The Girl Who Loved Weeds.

A patch of grass always interests her. 

She’d slow down her steps, shorten her stride, her eyes searching, hoping to catch  the ‘elusive’ clusters of touch-me-nots. 

“Wait mom.” She’d say. 

If timing permits, and we are not rushing to anywhere in particular, we’d stop and spend a minute or so, searching together. Eyes skimming through the sea of green, for small pink flowers and palm-like grasses.

She would be delighted if we spotted some. She'd touch them gently with her fingertips and watch them close shyly up, or sweep her feet dramatically over them in wide arcs. It really depended on her mood. 

And we’d be squatting there side by side. Mother and Daughter sharing a moment, admiring the slow closing of the leaves and the wonders of nature. 

Other times, we would be looking out for the dandelion-looking weeds. The ones with the small balls of puffy white heads. She would pick those gently and with care, because using brute strength would only shake the fluffy bits off. Then with a deep breadth, she would huff away at the little feathery seeds and watch them float away in the wind. 

My girl is a tender heart and appreciates the little things in life. The small, simple gestures that big Brother is often apt to overlook and miss out on. 

She enjoys the occasional little notes I slip into her pencil case, and she’s more thankful and appreciative of the little gifts I randomly buy for her. Every single stuffed toy that she was given or bought, sits in one big happy crowd at the head of her bed. She even has ready names for the mynahs that she spots off the road (usually Meena and Mona), and greets every spotted-neck dove she sees in our estate as ‘Tweet-Tweet’. (We had previously rescued and nurtured a baby dove for a week then before releasing it back to the wild. And since then, every such dove would be addressed and greeted by her.)

Like all girls (and her mom), she gravitates towards aesthetically pleasing sights and appreciates the beauty of a sunset-hued sky or the magnificence of picturesque clouds. Wild flowers that grow around are often picked off and presented to me in an array of a colourful bouquet. 

For all the sweet and thoughtful nature that she is, I am aware that she will not forever remain this tender-hearted, innocent baby girl of mine. For now, a big part of her influence comes from me. But as the years pass and as she blossoms in her own time, her circle of friends will expand. And so will her sources of influence. Even then, I hope that the eyes of her heart and soul continue to seek and find joy in the little things in life. 

Because for wonderfully big things to happen, we must first start with the little ones.

Yoga Lessons in Progress

This is me in my new yoga pants, in an attempt to blend (read as look professional) in my new yoga class. 

I have been talking about learning yoga for a long time now. Three years is a long time to be talking about the same thing. And we all know, when no-action-talk -only (NATO), it leads to nothing. So when the opportunity presented itself, ie happen to pass by the community centre, I grabbed the 'join-member, book-the-class and good-to-go!’ experience.

For my first lesson, I imagined myself arriving calm and early, gracefully unrolling the yoga mat at the good spot that I had selected, and then settling down to wait patiently for the instructor. 

Instead, I arrived late, couldn't find the stated room, panicked, and pulled at almost every door I saw along the walkway. When I finally found the room, the class had already commenced and I had to tip toe embarrassingly across the rows of professional yogis all already stretched out on their mats, to my class situated right at the other end of the studio. 

Hurriedly I unrolled my dusty mat at the only spot available and found, to my dismay, the ends of the mat curling upwards from years of being wound round. I tried to look as cool as I could, but the best that I could conjure up was the scene of Aladdin on a flying carpet. And a dusty one at that. 

I quickly got into position, imitating what the instructor was doing. “Leeeesen to your body,” she kept emphasising. We started with deep breathing exercises and as I was having a slight cold, it was hard inhaling deeply through whatever parts of my nose that were left unblocked. I tried to concentrate on my breathing, but all that was going through my mind was regret on why I did not think to clear my nose before coming in for the lesson. Did I not listen to my body or did it not tell me?

