Newbie P1 Mommy (part 2)

3 years ago, we did the P1 newbie anxious mommy thingy. It was a big milestone for us and S. Watching S go through little things like orientating himself during recess, or making his hesitant way to the hall literally brought tears to our eyes.

3 years on, it is now Little L's turn. Although we are anxious parents no-more, we did have our worries. Indeed L is better at articulating herself. She makes friends easier too. But she is every inch a princess. Delicate (read small-sized), fragile (read thinned-skin), and demure at eating (she clocks 2 hours per meal seating), we were worried about how she would adapt to these aspects in school. But again, whether she was ready or not, school beckoned with its open arms.

The day started off with her all bright, chirpy, eager and excited to go to school. With her spanking new water bottle, bag, uniform and shoes, this Little Chatterbox seemed all set for this new phase of life. She was, in my own proud mama's bias point of view, the epitome of the most adorable P1 student I've ever seen.

Looking back, if the doors of the school bus closing in my face signified the letting-go moment with S, then Little L's moment was when the bag straps were placed onto her tiny shoulders. The added weight made her stagger backwards and she nearly lost her balance. It was literally a new load of responsibility added on to her tiny frame and life.

Once again, I had to struggle to quell my protective instincts from jumping into action to carry her bag. Instead, I let her to do it herself. She managed soon after.

And that was when I realised my 小不点 has grown up.

We did the same thing, trailing behind her bus and watching her make her way to the hall. We are thankful that she doesn't feel like a stranger to her school for when Big Brother had school functions, we often brought her along for the exposure. And now, carrying those experiences with her, she seems to acclimatise to Primary school life with relative ease.

