Grief

I spent Christmas Eve at Marc's wake. Christmas Day was spent at mass in the morning (joyful yet contemplative for me as I listened to the message of Mary's first-born son coming into world and thought about Aunty P's first-born leaving the world) and then at Marc's wake again in the afternoon. Boxing Day morning was spent at Marc's funeral and cremation. By afternoon, I was emotionally tired, eyes swollen and puffy and with a throbbing heavy head that made me feel like throwing up.

It has been emotionally exhausting and draining.

Grief hits at odd times. I'd be fine most of the time. Then break down at odd times. Or find myself with tears in my eyes at the weirdest and most inconvenient moments - like when I am telling someone about Marc, or when I see motorbikes on the road, or when I am in the toilet. Even the sight of a child-sized toilet bowl in the loo set me off! And then I would feel embarrassed at tearing up! I would look at people around me - my in-laws, the general crowd - at a hawker centre, at my children's schools while buying their books and I felt divorced from them all. Detached and wondering - how come they don't know. How come nothing has changed for them? How come things can be so normal for them? Don't they know? His face is on the front page of The New Paper. I see people browsing and I felt like saying: Hey that's my cousin you know?

And the messages of condolences people say drive me nuts. The worse one came from my in-laws. I had my sister-in-law saying chirpily with a big smile: I am sorry for your loss! And her husband saying: Oh that's life right? Life is so unpredictable. I was so angry I teared up. I think they thought I was tearing up because I was sad. But I wasn't. I was angry. Unpredictable? Like we're talking about the weather? What the hell are you saying? You don't know what you're talking about. Just shut up and spare me these pseuo-philosophical babble. And yes I also get angry when people nod and say: yes, those motorbikes are so dangerous. Bikes are not dangerous - other reckless drivers and riders are dangerous!

Sometimes I ask myself: why do I feel so much? Why do I feel so sad? After all, he's 'just' my cousin. And we were not close. I hadn't seen him for two years. And yet. It does not change the fact that I am so sad. I don't know why. And I don't know why being 'just a cousin' would not entitle me to feel grief and pain. I don't think KH really understands, maybe not even my brother and my sister or my mum. Maybe they think I am just being sentimental. Maybe I am.

When mum first told me the news on Sunday, it didn't sink in yet. I still felt the same. I think it only really hit home on Monday, Christmas Eve, when I attended the wake. Marc's body arrived at the wake only a scant 10 minutes after we'd got there. So we got to welcome him home. They put a screen up so we can't see, but it stands to reason that they had to dress Marc and so on, and for his family to see him. The sound of stifled sobs and faint keening was painful to hear.

But yet it wasn't until mum told me HOW he died that I first started to feel. And then the tears came. They were tears of anger and fury. He didn't die out of his own recklessness, and his machine didn't fail him. He died where it was safest to ride - on a track with no cars. He died because of some bloody lame, half-assed, stupid stunt pulled by a stupid idiot who wanted to show off. And now that jerk is alive while Marc is dead. That jerk walked off the track and left my cousin lying there, his body broken. It sounds strange but I wanted to swing my handbag about his head. I wanted to kick him. Slap him. Hard. And then harder. I felt so hot and so angry my chest hurt. Mum told me the bikers' online forums were buzzing about Marc's death and bikers had angry words for the a****** who did this. I wish lynching is legal.

It was Christmas but I didn't feel forgiving or charitable. I just felt so much rage and anger. I still do.

Reading the pages of media coverage on his death only made me angrier. Yes, so what if the other guy came to apologise? It will never bring Marc back. So what if the other guy will have guilt for the rest of his life? At least he's alive isn't he? So what if the guy's father said it was "unfortunate" that Marc died while his son lived, that it was 'fated'. At least his son is alive isn't it? To me, that is the height of insensitivity! My aunt and uncle lost their son. My younger cousin lost his brother. Rachel lost her husband to be. I lost my Christmas Eve memories. Every one of us lost years of memories that will never happen. No, I am nowhere near ready to forgive.

