother run from me like I’m the paparazzi as they spy my camera swinging from my neck.

“Are you going to show us on your blog?” she asks. “I don’t want to be on the Web!”

With due respect, I won’t, since she said so.

But I do want to say that Lu’s bikini was passed down from her.

As she looks at Lu wearing the tiny two-piece, she gapes: Was I that small?

Yes, you were, my dear. Yes you were.

google search

It was with a bit of a shock when I Googled my usual byline name and found that top of the list was… this blog.

Uh oh.

I wonder if people who want to hire me do a search and come to the blog. I have no issues, really, there's nothing very flamboyant or inflammatory about this space.

I’m really not tech-savvy. I don’t know how searches go or how they are ranked.

I don’t think I have ever even wrote my name, in full, in the blog. Even if I have, it isn't often.

So how is it that the blog is so easy to find? And is so closely linked to my name?

david loves david

David is such an old-fashioned name.

Amidst the very elegant and beautiful names of his contemporaries, many of which end with “an” or “en” (think Aidan, Ethan, Megan), his ends with a hard consonant. 

Apart from old, old men with the name, I know no little boys named David. Not in Singapore anyway.

So it was with great pleasure when I found out that an old friend had named her baby David.

And the two Davids derived great joy from each other.

My Day was enthralled with sweet-smelling baby David, now five months old, with the thunder thighs (another one!), multiple chins and fuzzy head.

He kept running into the baby room to peer into the baby’s cot, depriving the baby of his noontime nap, and Zhimin very kindly let him bottle-feed her baby.

* Zhimin, David and David

We chucked the boys together as we caught up with our lives, and Day did a marvelous job of entertaining David with finger puppets.

In response to yet another question about whether I will have #4 since my #1 seems to want to get his hands on baby fat, Day replies: No. I only like babies if they are cute and Mummy’s may not be cute.

* Small cute head

swimsuit preferences

One wants to expose as much as possible, the other wants to cover up as much as possible.

Like that how to pass down the swimsuits?

sinful happiness

At 9pm, the kids and I return home from the pool where Day had his swim test. KK had arrived home from work earlier.

Everyone is hungry. Our 6pm bacon-and-mushroom spaghetti dinner seems to have dissolved entirely.

In the car, I promise the kids the usual monastic spread of cheese on brown bread, cornflakes with milk, steamed corn and peas, grapes, hot Milo. The good stuff.

KK, caught up in his euphoria at having the whole brood home, chimes: What about Macs?

I think we all need the occasional crazy sinful spurt, where we break the rules and just do what is not kosher. Kids particularly enjoy it: Sleeping at midnight, TV uninterrupted, Macs.

It’s a good day. It’s the last day of school for Day, the start of his holidays, he’s got his report card, he’s just done his swim test, we are one day nearer to our Darwin jaunt.

Heck. So I permit it. And I indulge in it.

This is what makes life happy, man. The once-in-a-blue-moon Macs feast. (I think this also means that the kids will forever associate Macs with happy family moments)

We do a takeaway and everyone tears into it.

And by the way, I note that while the prices of everything else in Singapore is going up, Macs meals have become cheaper (the heartlander Auntie cashier helpfully tells me that prices were just slashed and it’s all very worth it).

A 9-piece Chicken McNuggets meal with fries and a drink is $6.60. A 4-piece, I think maybe $4.50. Not only at lunchtime but throughout the day!

stories in the dark die

I blog when something starts. I also blog when something ends.

I notice there have been no more made-up stories.

For years, I have tried to make up a little story for the kids every night.

I have just found it increasingly tiresome.

Every time I get busy, the stories are cut off abruptly. I cannot spin tales of fairy floss and rainbow sprinkles when my brain is in work mode. But cutting abruptly never works. The kids who expect it then make a lot of noise. (“But you told us a story last night!”)

Then I get all huffy about how they don’t UNDERSTAND and I start screaming about how I have to work because I only have a two or three-hour work window and will they just SHUT UP AND GO TO SLEEP BECAUSE I CAN’T MAKE UP ANY STORIES WHEN I AM STRESSED.

So I just stopped. The stories not the work. I enjoyed a work down cycle (no jobs), but I did not re-start the stories.

It was much easier to read from a book.

Now the kids no longer expect it. I read (someone else’s) book aloud, turn off the lights, and turn to work.

This is the epitaph to my Stories in the Dark (as they called it). It was good while it lasted.

