A Glimpse Of You

Something I wrote in 2008, six years ago, when the loss of my dad was still very much painful and raw. I had missed him terribly, so much more then the times now.
It's hard to describe how this poem came about in my head, but I remembered vividly on a bus to work one afternoon, I saw, no, glimpsed the side profile of this man sitting at the corner of the bus stop. For one split second, I truly thought that I saw my dear papa again.
In a flash, the bus moved off going onwards in its journey, leaving the man further and further behind, and a fresh knife wound in my heart.

Here goes...

My Familiar You

A glimpse I caught, and then the bus moved.
I thought I saw someone that reminded me of you.
That same walking style and familiar silhouette.
That same side profile, and your almost hairless head.
The same way you used to carry your bag
The same everything, except that you are already dead.

A profound sadness then washed over me,
I thought for one moment, I saw you, Daddy.
I close my eyes and imagined myself
Breathing in the scent, of you and your soap smell.
And of how it felt like to hold on to your arm,
Chatting and talking to everything under the sun.

How fast time flies, in the blink of an eye
It’s been two years, since we said our last good byes.
After your death, I had feared I’ll forget you
In time to come, it seems to come true.
It seems that you are thought of, less and less often.
It seemed to me that you are almost forgotten!

In times like this, suddenly I remember
Of you and your being, and of how it all were.
Tears somehow, well up in my eyes,
As I recall how we spent those times
Laughing and sharing your favourite foods,
I miss those moments. I know they are gone for good.

Unwittingly, your memories get pushed further back
In my Heart and my Mind, everything seems packed.
Then I remind myself to dry my eyes,
That you are now living in paradise.
Watching over me and everyone,
And watching over Sean, your baby grandson.

Growing old

When I get old and hairs turn grey
And memories slowly fade away.
My eyesight fails and I can't see
Crippled by arthritis I may be.
My creaky joints, I hobble slow
Catching my breath as we go.
I lose my hearing and, 'what did you say?'
You find yourself repeating things many times, every day.
Will you find me a bother, maybe a nuisance,
Dislike spending time with me, can't stand my presence?

My child, it's not that I want to be
This useless old woman that became me.
There was once long ago when I wasn't like this.
When I could soothe and comfort you with just one kiss.
When I could pick you up when you fell down
And you loved it when I swung you round and round.
I used to be able to do everything.
But I can't do them now, I'm old; I'm aging.

The price that I paid as I watched you grow
Was me being me, and growing old.
I'm not the mommy that I used to be
But in my eyes, you will always be my darling baby.

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Inspired by a stranger whom I had chanced upon one day while I was on my way to work. She had a head full of grey hair, which was neatly tied into a ponytail. 

Standing behind her on the escalator, she got me thinking about how I would be when I grew old.

A little sad, a little wistful, but aging with all the illnesses that come along with old age are passages of time that we all have to go through.

Morning routine

4 months on into school, the differences that hub and I observe when we prepare our darlings for school are glaringly obvious.

Not being much of a morning person, S normally prepares for school in silence. He wears his uniform in auto mode, but fusses over his shoes and socks in a goldilocks manner, adjusting many times over until he is satisfied. He goes through the "too tight!", "too loose!" and "not comfy!" phase before becoming 'just right'. 

And while waiting for the arrival of his bus, he stands there quietly dazing away, (I'm guessing) into his missed sleep like a zombie until the bus arrives. He then boards the bus, and without a backward glance, off he goes to school.

L, on the otherhand, is much more of a conversationalist and a slow coach. She can take forever to get her teeth brushed and changed. Once she's ready, my princess will walk out dressed in her uniform, and normally with an
array of mismatched clips on her head.

Take yesterday for example, there were clips of flowers, a giraffe and a rabbit perched in her hair. I suggested for her to remove some, prefering a simpler look instead, but she insisted to keep them all on. For a 4 year old, this may well be the start of her statement of fashion.

While walking her down to the bus, she would be making chatty comments along the way on not touching this flower or that because 'it will poke your hands' or how nice the 'bouganla' (she means bougainvillea) looks. 

And after she boards her bus, I will have to stand rooted at the same spot because this girl will give me goodbye waves until the bus turns out of sight.