I looked at the bikers who attended Marc's wake and his funeral and I was touched. I never knew he had so many friends. I never knew he was so passionate about biking. He was just kind, quiet Marc with the big gummy grin, who patiently sat with children, carried my baby. How much did I know about my family - my cousins, my aunts and uncles? Time is so short. Everytime we meet at family gatherings everyone would just sit and chat about inane stuff - the world around us, politics, our jobs, children's antics etc. But how well do we know each other? It took Marc's death for me to realise that we just don't know each other well and if we're family, that makes it doubly a pity. Everyone has a story to tell, how much do we really know? What do I take away from all this? I was a journalist - how did I get my stories then? Research and interviews. And I think that's just what I will do. Sit down and really talk. Get to know them. Write it all down. Starting from my grandma - her life story. I never had time for Marc. I want to make time now.

Here's an anecdote about him shared by Steph, another cousin of ours. Steph's family and Marc's family lived in the same block of flats when they were both growing up. Steph's memory of Marc is a short but lovely one. She said: Whenever dad threw me out of the house, kor-kor Marc would come keep me company at the stair landing until I was allowed to go back in. Marc is about 8 years older than Steph, so for a teenaged guy to patiently sit by his little cousin and keep her company - well, you get the idea of the sort of sweet guy he was.

And I see Rachel, Marc's fiancee. I never got to know her. And they were together for at least two years. It all seems so wasted.

Three key incidents over the past days really touched me at this time. First, it was grandma, so saddened by Marc's death. She was the last of us all to see him - he had gone to see her the other day after hearing she was not well. Rachel went with him. Grandma liked Rachel and said she showered her with hugs and kisses! She said Marc didn't say much (he never did!) but just smiled a lot, gave her some money and said he would come see her again. When we heard, in the days before his death, we all thought it was so sweet of him!

Grandma could not leave the house but asked us to buy some flowers for him. It was Christmas Day but mum and I found a flower stall open at the market. We cobbled together some white daisies and yellow roses. The flowers were placed on his casket and followed him into cremation. The sight of that forlorn bouquet sitting at the head of the casket as it entered the cremation chamber really undid me. I thought of his visit to grandma and I cried.

The second incident that really made an impact was to see the long rows of bikes sending him off. There were more than 30 bikes that day, lined up in two long rows behind the hearse, engines revving. It hurt to see Rachel, walking in between the lines, weeping hard and calling loudly through her tears: "Thank you for sending him! Thank you for sending him! Ride safely and carefully!"

And finally, Aunty P's choked voice at the funeral thanking everyone for coming. She started with the words: 28 years ago, my boy came from me... and now 28 years later, he is gone. She went on to say that she was glad that he died doing something he loved so much, and to encourage the other bikers to keep following their passion, to keep riding, not to let Marc's death discourage them, but to also ride safely, practise extreme caution for the people around them.

I am slowly winding back down from all that has happened. I need time to feel better.

Now everytime I see a bike on the road, I think of Marc and tears will come to my eyes. But I think there will come a day when they won't and I will think of Marc with a smile instead. And I will imagine that big gummy grin of his right back in return.

Ghosts of Christmas Past

Tonight will be a very sad Christmas Eve.

Yesterday, mum called me and sounded unhappy, hesitant and a bit in shock. She said: Some sad news for Christmas...

I immediately thought it was my grandma, who while out of hospital, is clearly slowly fading, you can almost see all her systems shutting down slowly - the hospital's report had indicated a failing liver, failing kidneys, chronic heart failure etc. So we had all planned to spend a quiet Christmas Eve with her in her tiny 3-room flat tonight. Dad's recent bypass, my grandma's fall and hospital stint etc, made it clearer how fragile everything really was. I think we all just felt a need to be close this Christmas.

Then came Mum's call yesterday. It wasn't my grandma.

Mum sort of hesitated then just blurted out: Marcus is dead.

My 28-year-old cousin is dead. Killed in a motorbike accident in Johor. The information came in short phrases. Aunty P is understandably distraught, heading to Johor to retrieve his body and making funeral arrangements. We'll still gather, mum added, on Christmas Eve as we planned - just celebrate with Popo and keep her company... she trailed off uncertainly.

So many questions - what was he doing there? Who was he with? A bit of futile anger: didn't he learn his lesson? He had a bad bike accident some years ago already - why continue riding? Who called Aunty P? Wake details? No answers for now. Some answers of course, we will never get.