As she sets foot onto this new phase of life, there is so much in store to uncover. I shall look forward to growing with her on this journey and watching how my little baby girl progresses.

~~~~~~  On a side note:

"I went to the toilet by myself today. My friend said I'll race you there, so I followed her."

The start of the female groupie toilet-going culture. I never hear S tell me about going to the toilet with his friends.

Nostalgia : Ah neh

A long, long time ago, my Ah ma lived at Holland Drive. My memories of the place there are dulled and there are only a few that I can recall.

Ah ma’s place was a simple 3-room flat, but it was where all my childhood memories began. It was also a place of refuge and safe haven whenever Mom had to work overtime and there was no-one around after I came home from school. I lived at the next block, so it was only a stone’s throw away.

Come weekends, the small flat would be abuzz with people and activities, and the crush of the crowd filled the house with warmth and familiarity. Us cousins would retreat into one of the two rooms to do our stuff and catch up like kids usually do.

I remember once when cousin R (he stayed with Ah ma then) pulled out a tank from under the bed with a snake inside. He told us that he had caught the snake on his way home from school. While all the cousins gathered around to ‘ooh’, ‘ahh’ and ‘eee’ over the snake, he warned us to keep quiet about it in case Ah ma found out. This was probably my first conspiracy involvement. Unfortunately, the conspiracy was short-lived as Ah ma found out about the snake the next day and promptly killed it.

Perhaps the most vivid memories I had of then was the mama shop at the void deck. I know now that some people called mama shops as ‘kek-I tiam’ or minimarts, but to us then, we all knew it as ‘ah neh’. And anyone who was tending the shop, male or female, young or old, would be fondly referred to as ‘ah neh’.

‘Ah neh’ sold everything from bars of soap to scrubbing brushes, from melted and re-frozen paddle pop ice cream to nail clippers.

I remember some weekend nights when an auntie would sponsor after dinner treats at ‘ah neh’. An impromptu leader within the cousin gang would wave the ten dollar note jubilantly in the air while shouting ‘who wants to go ah-neh with me?’ The result was a whole flock of kids following behind like mice to pied piper.

With our slippers slapping behind one after another, we would make our way down to 'ah-neh' to buy our choices of toys or treats. I would usually choose a pastel coloured paddle pop or a twin-stick chocolate ice cream. I always had fond memories of those short trips to ‘ah neh’ as it was a great cause of excitement and joy to me then.

After Ah ma moved and the cousinly trips to ‘ah-neh’ stopped, I still had ample opportunities to patronise ‘ah-neh’ after school. And sometimes, I would go downstairs with sister to buy stuffs. She liked to buy the packets of ‘bee bee’, while I especially liked the ‘ka ka’ or Hiro cakes. On occasions, I would buy the 50c tikam-tikam, only to realise upon ripping open the little black packets, that I got crappy stuff (again).

Mom would also send me down during her culinary emergencies to get condiments like a bottle of soya sauce or a few cloves of garlic.

‘Ah-neh’ was also a safety net to me. On days when I got home later from school and the void deck was quiet and devoid of human activities, I walked home surer knowing that if anything happened, ‘ah-neh’ was just around the corner.

As I grew up and progressed to more ‘atas’ supermarkets like NTUC and Fitzpatrick (later re-named as Cold Storage), my jaunts to ‘ah-neh’ halted altogether. (In part, also because the lure of the tikam packets no longer held for me). ‘Ah neh’ still remained a familiar sight even after I moved out after marriage.

Looking back, ‘ah-neh’ was a powerful word to me. It was a place, an event, a person, a safety net. It was a link to my childhood, the crowded visits to Ah ma’s house and carefree days with my cousins. Even though we did not personally know 'ah neh', the amalgamation of my many trips there gave it a familiar neighbourhood feel. It was only in recent times, when the shutters of ‘ah neh’ were pulled shut with no signs of re-opening that the need to write about this part of my childhood came about so strongly. These already distant memories seem to be pulled even further away with ‘ah neh’s closing.

While I am still holding out hope that ‘ah neh’ may re-open one day, I will also have to be prepared that this link to my childhood and the fond and nostalgic memories that come along with it will disappear soon. The presence of mama shops have already been dwindling as the years pass by. In meantime, I shall walk into those random remaining mama shops whenever that dose of nostalgia hits me. 

Well then, who wants to go ‘ah neh’ with me?

Door (Table) Tennis

'Tick, tack.. tick, tack..'

The haze was back.
The air was stifling and hot.
And there were no plans made for the day.

Amidst the dreariness of the hot Saturday morning, there was a constant yet erratic 'ticking tacking' that could be heard through the otherwise quiet morning.

S and me were playing 'Door Tennis'.
This was much like table tennis, except we didn't have the table or a net.

Lunging within the confined space in the living room behind the door, we would take turns hitting the ping pong ball against the door like we were playing a game of squash, but in slower motion. 

As we held our worn out racquets as professionally as we could, we moved back and forth hitting the ping pong as if we were really playing doubles in a game, and the wooden door was our formidable opponent.

We giggled when the ball hit an odd corner and rebounded onto the loaf of bread.
We snickered as it rolled between our feet while we were comically trying to pick it up.
We laughed whenever one of us lost our balance and sat onto the floor when our exhausted legs gave way between mid-squats.
Playing Door Tennis was hard work!

For a boy who is turning 9, S has been growing day by day in his own ways. During these growing up years, there have been many activities that he has gradually stopped enjoying with me.

He doesn't enjoy doing arts and crafts with me now. Unless I coerce him into doing it, he would very much prefer to indulge in his own activities.

He doesn't stick with me as much as he used to, preferring to stay at home if I were to go for a round of grocery shopping.

He doesn't readily surrender his hand when I reach out to hold him while crossing the road. 'I'm big already. I know how to cross by myself' he would tell me as he stubbornly held his hand by his side.

And so, it slowly begins. This turning of age and independence. The steadily increasing manifestation of his personality. In the not too distant future, the time will come when I have to let go of his hand totally, and let him make his travels alone.

In the meantime however, as we progress to more big-boy activities like Door Tennis, I will be thankful for small slices of time like these that he enjoys spending with me.

At the end of our unorthodox tennis session, we were both sweaty, drained and out of breath.
The haze was back.
The air was stifling and hot.
And there were no plans made for the day.

But it was a glorious, mother-son morning.

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.