I stand there waving away until the bus disappears from my view and then slowly make my way to work.

A brand new day beckons.
Good morning to all.

Auto mode: ON

What is the meaning of 'auto'?

According to dictionary.com, it is:

A designated condition or status in performing or responding to a problem.

From a parenting point of view, at least in my personal context, being 'auto-mode' simply means that the child is able to self help and settle problems on their own without needing us to lift one finger, or even to supervise. 

To say the obvious, I'm not refering to 'fire burning the house down' type of problems. I mean the daily aspects of going to the toilet / washing of hands / playing quietly by themselves kind.

At this point, I might sound like a lazy parent. And I admit that I am to a certain degree. But surely every parent can empathise with the 'agony' of being at the beck and call of your child's every need. More so if your child is in the toddler/preschool range. And if you have more than 1 child, that need is multiplied by the respective numbers. That can amount to quite an overwhelming number of requests/demands to entertain daily. Afterall, we only have one pair of ears and hands to handle.

Children are never the most patient little people around. They don't understand the meaning of the word 'Wait'.

You mean you're in the midst of the loo?

Completing that report due first thing tomorrow?

Watching that last 5 minutes of the last episode of your favourite drama?

Well, their unrelentless 'iwantitnowiwantitnow' can practically drive us crazy. 

Imagine being able to fast forward life to a few years down the road when they would have been old enough to operate in 'auto-mode', how much more carefree our lives would be? I can only anticipate with glee.

But since we can't just hit the fast forward button in real life, we'd just have to slug it out during these in-between growing years. 

I am currently in the process of crossing that bridge . Elder boy who is 7 is already pretty adept at almost everything. If I can keep my eyes one closed, then he probably CAN do everything. Right down to sticking his head into the fridge for 'aircon' relief, or retrieving his car from some dark and dusty corner.

Sister at 4 has barely made halfway mark. She tries very hard and is making great 'progress' but needs more 'practice'. She is able to lug a chair to elevate herself when washing hands at the too-tall sink, but isn't fantastic at getting her hands cleanly off soap or safely back down. She is stubbornly autocratic in her choice of clothes and in  wanting some things done her way, but throws selfish tantrums when they don't go as planned.

The examples go on as we cater to their demands and whim, bargaining and exerting our stand every single day. It can get back-breakingly tiring and the days seemingly neverending. 

And then one day, I came across this.

From it, I am pointedly reminded of how little-a-time we actually have with them as kids. By breaking the years down, I realise that these back-breaking, tiring and frustrating years are only so short. That I must cherish these moments now because time will never return me back to these kiddy moments again. 

There is only that little few years we have with them thinking the world of us, of them wanting to hold our hands, welcoming us with big hugs and wide smiles after a long day's work, bedtime snuggles, laughing and playing with wild abandon, and showering us with all that innocent and unconditional love that they have.

There will come a time when our children will not be children anymore, morphing into this rebellious teenager in the process, pierced body parts, tattoos and all (figments of my imagination). And suddenly just like that, they will take off with their new found wings, leaving their hugs and snuggles behind like an outgrown teddy bear. My heart will ache for their little kisses and my ears will miss hearing their laughters ringing at home.

Suddenly, a lump in my throat forms and time fast-forwarded doesn't seem so appealing anymore. Instead, I wish for a 'pause' button to stand time still so these moments will never disappear into a memory. 

Life doesn't rewind (sound familiar?), and it doesn't come with a 'pause' or 'fast forward' button either. 

So, while 'slugging it out' during these frazzling back-breaking, tiring days, I shall persevere, cherishing and nurturing them until they reach auto-mode status. Until then, I will take every hug, every kiss, every snuggle and laughter that they have to offer, and return it double-fold. 

And then truly, when the time comes for them to fly away, I hope they carry with them fond memories of their childhood and growing years.

And as I stand grounded proudly looking up at them soaring in the skies, I would reconcile the beautiful memories of them growing up with the beautiful adults that they grew up to be, and know that somewhere along the way, I played a part.

**********

Afterthought:

And most certainly, I'll (try to) not cringe (too much) at the piercings and tattoos that appear along the way. 

At least my parents didn't. And I wouldn't.
Ok, I'd try! Promise.