Christmas Eve will be quiet and very sad. I don't think my aunt will be there tonight. But we will feel the gaps very keenly. Our family has always had this tradition every Christmas Eve when we gather. Its been so for as long as I can remember. After our usual makan, we will open presents. We usually go from the youngest to the oldest. And as each one opens his/her present, the cameras would flash and catch us with gleeful Christmas beams as we survey our haul for the year. Marcus would always be part of this group.

Later as I grew up, earned money as a working adult, had kids of my own, I would buy gifts for my younger cousins like Marcus and so the tradition would continue. It was always a struggle buying something for him because we were not close - there was an 11-year gap between us. He is the same age as my brother. But he dutifully grinned and thanked me for every crappy t-shirt, key-chain, toy that I would get for him. The last Christmas gift that I ever got for him was a small wooden IQ game. That was two years ago because Marcus didn't turn up at our Christmas gathering last year. This year, I debated about buying a gift, not sure if he would turn up. I decided not to, believing he wouldn't.

As I told mum: Maybe if I'd bought a gift, expecting him to show up, all this would not have happened.

But then I reflect and think: who am I to be so significant and so prideful to think that a gesture of mine would have stayed the hand of God? God would have taken him no matter who did what.

My feelings of sadness are very disjointed. No, I am not close to him. But we shared some threads of a common history. I see Christmases past. I see him as a child - geez he was an ugly baby - but he had a good heart. Always a kind boy. He was thin and scrawny, dark with eyes that looked too black and too big for his narrow face. I see him with my brother - all of us, still children, in a chalet on Sentosa. I see him carrying my baby (I can't remember which one - he was always very patient and gentle with all of them) - knackily, gingerly and I remember a voice (one of my uncles) saying Wah Marcus you know how to carry the baby so well! I see him in images of Christmas past. I feel for my aunt and my uncle - to lose him so young. As a mother myself, I ache for her. I dread to think what it must be like, painfully impossible to imagine the kind of hell they go through. It does not matter what age the child was, for how long you've had him. If I can see the ghosts of Christmases past, what more my aunt? More than Christmas - from the day he was born, big milestones and the most insignificant and mundane of events - she would have to suffer through all these.

And when this happens so close to Christmas, you know that Christmas will never be the same again.

Why is this year-end so awful? 2007 can't end soon enough for me. Hopefully 2008 will be better.

Tantrum updates

The two nights after I posted on Trin's tantrums, things eased up and she slept peacefully without any undue screaming. So Mag and Serene, you girls may be right about the need for adjustment. Nevertheless we still live on tenterhooks everytime the whine-tug session starts. And we still try to head her off where possible. Isaac commented, Trinny is such a demanding baby - we all better give her what she wants or else she'll scream!

The other day Owain suggested: Mum, I know how to stop Trinny from crying. All mummies sing lullabies to their babies. Why don't you sing to Trinny mum. That will stop her from crying. And if that does not work, then quickly give her nen-nen!

Yeah, son. I hear you! But even nen-nen does not do the trick all the time.

Case in point was the early hours of this morning. 6am. She was attached and shallow sucking for hours and my nipple felt so water-logged and sore that I pulled out quickly when I thought I felt the slackness of her mouth in deep sleep. Fat hope. She stirred, kicked, whined, sat up and pointed: there! there!

And me sitting up offering to nurse and she's going: no, no! there! there!

Of course once I sit up, I gotta go pee - thanks to age and laziness for not doing my kegels religiously - my bladder control isn't what it used to be. So I desperately say: Trin, I got to go to the toilet. Daddy carry you okay?

No! No! Dowan! There! There! THERE!!

So I kick KH awake (actually I think he was already awake and just trying his luck at possum) and we sleepily go to the bathroom. Yes I managed to pee with her clinging to me, my bladder feeling like it was about to burst and my resentment building up.

She didn't let me go back to sleep. Insisted that I carry her 'there!' (don't know where!) but this time, thankfully, after about 10 minutes, she allowed me to carry her back to bed where we nursed back to sleep.

This wild child o'mine

Its 3am and I am standing at the second floor landing outside the bedrooms. For some strange reason, I've got Besame Mucho running through my head and I am swaying in time to it. I am half-asleep on my feet. Trinity is heavy in my arms, her head flopping over my shoulder. But she's not asleep. Not yet at least.

When I try to tiptoe back into the bedroom, she snaps awake, an arm pointing in a vague unspecified direction and she's going: "there! there!"