We did some simple stretches next and even though the positions were nothing difficult, my joints were creaking in protest and my stiff hamstrings were silently screaming throughout the lesson. But the worst was my tummy. The dreaded sweet potato I had for breakfast made massive amounts of gas form and roll about inside asking, no, demanding to be released. It was a sheer torture. 

It wasn't easy trying to breath in deeply with half a blocked nose, stretch with muscles like a 70 year old, and all the while, with the conscious knowledge of gas trying to release themselves. 

Thankfully, the lesson ended without any incidents and although I may be a far cry from the calm and poised disposition that I imagined myself to be, it was a good start all in all. I might have strained my toes while trying to execute a 'rock-scissors-paper' stretch, but hey, more awareness of my toes now. I’m listening to ya!

So, till the next lesson, Namaste. 

And no more sweet potatoes for breakfast from now on. 

The Day We Went Shopping For Guns

The Day We Went Shopping For Guns.

Legos ones that is. 

The array of small, minuscule, tiny weapons laid out for his choosing was probably what a display of Japan-imported snacks and confectioneries was to me. 

He poured over the vast display laid out in the boxes as I stood there waiting impatiently for him to make up his mind. 

My tired legs ached. 

“Are you done yet?” 

The tables were now turned as it was my whiny voice that urged him to choose faster instead. I repeated my question three more times for good measure. Mostly to irritate him and pay him back for all the times he did that to me. 😂

He paid me no heed as he concentrated on the little pistols, ak47s and accessories. His little Lego men needed them. They needed arsenals, helmets, masks, bulletproof vests and goggles. 

And I desperately needed a seat and a nice cold drink. 

We left the shop an hour later with (according to the boy,) a P90 sub-machine gun, a G36C sub-machine gun and a Scar assault rifle. 

I have no idea what those are or where he gets those information from. But I do know that I left the shop a little poorer, and with renewed light for my boy. 

And that was the day we went shopping for guns.

Afternoon Randomness

I was looking all professional, typing furiously away on the keyboard like I was some certified typist with several National Typing Academy degrees under my belt. 

Click-clack-clack.. click-clack.

In truth, I was typing as fast as I could and making a string of spelling errors, and then having to furiously depress the backspace bar to re-type the words again. So there I was, in a constant state of typing and deleting and typing again. 

The arctic temperature in the lands of the Eighth frozen tundra didn’t make it any easier. My fingers all stiff and numb and frozen, were akin to icicles extending from my palms. It was a great opportunity to blame my lousy typing skills on the office ac. 

Just then, my phone rang and I dove to pick it up before it’s fifth ring. 

Oh hang on - That was my own handphone, and not the office line. 

I answered the call and a little voice on the other end greeted me. 

“Hello Mom! It’s me! Wanna hear a joke?”

Puzzled stunned for a moment, I answered her. 

“Oh hi sweetie. Sure!” (I guess..)

“Okay. Why was the pelican chased out from the restaurant?” 

Without pausing for my reply, she carried on, 

“BECAUSE it had A HUGE BILL! Geddit??”

And then she went laughing hysterically all by herself on the other side of the phone. 

Well. So much for 冷笑话 and afternoon randomness. 

Frozen tundra and all, her random call this afternoon brought a much needed ray of sunshine and warmth to my soul. ❤

SA2 papers upon us!

The exams are upon us.

I made full use of the psle marking days and the brief days before that by throwing paper after past paper at S to complete, then spending my nights after dinner dragging my feet around to mark those scribbled answers, before going through together on those questions answered wrong, in equal amounts of exasperation. (His, because he doesn't understand what I am trying to explain, and mine, because I don't know what I'm explaining to him either.) 

The way the questions are phrased in the papers these days already pose a challenge to a general number of kids. For a boy with language processing difficulties, this challenge is easily amplified threefold.

In my moments of weariness, I raise my voice unintentionally as the frustration of having to repeat my explanations over and over unsuccessfully to him, get to me. In his moments of exasperation, he yells back "Mom, I don't understand the questions! Can you make the English easier so I can understand?!!" 

