To: Father-in-law

It has been a difficult first few days without you.

You were such a homebody when you were around and your absence now is painfully amplified.

On our first dinner without you, we sat around the dining table with simple hawker fare. Rojak, trotters in sauce, popiah, chicken chop. These were the same stuff that we would usually buy when you were around. 

Everyone was present, except you.

No one was in the mood to eat, drink or talk. But the children needed to be fed. Tasks needed to be communicated. Chores needed to be done. 

And life had to go on.

So, in our attempts at normalcy, we chatted a little here and there, trying hard to ignore the fact that your favourite spot on the sofa would now be permanently empty.

That night and the few nights after, everyone stayed over and the house was always full of people and noise. We talked, cried, and though we didn't think it possible, even laughed. After a full week of inactivity, the tv was also gradually switched back on. 

But even amidst these chatters and activities, the silence from your absence was deafening.

As if the whole house was covered by a shroud, and rightfully so, the atmosphere was heavy, listless and gloomy. 

We were plagued by pain in our hearts and tears that sprang so easily to our eyes. 

We wanted to shut the world out and avoid all contact with people who would ask questions and pry for answers. 

We wanted to sit in a corner and wallow in grief. 

We wanted to cry our hearts out and wail in despair.

But instead, we got on with life as best as we could. We went marketing, brought the children out, attended parent-teacher meets, and had our dinner outside. We began cooking at home, resumed regular sleeping hours, and went back to work and school.

As we enter this new phase of life after your sudden departure, we will need to learn and re-adjust to several aspects in our life. Changes that are difficult, but that we have no choice but to learn to adapt.

Because, after the tentages and tables are cleared from the void deck, after the wreaths discarded and the flowers withered away, after the guests and relatives have left back to their own lives, we would be the ones returning home to everything that you had left behind.

As painful as it is, it doesn't matter that we are not yet ready to enter this new phase of life. Life has to carry on. Even if it is one that is without you.

As the family gather around to help each other climb our way out from this period of grief, I hope that you see the unity of the family that you had built, and the Hainanese legacy that you had left behind.

You were not my father by birth, but you became one through the years.

I will miss you and your ever present presence at home.

Rest in peace, Father.

The Tortoise in the race

"You are the last!"

The boy sneered as S finally swam in, his fingers touching the edge of the pool. The others who were bobbing beside, laughed along loudly. Their taunts and laughter rang in my ears as I watched S go through his weekly swimming lesson. Time froze for a few beats as I felt the pain of rejection pang in my heart. 

Amidst the jeers, I watched S give the boys a quizzical glance, then he turned and began his next lap. He kicked harder for the initial few strokes until his stamina fizzled out, before resuming his leisurely pace again. I watched, unsure if S was aware of the taunts, and fleetingly thought it not a bad thing to be in his own world at times like these.

While I am heartened to see that he isn't overly affected by this episode, this hurt that I have witnessed once too many time has constantly spurred me on to build a resilience in him, and equip him with the knowledge that he has the choice to walk away instead of responding to such unkind remarks.

From school settings and lessons such as these, it has become apparent that S will have little friends throughout his childhood. And although it shouldn't come as a surprise as we were well aware of the limits of his social skills, the truth was that it still hurt.

It hurt to see him often alone, to be part of a group; but yet apart from everyone else, wandering around the fringe of cliques.
It hurt to see him ostracized at the playground; ganged upon without any 'allies' by his side.
It hurt to see him muster up confidence to start a conversation, only to have that person lose interest in maintaining the thread a short while later.
It hurt to not see his eyes light up when he talks about his best friend, simply because he does not have one.

S has been learning swimming for a few years now, and although his initial group of swim-mates have already progressed to the next level, and maybe the next, S is only beginning to start moving on to the next stage. His strokes are still a bit weak, but he is able to swim with relative ease and has acquired a pretty good sense of confidence in water.

Compared to the very beginning when he would sit at the edge of the pool and bawl his eyes out each time the coach brought him to the deep end, S has improved much, albeit at his own pace. It will take him a bit longer to learn how to swim well, but we will get there, one lap at a time.

We want him to learn how to swim because it is a life skill that may come in handy in future.
We want him to learn how to make friends, because it is easier to get things done when there are people around to lend a hand.
We want him to learn how to speak up because when he needs help, he will be able to ask for it.