And if I don't move in that direction fast enough, her persistent "there!" will escalate into a shrill, full-blown tantrum.

Its happened before.

Actually, its been happening every night for the past week already. Ever since we came back from Japan, she's had very bad screaming tantrums - first taking place in the daytime - Lolita says it happens before and after her afternoon naps (I had the 'pleasure' of experiencing this one Sunday afternoon where she literally screamed for 2hours non-stop, until we missed the ALF gathering in the Jacob Ballas garden!). This stopped when we went to Malaysia. But when we came back, so did the tantrums. This time though, they're taking place at night - middle of the night.

I cannot begin to say how frustrated, angry, fed up I feel whenever she goes into one of these tailspins. Nothing calms her. Nothing distracts her. She just screams. On and on and on. I don't know what she wants and I don't know how to help her. At the same time, I am greatly resentful that she's eating into my sleep.

Two nights ago I was so angry that I smacked her hard on her bottom and told KH: That's it! I'm either killing her or putting her up for adoption!

Not that this did any good. She seemed to understand what I said and howled and screamed louder than ever - and this was at 4am in the morning.

KH says I was not fast enough to give her the breast. But on the contrary, the breast was already in her mouth when she started to pull away, push at me with her legs, point and say: "there! there!" When I tried to offer her the breast again, she pushed and said: "No, no!" So I don't know what is the issue, and whatever it is, even the breast no longer solves it.

We're living on eggshells. I find myself tensing up at night at her slightest movement. Not surprising that I have not been sleeping well at night and nodding off during the day.

More and more I am beginning to suspect that she's got some kind of development or speech delay. Her storehouse of words is woefully limited. Whenever I look at milestone development tables I always feel a bit depressed - especially when I realise that she fits the description of a 12month - 18month old baby than the 2 to 3yr toddler description! But more than anything, it is this latest spate of tantrums that is leaving us exhausted both physically and in spirit. The tantrums, I fear, could stem from a fundamental delay or disorder somewhere - because if a child lacks words, how to communicate? And this kind of frustration would compound any tantrum - because it boils down to the fact that I just don't get what the heck she wants.

I always feel very resentful at having to struggle with her and I resent feeling like I am kept hostage by her demands. For instance there was one night when she insisted I bring her to the dining table to nurse. Less than five minutes later, she's pulled off the boob and pointing to the sofa and tugging me saying "nen-nen" agitatedly. So we go over. Again, less than a minute later, she's off and pointing at the study room and off we go again.

Some babies are so easy to love and some babies make it near impossible. When she's happy and compliant, wow - she's an angel, lovely to play with, cuddle etc. But when she starts to demand - better cave or else.

I've been an authoritarian parent with #1 and #2, and a more 'attachment parenting style' with #3 and #4. But with #5, how to practise this? We've been 'attached' since birth but now how? How to dish out 'positive discipline' when a kid is screaming into your ear? There is no reasoning with her. The best we can do is second guess and try to head her off when she starts showing the familiar signs before losing control. I also wonder - if there is no authoritative boundary, where does she get off? Will that make it scarier for her in the long run? And losing moral authority for me - how will that work out in the longer term if I keep giving in just to keep the peace?

While I know that parenting isn't about winning or losing or showing a child who is 'boss', I do find it hard to accept that this child is calling all the shots and that I, and the whole household, all of us are practically held to ransom for fear of setting off another screaming bout. Dr James Dobson says that parents should not be afraid to show authority. He dismisses positive discipline. So what should I do?

On top of that, what are my feelings? For a start, I deeply, deeply resent all this - I feel angry that I have to cater to all her demands. If her demands at least made sense to me, maybe I wouldn't feel so angry, but they all just seem so pointless - to me at least. The bottomline is: if you don't give her what she wants, she screams. And once she gets going, nothing gets her to stop - we tried changing hands, playing her favourite music (High School Musical 2 soundtrack), the breast, bringing her out for a walk in the neighbourhood (no good - you'd hear her howls all the way!), her brothers and sisters try giving her toys etc, nope - nothing works. Everybody tries but nothing works. I've even tried 'extinguishing' the behaviour by just ignoring her - so she lies there on the floor, writhing and screaming, sobbing until she's gulping for air, eyes swollen. But in the end, I've still had to give in and carry her. Its heartrending to watch. And I feel conflicted too - angry because of the behaviour, helpless, sad to watch her in such a state.