And I'll try explaining the answers to him again. Nicely. 

As the SA2 draws its net nearer with each passing day, the sense of fear and dread and impatience that is welling up inside of me has become a ripe bubble on the cusp of bursting. 

Today was the final dash we had before his papers start tomorrow. But instead of being in a state of anxiousness, a sense of impatience bursts through and on impulse, I think to myself 'F*ck this sh*t!' Let's just get the exams over and done with. We are so not doing any more mugging.

So today, the kids went for a leisurely swim, we then went out for a wonderful dinner, gallivanted briefly in the mall and went for a fun filled spin at the car wash before finally heading home to end the day. 

I needed this sanity just as S needed a break. 

"F*ck this sh*t!" I say to myself, imagining me throwing the papers away like the internet meme. 

Give  me a minute as I bask in my false sense of bravado. 

And then, before the minute is over, I'll quietly pick those papers up. 

I know I'll need them again tomorrow.

Against the swelling tide of education, there is only this much bravado I can retaliate with before reality sets in.

***********************************

To my dearest boy, 

The exams are upon us. 

So here's the strategy -

Don't leave any questions blank, read carefully, check through your answers again and good luck!

Think of the PS4 waiting for you at the end of the storm. 

Think of the treat at Saizeriya you made me promise you after your papers. 

Think of all the rolling good times that you will get to play during the holidays. 

Keep your eye on the prize Son, and go do your thing. 

I love you and all the best!

Little L going places

I never did like cycling. 

And my late-dad, the traditional man that he was, was never nurturing or patient enough to teach me how to cycle. 

The first time I rode a bicycle was during my first year at poly. I lost my balance when the bike hit a drain and ended up dislocating my wrist bone when I fell. 

It was around noon then, with the sun high at its peak. I left for home but was afraid to tell my parents of the incident. It was only at night when my dad urged me to shower that I had no choice but to tell him the truth. I couldn't move my wrist, much less manage in removing my sweat-dirt stained clothes for a shower. 

We promptly took a bus to a sinseh where the very painful treatment left me nauseous with black spots of dizziness. I recovered after a few weeks but I never touched a bike again until many years later. 

I suppose in part, that with such an unpleasant experience, I felt it a necessity for my children to learn cycling (and swimming). These were life skills that I wanted them to acquire. 

So when Little L displayed a willingness to stop piggy-backing on Papa's bike and to try learning cycling, I jumped at the opportunity to teach her. With Papa leading the rambunctious boys away for a ride, I stayed behind with her. 

She was a ball of nerves as she sat on the bike - hesitant and tense and fearful. The park was dark and with not too many people around, which was good for someone wibbling widely between both lanes. 

For the good part of the hour long rental, she was just trying to find her balance, cruising along by pushing the bike with her feet. Only in the last 20 minutes did she managed some semblance of balance and attempt to start pedalling. 

I at first held her seat and handlebar while running along sideways like a crab. Her fear was palpable as she pleaded repeatedly "don't let go, Mommy don't let go." 

I tripped over her feet several times and nearly fell, bike and all, for another few. When my stiff waist and back finally protested enough, I assured her that I would always be close behind her but she would have to continue trying without my assistance.

For her small frame, she was soon exhausted. Her legs hurt and her arms and back were strained, but she never wanted to give up. She just kept going and trying, wobbling around until suddenly, she could. 

As I was frantically snapping photos of the monumental moment, I realised that I could not stop smiling. Every time I caught myself grinning like an idiot, I made myself stop smiling only to have the corners of my lips lift automatically up again. So there I was, standing behind her with this big, goofy smile pasted on my face. I was so very proud of her and of the determination and grit she displayed that night. 

So here we have her, just succeeding in learning how to cycle. It was an achievement unlocked. A new milestone. A proud mama moment. A start to night cycles as a family; something that Papa had always wanted to do. 