The series:

* Mer-mer the quizzing and gifting mermaid

* Red boat and edible islands

* Blue turtle tales (specially for Lulu)

* The kind angel

* The worm in the apple

* The kid who can detach his arms and legs and nose

* The tree children (the last and most complicated of the lot)

I might resurrect it. But only now and then, so they do not expect me to deliver a story every night.

a race

BEFORE...



DURING...


* KK in yellow

AFTER.



Aw.

In the wake of our effusive gushing over the fact that she finished the 800m race, wet blanket Day tsks: Haiya so what? Everyone gets a medal! She was so slow! There were 70 kids in front of her! (he counted)

Boy. Wait until your turn in September then we'll see.

night cycling

Hot hot hot.

We are in what feels like the hottest most humid part of the year (so far).

The entire day feels over hot for any sort of physical activity apart from retreating into an air-conditioned room, which we are fortunate to have one of.

We take out the bikes in the evening. It’s still hot but I think we could all benefit from a little bit of activity-induced perspiration.

It ends up quite lovely, turning into our first night ride as the sun sets and cool breezes finally waft in from the sea.

 

Lu misses the sunset. She falls asleep in the bicycle seat on our way to dinner at the hawker centre.

KK unclips the seat and sets it down on the floor of the hawker centre next to our table where she sleeps right through our meal. What an amazing bicycle seat.

Snug in the seat, she hasn't moved a muscle through all our cycling exertions, all her sweat (see hair) is heat-induced.

pass

I came across this triumphant pronouncement as I was going through his bag.

Yes, it does, my child!

Now you know what is Pass and Fail!

Welcome to the rest of your life!

crappy car safety

What goes on at the back.

motherly advice

This Mother’s Day, I will gift my daughters.

It’s still early days yet. But I think doing something for eight years qualifies me to give some advice to Jo and Lu when (or if) they become mummies in future.

Yes there is tons of advice out there and I am saying nothing new. But in my context, this is what is most pertinent.

My dear girls (and prospective daughter-in-law if you get along with me) here goes:

* ENJOY. Generally speaking, your kids are meant to be enjoyed. They are not meant to be sources of stress.

* TAKE CARE. Always take care of yourself. Your kids can only be happy if you are happy. You know how the aeroplane safety briefings always say, put on your own oxygen mask before you put it on for your child? Before I had you all, I thought it was hogwash. Such a selfish action! Now, I metaphorically see the relevance. When I don’t take care of myself, I am a shit mum and all of you are blue down the line.

* DEPRIVE. The best for your kids is not to give them the best. Deprivation creates a greater sense of appreciation and striving for better. Against all your loving instincts - especially if you marry a rich man or are earning an obscene wage - withhold. This applies only to tangibles like clothes, toys, books, gadgets. Intangibles like time, love and patience (mum is still developing on this one), give, give, give liberally.

* LET GO. Your kids are hardier and far more capable than you think. Let go. Yes, girls, I probably take this too far (putting knives into your hands at 5 and letting you stay alone at home at 4) but you get the drift.

* HEART OVER MIND. Don’t think too much. Are your kids eating brain food? Are they better than your peers’ kids? Do they need to pick up some activity at the age of 6 in order to qualify for direct school admissions in Secondary 1 in case they flunk the PSLE? Parenting is a lot easier if you just enjoy your kids. Use your heart and not too much of your brain. Don’t over-think, don’t over-compensate and don’t over-anticipate because this is somebody else’s life, not yours. (Girls, this might come back and bite me in the backside if one of you flunk the PSLE and you have no valuable skill attractive enough for any secondary school, but like I say, I’m just eight years in!)

* HUSBAND FIRST (OR EQUAL). Never put the kids above your husband (Day I do not think you will have such a problem because men generally don’t). If, like me, you can’t get away for couple time, a regular hot drink at night, or some such lovey-dovey ritual will do. And do succumb with pleasure. It’s not difficult if you marry the right man. See Auntie Shereen’s post for further reference.


* BAD GUY. It is likely that you will be the bad guy in the family. Your husband will probably be the one to let them do all the unsavoury things like eat junk food or watch too much TV. Relax. Don't snipe at him and accept that his role is to give them some wonderful (very important) memories while you are the one who really holds it all together. And your kids will appreciate that in future (I hope. I don't know yet, really).