I just don't know what to do.

KH is on tenterhooks with her too. He told me during lunch today: I thought you handled Trin very well this morning. I was awake. Did you think I wasn't? When she moved, I was already awake. I was hoping she wouldn't scream - lucky you carried her before she went off!

Hmph. Lucky for who? I think sourly.

Which brings me back to where I started in this post - 3am and walking the floor with a tantrummy baby. I hope things will get better. In desperation, I bought a book from Borders on Sunday: Kids, Parents and Power Struggles.

I don't know if it will work. Somehow most parenting books talk about dealing with tantrums when the kids are older - 4 or 5? Hardly anyone talks about dealing with non-verbal 2-year-olds in a tantrum. But never say never. I'm desperate enough to give it a go.

Next on the cards - an assessment from a speech therapist AND a visit to the polyclinic to get a referral to KKH's Child Development Unit. I know I will be nagged about the vaccinations (lack of) but this is the last thing on my mind now. What is more important is to find out what the heck is going on and to do something about it. Fast.

Love-Box

As a follow up to my earlier post on Gillian. We passed one of those bus-stop poster ads yesterday and this one had the ad for the Love Box condoms on it. Have you seen it? They're actually condoms but packaged in a compact tin box.

So we passed this and Gillian casually pointed it out: Oh look Love-Box! My friend has one of these.

I did a mental double-take but asked coolly: Yeah? Who's your friend?

Gina.

Oh. How old is she?

My age.

Jaw dropped. I muttered something about her being kinda young for this and then asked: Do you know what this is for?

She gave me a surprised look. Well they're condoms! People use them during sex.

Oh. Okay. Good that you know this. Who uses it during sex?

The guy of course!

Hmm. Yes you're right.

So much for teaching about the birds and the bees. Back to school for mom, not Gillian. How come I always come off sounding so school-marmish on this topic! Argh!

Nice designs on the Love-Box though.

Babies, birds and the bees

Children seemed to be on Gillian's mind this trip up to Malaysia.

We had stopped for dinner at KFC at the Ayer Keroh rest stop. Gillian came up to me and pointed at a family two tables away, saying: 9 children. Mummy, they have more children than us!

I looked over. It was a Malay family and yes, they had 9 children. The youngest was about 2years old and the oldest, maybe 16 or 17? Gillian said, I thought we already have many children, but they have even more than us! She seemed very impressed.

Later in Frasers Hill, she told KH and I: I think its okay to have more children if you want.

Really? I teased her. I thought you always freaked out at the thought of taking care of one more baby? You said you don't want to run after any more babies remember? Sure you can handle one more more?

Can! she waved airily.

But geez the thought of one more baby makes me sag with exhaustion. Tempting, but tiring! The thought of doing it all over - pregnancy, labour and birth were the fun bits, but the slog is to raise the child well up to adulthood - is just too large and daunting. Its not so much the financial cost but the emotional one. With every child I go through emotional somersaults - when they tantrum (like Trinity is doing these days! Oh the frustration of not being able to decipher her cries, not being able to calm or help her!) , the worry if or when they develop slower or develop different (ADHD, Aspergers, and Trin's lack of speech) , the stress of managing their work in school and then now as I am finding out, the minefield of puberty. It sounds like parenthood is no fun and a real slog. Well it is a real slog but it is not that it is no fun. Can be fun. Lots of fun. I enjoy being around them. But there are only so many hats that a woman can wear at one time without looking like a complete idiot. And motherhood is a very very big hat.

Later in the trip, I had some sad news from a friend who had lost her baby at 12weeks gestation. Gillian, being of the age where her ears are extra sharp, perked up at my phone conversation. She came up to me later and asked: What's wrong with Auntie Em?

I told her what happened and said that Auntie Em was understandably feeling very sad and was upset about it happening. Gillian asked: What about you mum? How do you feel? Are you also sad?

I said, well yes. Its never a nice thing to happen. I'm sad for Auntie Em but at the same time, I believe that this is God's will. He must have a reason for this to happen. We just don't understand why.

Then I don't know what made me open up to her, but I told her what I find very hard to talk about. I said, well this happened to mummy before too. Before you were born. I had a miscarriage too.

Her eyes widened and she said: Why didn't you tell us before? You mean you had more children - that means there are more of us! Why don't you and daddy tell us this?