Little L will be going places.

Fifty Shades of Bangkok

We were indeed smiling in the land of smiles.

The minute we left the comfort of Suvarnabhumi Airport, my lips were automatically stretched upwards into a smile-esq looking squint. The sun was hard at work welcoming our arrival with its usual, overly warm embrace.

While Bangkok was hot in general, the heat that was felt during the few days we spent there could be broadly categorised into three different levels. We had the shopping-centre-hot, the street-level-hot and lastly, right at the top of the scale was the sibey-tekong-chatuchak-hot.

Shopping-centre-hot was optimal temperature for me. Like Goldilocks with Baby Bear's porridge, I was most comfortable in this 'not warm; not too cold' category. This level of heat only afflicted hubby who would counter check with me if the a.c. was turned on low, or if his senses were slightly haywired. (He wasn't feeling well before and during the trip.) Of course it didn't help that we were having steamboat at Koka then. The steaming hot pot right in front of us that if I put my face nearer, it would have been just like a steaming session during those facials.

The Goldilocks syndrome also stuck with us as we methodically weaved our way through the many different (but same-same) stalls at Platinum Plaza. Meticulously combing the floors, we ended up at the food court as our last stop to refill our tummies and rest our feet.

We would later do the ultimate Singaporean thing by sweeping down the aisles of Big C supermarket for their cartons of assorted Pocky and Mama instant noodles. Shopping-centre-hot was perfect for fickle-minded shoppers like me, generally needing a longer time to come to a decision but spared from the heat of the sun.

Street-level-hot was the generic category used to describe the heat while we were traipsing along the dusty streets of Bangkok. This heat level was hot, but relatively bearable and usually felt when we were heading to and back from Erawan Shrine. During such walks, we would often escape the heat by hopping into Starbucks for a nice cup of mocha while we watched the world go by. As the afternoon melted into slightly cooler evenings, we would resume strolling down the streets onto our next destination.

Chatuchak-hot was when we visited the weekend market one very sunny afternoon. The heat at this level was intense, burning, relentless and ruthless. Beads of sweat formed persistently, constantly dripping down our faces and backs no matter how we wiped them off. Under the scorching sun, we trudged down the maze of stalls with sweat-soaked shirts. Chatuchak's renowned humidity and heat were a formidable combination zapping away our energy levels. For respite, we sought refuge at a random massage shop in exchange for one blissful hour of cool air. We napped as the masseuse attempted their skills to sooth our tired feet.

Exactly an hour later when the massage ended, we awoke slightly rejuvenated but with feet that continued protesting. That impulsive day, we trundled from noon until evening under the unrelenting hot sun, nearly killing our feet at the end of the day. We decided simultaneously then, that age was truly catching up with us and that we would be highly selective in our market jaunts for our next visit to Bangkok.

All too soon, the holiday finishes.
And now, as we sit in the comfort of our home, in the not-as-hot Singapore, the after effects of visiting Bangkok lingers.
Aching feet, check.
Pining for street food, check.
Hole in pocket, check.
Unpacked luggage, check.
Reluctance to return to daily duties, check, check, and check.

I miss mostly the street foods of Bangkok. The varieties of the morning snacks hawked freshly fried from the vendor's woks, the savory crunch of fried chicken paired with square blocks of glutinous rice, the sour spiciness of mama salads, and the very affordable freshly squeezed pomegranate juice. My mouth waters at the thought of these foods.

We had heartlessly left the kids behind for a short getaway, for the aroi mak mak food, and for prayers to the four faced Buddha. In spite of the blistering sun and its 50 other shades in between, it was a well-deserved reprieve for us and although not nearly enough, we have to go back to home, to the kids.

The many boxes of slightly squashed Pocky still sitting in my luggage is a harsh reminder that life has returned to normal and that I must now unpack.

As I kissed the kids goodnight and tucked them in to bed, I know Klab ban di mak.

It's good to be home.