We also want him to learn self-reliance, because there will not always be friendly people around to render assistance.
We want him to learn to be comfortable in his own company, and that it is perfectly okay to be alone at times.
Above all, we want him to know that while we may be slow, heck, even last, we will get to the ending point, in our own way, at our own time. Like the tortoise in the race, we just have to keep on going.

Or, in a generation beyond Aesop's fables, just like Turbo the snail.

Recipe for Pork Chops

Aching arms : one right arm
Splattering oil : several splashes
Watchful eyes : two pairs
Garnishes : oil burns on hands (compliments from splattering oil)

I am a culinary idiot. Apart from passable instant noodles (with egg; my speciality), I cannot cook at all.

Home economic classes in secondary school and cooking lessons during my diploma days never did manage to nurture that domestic part of me which I suspect never existed in the first place.

Practice makes perfect. 

No practise however, makes whatever little that I had managed to retain from earlier days, throughly forgotten. 

I did meddle a little here and there when my mom or mother-in-law was cooking. But even those had to be under explicit instructions. Otherwise, I was a clueless soul at the stove.

Today had been a rare ocassion when everything had fallen into a right timing and here I was, standing at an arm's length away from the wok, trying to fry the pork chops. 

Under her instructions earlier, I had laboriously pounded on the pieces of meat using the back of the chopper. I thought I sounded pretty professional while I was pounding away with whatever strength I had in my arm. 

'POM.. POM.. POM!' 

Easy peasy, I thought. 
After a few minutes, my overconfidence was replaced by a dull ache that spread from my right forearm.

The aching continued as I awkwardly welded the spatula and tried to move the pieces of meat from side to side in the wok. They seemed to be taking their sweet revenge by causing the oil to splatter ferociously all over my hand, and some onto my face and feet.

Under her watchful eye, my mother-in-law stood beside and watched as I flipped the meat with my unskilled, cramped fingers. While I could sense her hands itching to take the spatula away from my clumsy, uncoordinated hands and say 'let me do it, you ninnywit!' on several occasions, she didn't. Instead, she patiently guided me through with appropriate instructions.

'Pour this', 'Add that', 'Stir here', 'Flip there'.

As the oil contunued to splutter and splatter all over, red burn patches began to appear on my hand. She laughed when I told her that I would have to wear gloves the next time I do frying in the kitchen.

I might have overcooked a few pieces of her chops and burnt her garlic in another dish. But she let me be as I was, like an over eager child trying to complete a newly learnt task. 

With no reproach of 'spoiling' her dish, she gently gave encouragements and compliments on how I was faring. I was clueless and awkward, but under her guidance, she made me believe that I could do it. 

And with that flip of the last piece, the pork chops were done. There was a sense of uncertainty and pride as I dished the cooked meat onto the porcelain plate. Uncertainty in presenting the family with a subpar dish for dinner, yet pride in (almost) completely preparing it by myself. It was definately a far cry from her tasty and tender pork chops, but it was a small start for me.

The burn marks will fade, my muscle aches will recover and she will do a perfect batch of pork chops the next time I am not around to interfere. 

In a few day's time, I will most likely forget the steps that she showed me. But how she taught and encouraged me today will be remembered in my heart for a long time to come. And given time, perhaps I may practise my way to better tasting pork / chicken / lamb chops.

So as my 8 year old son would say, chop chop curry pok. 

Let's eat up.

Our lazy road trip holiday: KL - Genting - Melacca.

It has been three days since we last came back from our road trip.

My unpacked luggage lying in the corner of the hall serves as a reminder of the chores that I have yet to complete, while the loots that we had bought - all still in their original packaging, sits in another corner wistfully reminding me of the 6 wonderful days that we had spent on the KL - Genting - Melacca route.

Good times fly by. 

In 'normal' times however, procrastination run rampant.

I'm probably suffering from the post-holiday syndrome and a part of me is still in denial mode. This undue procrastination would be my delaying tactics to prevent life from fully resuming back to normal. 

The road trip had been tiring. But it was tiredness well-spent. S and L were obviously thrilled to have our unadulterated company for those days, as were we. Spending whole, uninterrupted, lazy, glorious, just-us days with hub and the kids had been simply wonderful. 