Well, this is not something pleasant to talk about, I said. I was quite sad. Daddy finds it hard to talk about this sort of thing too (being a typical man, I added silently). But yes, it happened twice before. Before you were born.

Were you married to each other then? she asked. Oh this is very touchy. I found myself floundering. Yikes. How to answer this? Okay, the truth - Yes, we were married. That was the short answer and the truth. The longer answer was something she didn't need to know at that point.

Gillian nodded and said, well some people get pregnant before getting married and then they have abortions. I see it on tv all the time, she added blithely. See why I utterly and totally dislike Channel 8 dramas???

I said yes that happens, but that is a very very wrong thing to do. Its not the baby's fault that he is made and killing him is wrong. So, I continued, looking closely at her, you should never be with a guy until you're married. If you do end up pregnant, you know usually the guy does not take care of you and you'd have to take care of yourself and your baby and its a big responsibility that will not just go away - you have to take care of the baby until it grows up.

Now when I look back I wonder - why on earth do I always botch up stuff like this? Fumble, fumble and fumble. First, make a judgmental comment. Then make sweeping statements and finally, use fear - all the wrong things to do.

I've thought about this for the longest time, talked to friends etc. I know what I'd do if, God forbid, this ever happens. Yes I'd be angry as hell and I'd take a heck of a long time to get over it, but I would never turn my kids away, throw them out of the house like some outraged Asian parent 100 years ago. I know what I'd do: take her in, care for the baby as if its my own. But should I tell her this? What if she gets the idea that okay, since mum is so open about it, all things are carte blanche??? So when push comes to shove - I resort to type - use fear and finger wagging. Out of the window flew every bit of sensible balanced advice I'd read about how to approach moments like this - 'teachable moments' they call it. Yes I am smirking and my eyes are rolling as I type that. I wish 'teachable moments' would come labelled with big shiny neon lights that hit me on the head.

First, I should have just been factual, not judgemental. And there is the issue of what I said - DON'T be with a guy until you're married blah blah blah. Yes, I believe this, being a Catholic, I know this is the party line. But I also do know that the times we live in are so different. Saying NO all the time might not cut it anymore. Would it be better then to give all the information on birth control? I've read of mothers who bring their daughters to clinics for birth control pills. It sounds like a practical approach. But I honestly cannot see myself doing this - for now at least. I think this is way too liberal. On the other hand, being dogmatic about the 'no sex bit' might just alienate. Such a fine, teensy thin line to walk.

Maybe its me. Maybe I didn't handle it right this time. Maybe the wide aisles of The Gardens in Mid-Valley is not exactly the best place to have this sort of talk. But then maybe this sort of talk should be handled in this way - casual, not intense, while walking in a mall. I don't know. Feeling my way around.

After that, Gillian was thrilled - not with the "Don't do IT" bit, (don't know how much of that sank in) but with the idea that we're actually a larger family than we already are. There are two unknown siblings that came before. She ran forward to her dad and her typical exuberant way, said excitedly: Daddy! Did you know we are actually already a larger family - 7 children! Why didn't you tell us earlier??

Then she whispered to Isaac loudly: Zaac, mummy told me that she actually had two more babies before I was born....

With her going to KC (maybe) next year, and the infamous Bridge of Love just linking Marine Parade Road, I don't know how much longer she will still have the giggly wide-eyed attitude about sex and crucially, about getting information from me, her mother, about sex. And while I can handle the biological aspect no problem, I find myself stumbling for words when we're talking about the emotional aspects. How honest should I be? How much does she need to know? How weightily will she regard the information?

And while I am busy agonising over Gillian, quietly almost slipping beneath the radar, I suddenly realise I have Isaac on the cusp of puberty too. He had his first 'wet' dream in Fraser's Hill. And last night, I found out he'd finished reading Gaiman's book "Stardust" - with some uh, rather descriptive passages in there. No wonder he asked us mildly in the car on the NS Highway: all the stuff they do in the movies, the kissing and all... is all that real?

KH and I launched into a "don't believe all you see in the movies" spiel but I wonder now if we actually read the moment right. I don't think he was actually questioning the reality of it - a movie is a movie and he knows that. But rather, now with more factors in the equation, I think that question might have held a deeper meaning than we suspected.