* DIY. If you choose or have no other choice but to work full-time and have your children, do not rely on me. This grandmother will not be a surrogate parent. Employ a helper or rely on full-day childcare (see second point) but do note that without a helper, you will probably have to do housework when you return home from work. (unless you are lucky enough to snag one of those housework-loving husbands)

Ah. Pictures.

* They and their mummy (the two mums-to-be - if we are lucky - on the left!)

* Me and my mummy (Pa and Teng on the left)

harry potter

As much as Day seems to like to read, he’s not the kind of reader I was at his age.

I remember I read everything. I’d go the library, borrow any-sort-of books and devour them all while I was eating, in the toilet, everywhere. I particularly liked folk tales, Joan Aiken, Philippa Pearce, Beverly Clearly, short story anthologies, horror and science fiction, but chances are if you gave me anything I’d read it.

Day is fussy.

More than half of what I throw at him, he doesn’t fancy. He doesn’t take a second look at Enid Blyton, the Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, Alfred Hitchcock, Roald Dahl and certainly nothing which I used to like as a girl.

He’s also not interested in library fare which kills me because I don’t believe in buying books.

So he just keeps re-reading all the same old stuff. His Tin Tins, Geronimo Stiltons, the Beast Quests, while I keep wondering what else might strike his fancy. You know, try to broaden his horizons and all that.

Then one day I decided to throw all seven  Harry Potter books at him and tadah! Success! He loves the whole series although I’m not quite sure why he would prefer it over, say, the lovely Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

* Our motley collection of Harry Potter, on loan from Teng

exams and tests

It’s in the air…

Day

He is in Primary 2 and he is going through his first ever exam. He didn’t have exams in Primary 1.

A few other mums call and SMS me with slightly frantic questions which freak me out a bit: What revision? What worksheet? What test? TOMORROW?

At the moment his nose is mostly buried in story books, not textbooks, and I’m not sure if he knows how to study or if I need to teach him how to.

Day is cool: Yes, there’s a test tomorrow but don’t worry about it.

I do. Because his grades are not always great. And his complete lack of concern (perhaps mine too!) is slightly jarring.

But I leave it there anyway, with one rejoinder: If he wishes to be left alone the way he has been left alone, with no assessment books or mock test papers or drilling at home, he had better score damn well in the exam.

Which is my way of pushing all responsibility for his own grades to him, the carrot being his own independence and nothing more.

He nods and asks: What is “damn well”?

KK

This is KK’s fourth try now, to try and cross the Professional Engineering hurdle.

It’s become familiar to me and the kids, like an annual Qing Ming ritual or Christmas party.

It’s the only time in the year when we head downtown on a working weekday evening to the SMU campus, and wait for papa to come out with a whole lot of other men who are similarly dragging textbook-filled trolley bags around.

He, however, seems to be the only candidate with a posse of one big and three small cheerleaders madly jumping outside the door to try and see him through the glass slit.

* KK in white at the back

The lead-up to the big event has also been the same for four years: The nightly studying which starts several months before, his overcast mien on his birthday (which always takes place a few weeks before the exam) and my having to take over all household duties for a while.

Also similar every year is the same strange mix of relief and despondency as he walks out of the exam hall and sighs.

What I have figured, if I could use a cooking analogy, is that he specializes in baking desserts (geotechnical) but in order to get the qualification he has to pass a test in Chinese stir-frying (structures).

Which is what makes it so hard because he doesn’t stir-fry, and he isn’t interested in stir-frying, at all.

The boys talk about their respective exams and cucumber-cool Day, who is having a much easier time of it than his papa, asks KK: What if you fail again?

KK replies: Try again lor.

This year is also particularly special because while waiting for KK, a worker beckons us to finish up the remnants of a buffet! Free food! Sausage buns, carrot cake and curry puff!

The kids, for the first time, see the huge trays of food being thrown away into a black trash bag and they, who are made to finish up every grain of rice on their plates, are aghast at the wastage.

Jo, the eternal questioner, is distressed and grills me: Why must they throw the food away? Why can’t they keep it so other people who are hungry can eat? Why can’t they pack it? Why must they throw it away at 5pm? Why can’t they wait a while?

Jo

On a good note, Jo now aces her weekly ting xie.

* Stars are self-awarded

A few factors for success:

* The words got easier

* I teach her, not KK

And the strangest thing, which is perhaps not so strange after all.