We were slow to wake up in the mornings and often sauntered out for our breakfasts (or brunch on some days) way after 10am. 

Afternoons were spent holding their little hands and leisurely walking around the malls, enjoying the sights, sounds and different cuisines that we could find before tumbling back to the hotel late in the night.

Over the days, we had our breakfast alfresco-style in the misty, cooling weather of Genting Highlands. We watched 'The Good Dinosaur' and cried at the movie when.. well, I shall not spoil the plot here, on the many tender moments in the show. We 'poured' money down the games at the arcade with S furiously racing on the Daytona while L busied herself with the various funfair games available. Along the way, we spilt a tub of popcorn, ice-cream toppings and a whole bottle of sanitiser. We ate gingerbread men and hello kitty cookies, watched a street performance and clapped as clunky chipmunk mascots danced on stage.

On our last leg at Melacca, we met up with friends and braved the rain for good food and familiar company. With hub's crazy idea, we grossly exceeded the seating capacity of our humble saloon car by squeezing 10 persons in a 2-layer formation. It was a crazy idea but we did it, and returned back to the hotel numb-legged and intact. 

There was also a nail-biting moment when we travelled down the north south highway on an empty tank anxiously looking for the next petrol kiosk. It was another hand-wringing 44km later when the petrol sign was finally spotted. I have never felt as relieved to see a petrol kiosk in sight.

The jam at the causeway took us almost 2 hours to clear and we arrived home road weary and dusty, but safe and sound. 

It was already past 9pm when we finally turned into the porch. The kids were laughing deliriously over a game that they were playing earlier on. The seats were littered with sprinkled biscuit crumbs and shoe print marks all over. And with jackets, pencils, stickers and papers strewn everywhere, the interior of our car looked just like a storm had passed through.

Aptly, it seemed befitting to think of our boot - laden with the various merchandise that we had heartily accumulated, as the treasure at the end of the rainbow. 

My mind hashes up bits and pieces of our lazy road trip as I unpack the items bit by bit. Although we did not travel far to places that were exotic or fanciful, it was nonetheless a fantastic holiday where we did nothing extraordinary, but experience joy in the simple ordinary of spending time with the people that we love. ♡

Back to reality and onwards to 2016.

I am what I think and do, more than what I feel.

Of all the toys that he own, his current prized possession would be this battered tin can. Wrecked with lines and dents all around it, this tin does not look much. 

But during these holiday afternoons, it has been his source of pride and joy when he was left to his own devices while sister was at school.

Placing this can on top of the tv console or atop another toy, he shoots at it with his nerf gun and the few trusty bullets that he owns. Sweating with determination and perseverance, he uses this can as his target practice honing his accuracy over the days, until he is able to hit the can down several times in succession.

While the sound of the metal can rattling noisily onto the floor may grate on a few nerves, each accurate shot that knocks the can off its spot is music to his ears. 

To onlookers, it may not seem to mean much - just a boy playing with a toy gun. But as I witnessed that shy, happy smile or the whoop of excitement that he gives with each successful shot, I reflect and remembered a line that I had read from the biography of Temple Grandin, an author who too has autism. 

I am what I think and do, more than what I feel.

Reading her words often gave me an insight to S's mind and understand a bit more on how his brain thinks. 

Not doing well in his recent exams has caused S to be split from the majority of his current classmates to (probably) the last class of his level next year. And while I worry down a host of problems, about his new classmates, new teachers and environment, whether the bullying cycle will start again, whether he will be able to find, make and keep new friends, I take solace in her words that these worries probably do not mean much to him. 

What matters instead is what he thinks he can achieve, instead of how I think he feels. In this instance, every knock down he manages is a boost to his self confidence and ability. Be it a chance success or a good aiming, he is evidently extremely pleased with his achievement.

While I do not hold high hopes for him academically, I do hope that S will never stop having this tenacious attitude of achieving and believing that he can, soaring to greater heights to fulfil his aspirations no matter how small they may seem.

En garde my boy! 
Towards Primary Three.

Lunar 7th Month

The flames licked the papers until they became a bright orange burning mass, scorching the air around us with its oppressive heat.

A stray gust of wind stirred the burning ashes up swirling them around until like falling grey snow, they settled everywhere, onto our clothes and hair.

We stood there looking until everything that we had burnt became nothing more than charred black debris, then we left.