I'm not ready for Isaac. I'm still floundering with Gillian. And Mr KH is no help. Time to pick up a copy of Raising Boys yet again.

Rounding yet another curve in life again.

I miss Japan!

I don't think I've recovered from the Japan trip yet. Half of me still thinks that the trip has not yet happened. I still expect to go on the trip when its already over! Sort of an anti-climactic feel actually. Weirdly I am also experiencing Japan withdrawal symptoms. I still surf wistfully to Japan Guide. Two nights ago I watched Japan Hour and sighed. I still check the weather forecast for Tokyo. I walk along Riang and see fallen leaves and I am back in the lanes of Kyoto, wondering if more of the leaves have turned or if more have fallen. I now push my water heater to its hottest and still feel dissatisfied - ah, the rotemburo has spoilt me. In a crowded MRT train with Owain the other day, we both reminisce about what it was like on the train in Tokyo. And he still asks me from time to time: Mum, how many more days before we go to Japan? I laugh and sigh. I've just got that restless, dissatisfied feeling of yearning. I yearn to go back. I have not seen enough, absorbed enough of Japan.

I guess it will take a while before I get out of it. After all, I have been planning for this for almost a year and to have it just fly by in 9 days is really heart-jolting.

I do want to go back. I say that I want to go back by myself. Or maybe with a good girl friend. Or with mum. But I also know that I will miss Kyoto as it was with the children. The place will now echo with memories of this trip. It will hold images of Gillian, Isaac, Caitlin, Owain and baby Trinity as they were. Would that add to a place? Or detract from a new perspective? I said before that I sensed that Japan can be a 'lonely' place, where one finds solitude even in a crowd. Having been there, I still think so. I wonder if I ever go again, with these old echoes and ghosts of this trip, maybe I will feel even lonelier than before. I was right though - there is something about that place that speaks to me. I'm trying to pin it down. Its not like how I also love Venice or Rome - different. I love those places, but Japan is special. It speaks to me in a way, in a place within that those other places don't, much though I love them.

One place that my mind keeps straying to is Rakushisha (the Hut of Fallen Persimmons) in Arashiyama, Kyoto. Just a hut with one or two rooms, screens that open the room entirely to the view outside. A tiny earthen floor kitchen. Outside, a small garden. Persimmons hanging from bare branches. The place was filled with tourists when I went, but yet there was something about its compactness and solitude that I really liked. The fact that it was inhabited by a poet, a place where the great Japanese poet Basho stayed for certain periods, its atmosphere of loneliness (there's that word again!) - just appealed to me.

Can you tell? I really enjoyed myself this trip. I wish I could do it all over again. Just press a rewind button somewhere. Okay, this time without dad's bypass. And this time without losing the 38,000yen Burberry bag!!

But obviously I can't ever go back. There is no rewind button. The Big On Trips blog helps - I always say getting it out of the system via writing or talking or doing something always helps one recover after emotional tsunamis like birth, death, loss etc. For me, this trip was like an emotional tsunami. So the blog helps. Writing this here also helps but I think half of you already think I'm nuts to go on like this about a family holiday!

Well, hopefully this coming Malaysia trip will distract me from mooning on about Japan.

We're heading north again - to our favourite haunts in Ipoh, then up to Frasers Hill for the first time, then to KL, Malacca (this time to Pulau Besar). We leave tomorrow and will be back next week.

My new travel blog

I've started a new blog on our travels. And the first postings will be on the Japan trip. I have yet to upload pictures - we took a whopping 860 shots plus a video of Trinity dancing in the Burberry Blue Label store!

Meanwhile, feel free to surf in read what's there. So far, I've just posted on my preparations for the trip and an account of day 1. I hope to post bit by bit so do look in from time to time and leave your comments.

The blog is called Big on Trips and the URL is http://bigontrips.blogspot.com/

The only bright spot!

Was Gillian passing her PSLE!!!!!!!

Those who know me know I never expected her to pass, fully prepared to have her retained etc. But the girl surprised me. She passed with a Grade 2 for English and a Grade 3 for Maths. Her total aggregate was 98. Much, much better than I expected. Among the higher end for EM3 kids posted to the Normal Tech course.