She does incredibly well when I ignore her. So I cook, throw her a word, go back to cooking, and once the attention is off her, she rises magnificently to the occasion, getting all her words right.

She does better the more she is ignored. So I have to act like I couldn’t care less.

That’s Jo.

day's x-ray

We all know the big teeth are behind the milk teeth waiting to push out.

But seeing it is another thing altogether!

My God kids really have a whole stash of teeth crammed into their mouths. I can’t imagine what all those teeth would look like in an X-ray of a baby.

A little prickle ran down my spine when I saw the X-ray of Day’s teeth - first time I have seen what Day looks like on the inside - on the orthodontist’s laptop. Urgh.

As weirdly aligned and abnormal as it looked to us, the orthodontist assures us its fairly normal.

Even the strange hitchhiker of a tooth which has lost its way and which inspired our visit to the specialist, just needs growing out.

While Day will very likely require braces at a later age - particularly since all his teeth are jutting out so his mouth isn’t close when he’s relaxed - it’s now all a matter of wait-and-see, he says.

Well OK. Thanks for the $250 advice and X-rays!

(It has occurred to me more than once that dentistry is incredibly lucrative)

The other X-ray was of his side-profile and I was arrested not by the teeth but by the sight of Day's neck vertabrae.

I can't quite explain it, but it's sort of like glimpsing for the first time all the complicated circuitry which makes up the child which first grew in your womb.

He's such a blinking miracle.

fortnightly grooming

Mother and children. Fingers and toes. Very satisfying.

playing violin pics

Unless someone takes a picture of a violinist playing the violin, he or she would never have such a photo. Obviously.

I have very, very few of me and the violin.

But I happen to do a gig tonight where someone (again, sound guy Susheel, the one who last took the pic of my ugly hand) kindly takes a photo of me, with the good doctor in the background.



I happened to scan in photos of my secondary school self performing on stage, as I was going through those RGS yearbooks: Age: 14? 15? I forgot to note down the year.



And in line with the violin pictures theme, I happened to remember the most OTT shot I had ever done of me and my violin (apart from the wedding playing-in-the-sea pix) where I was extravagantly made over and wore eyeliner for perhaps the second time in my life. It was for a re:mix photo shoot.



Hence, random pictures with a common theme.

(And kids, if you read this, remember all of you said you HATED the violin OK. You say one ah)

beleaguered horsie

emma

I heard she died last night.

I was never close to or a even a friend of Emma Yong, we never went beyond “Hi” and “Bye”, but the theatre actress has always been important to me as someone part of my growing up years.

When she first opened her mouth to sing in Sec 1 – we were all fresh into the school – I could not believe anyone could actually sing like that. Like a recording, clear as a bell.

* Emma's Sec 1 performance

* There's always a photo of her on stage in the RGS Yearbooks

Then later on when she became a prefect, I, at the front of the line (one of the shortest girls in class), got used to seeing her face first thing every morning, hair all pristinely scraped back into a long ponytail, as she smilingly shushed us to keep quiet.


Her uniform was always immaculate and ironed, prefect’s tie in place, shoes nice and white (unlike me), skirt always very long and proper.

* Emma just behind the teacher in the middle

Then later when she went into theatre, I went “wah” because I never imagined the very proper Emma to be hamming it up on stage, but she was so, so good at it.

When I heard she had stomach cancer, I kept my fingers crossed and prayed very hard.

She’s so young.

missing the beach

Sometimes everything is bright and fun and hunky-dory and we do what we are all supposed to do which is enjoy life.

At other times it's just so frightfully boring.

We've been in a bit of a family funk.

Not the kids, who are happy to stay home doing absolutely nothing. But us.

KK with his terrifying annual attempt at an examination which makes the family blue, and I with another horrendous book about industrial gibberish which is all very deadening.

So it's just lots of staying home, lying on the bed, working at the computer, moping, going to all the usual places and back home again. 

I cannot take it and demand that we go to the beach for dinner so at least we can all talk a walk.

I need to.

It at least inspires me to take out the camera again. Even if it's for all of 30 minutes before it pours.

Rain coming in. Such a structurally matching cloud.

Poor Lu, still scared of the sea. She doesn't see it often enough because we're not very diligent about bringing her to the beach to play.

In the light drizzle preceding the thunderstorm, the only one carrying the umbrella is...

Day in a big plastic sphere on water. $6 for five minutes. I think we're really bored.