It is that time of the year again, when the gates are opened for the dead to roam around us for a month.

I do not know if you are amongst the roaming 'crowd', much less if you receive the items that we burn for you. But I don't think too much into it as the dutiful daughter in me calls out. 

Just earlier on, we had picked out joss papers, clothes, shoes and other 'necessities' and had them packed into a package for you. The one that we had just burnt.

And if this was your death anniversary, I would have been more extravagant, 'sending' you paper cars, massage chairs, majong sets and the latest phone models like I had over the previous years. 

The burning of such offerings may be a ridiculous notion to some. But to me, it is a tradition that I was brought up with, and a belief that I am somehow, able to continue providing for you even after you have passed on. 

I wondered if you have received the items, and if they were intact.

I wondered how you were, and wistfully thought about the times when you were still with us.

I wondered if you were proud of my achievements over these past nine years, and if you knew you were now a grandfather.

I wondered if the act of burning these offerings was actually a form of solace for myself instead of you. That it was a way I could continue linking with you, even though I know that the line between us has long been broken.

Until the Lunar Seventh Month ends, the gates will be opened for another week more or so. Yet, in anticipation of the Mooncake festival, lanterns and mooncakes of all sorts have already been hung out in shops at full blast since weeks earlier. 

Life, in its usual self-preserving mode, wastes no time in hurtling itself towards the next festivities.

And like the many others rushing past me towards their next destination, I too have to move onwards in life.

But in the midst of my progress, I also try to slow down my footsteps, making the effort to appreciate the little things in life before it gets mowed down by the passage of time. Till then, all that we will be left will be nothing but cherished memories in our hearts.

You are dearly missed, Pa.
Wherever you may be in this space of time, I hope that you are well.

A Tale Of The Mysterious Bowl Of Noodles

There was a mystery that plagued us since my son, S, first started primary school. Initially having difficulties ordering his food for recess, his routine kicked in only after a few months and thereafter, whenever we asked what he had for recess, his answer would always be the same.

"Dry maggi noodles."

And I would go trawl through the school's website for the canteen menu, scrutinising the list for this item. There were wanton noodles, curry noodles, and chicken noodles amongst many others, but no 'dry maggi noodles' were listed.

For months, this mystery plagued us until it became a mystery unsolved. We tried several times probing further into what type of noodles he actually had, but S was unable to articulate his thoughts and describe it to us. We had also made a few attempts to visit the school, but unfortunately on all times the canteen was closed.

Weeks turned into months, and months into two years. And still, every single day, his reply would be the same.

'I had dry maggi noodles for recess.'

Although exasperated, we let the mystery slide until over the months, it became a long-standing tv series instead of a suspense drama. Until last week.

In support of his school's walkathon-cum-funfair, we had trooped down to find - lo and behold, the canteen open! It was a perfect opportunity to finally unravel the mystery of the noodles.

While watching S queueing patiently in line for his turn, I felt an unspoken surge of pride. Newbie no more, my boy had grown so much more independant and confident throughout these two years. When it was his turn, he made his order for one 'dry maggi' and that was it.

We were pleasantly surprised when the auntie recognised him and told us that he was her '老顾客!' (Regular customer) He had loyally patronised her stall for almost two years afterall. She also shared that he had on several times, shouted for his order even though he was far behind in the queue. My boy was that anxious to have his noodle fix.

As he carefully carried his noodles to the table, he surprised us again by eating with chopsticks. None of us at home had ever seen him eat with chopsticks. Although not a pro, he could drag his noodles up and with some manouvering, even pick up a fishball.

Sitting beside him and watching him slurping up his noodles, my eyes welled up with a sudden swell in emotions. Somehow, catching this rare glimpse of S in his school environment and how he was adapting, made me realise just how much he has grown, in so little a time. And he made us very proud with his little achievements! It was another mark added to his milestone.

And so, the long standing drama series has finally ended and the mystery solved. We have also come to learn that S, being a creature of habit, would not tire in having the same meal every day.

Through my eyes, these noodles in its signature plastic orange bowls do not mean much. But to him, I imagine it to be the most delicious meal in the whole canteen. The staple, familiar, comforting meal that he looks forward to at every recess.

And when he is all grown up, I have no doubt that these noodles will be remembered fondly in his nostalgic memories of school.