On Monday after returning from Japan, we went to school to get her results. Euphoric and happy, we all then went to the two schools shortlisted for the first choice - Katong Convent and PLMGS (Paya Lebar Methodist Girls School). Both had good programmes for Normal (Tech). Both had won the Academic Value-Added awards for the Normal stream (which meant that their Normal students showed marked improvement in academic results).

KC had bowling as a CCA which Gillian liked, it was a convent school, still part of the IJ family and it was her Mama's and Aunts' alma mater. Yes mum is a KC old girl. It had the same Catholic environment that Gillian was used to. And her aggregate qualified her for it - well within the range. We considered PLMGS because it was an award-winning school, with very good programmes for the girls, it was also an all-girls school and it was nearer home, much nearer than KC. PLMGS occupied a spanking new building but Gillian did not like it. She said she did not feel "comfity". On the other hand, she seemed to like KC although it was in an older building and showed its wear and tear. The familiarity of the environment probably played a part - they also had Mother Mary's statue, a serene grotto/garden and Fr Barre's statue around, girls dressed in the same uniform etc.

So she said she preferred KC as first choice. Second choice was PLMGS, third was SJC. Fourth was Zhong Hua Sec just outside our estate, fifth was Beatty Sec a good neighbourhood school in Toa Payoh and finally Bartley Sec, which also seems to be improving, according to my bro who used to study there.

We will know only on Dec 19 if she will get her first choice, but I don't think it would be a problem.

Knowing that Gill has made it really took a big load off our shoulders. Its like we (and KH says he feels the same) wake up in the morning and we feel unsettled as if we're supposed to be worrying about something, but then we realised - gee she's made it! And a load rolls off, we feel lighter and happier. I think the awareness that she's able to make it has also done wonders for Gillian's self-esteem. And that's the biggest reward I think, although she might not realise it. She is already calling in her carrots - $100 from Uncle Paul, a High School Musical 2 CD from me + a hair make-over at Shunji Matsuo (I did promise her this if she ever made it to Sec 1), a cruise from Mama (that will happen when dad gets better), scuba lessons from Aunty Vi. In desperation before the exams, everyone seemed to promise her one thing or another if she passed, so she did and now she's calling it all in!!

Updates

Stayed at the hospital till around 10.30pm last night. They kept grandma in the A&E observation room for hours. An ECG was done and it showed a heart attack so they've put her in the high dependency cardiac ward, the next wing from dad's ward. We've been tossing lame jokes about putting them both in the same room to save visiting time.

I saw her just before I left for the night. She looked tired but stable, her vital signs looked encouraging. I know it sounds weird but she looked so cute and cuddly - like the late British Queen Mum. She was very afraid of hospitals and never liked to be in one and so initially, she seemed scared and apprehensive to find herself now in hospital. We reassured her that she was okay, nothing was going to happen, no one was wheeling her into any operating theatre for any surgery. She asked for her maid and fretted about not having company so my aunt will being the maid over this morning.

I looked at her and could not believe that this soft cuddly looking woman was the angry, fearsome, mean dragon lady of the old days, who terrorised her maids no end. She'd mellowed over the past year and she'd had a long life, some parts of it very hard. I told her to just rest and go to sleep for the night and that I'd come back and see her today. I think that's just what she needs - a good long rest, not fearing, not angsting, not brooding, not thinking too much, just giving herself up to rest and to God and to be at peace with herself and with everyone around her.

I saw dad earlier in the evening before I hung around the A&E waiting room. Dad looked loads better. Better enough to snipe and grouch. Sure sign of recovery. He got a bit irritated when we went on about his leg. I'd noticed his ankle swelling up and mum agreed. We both didn't like the look of his stitches/wound, there seemed to be a reddish area radiating out from the site that seemed indicative of infection. Mum told the doctor earlier that she thought his wound might be infected and the doctor agreed. So dad is now on antibiotics. They are already giving Lasiks to lessen the amount of fluids in his lungs, which according to x-rays, look almost fluid-free. But this latest development about swelling in his ankles is unsettling. Will check with the doctor again later.

Dad in hospital

Its been a weird surreal two weeks and events have overtaken each other at a clipping pace. I am grateful for all the prayers, thoughts and well wishes of my friends. I have not had time to sit down and write about what happened until now. So here are the details.

Two weeks ago, mum was in Kuching attending a wedding with my sister. I got a call asking me to check on dad, he was not well apparently. When I looked in on him, he seemed fine, but I noticed his belly was really bloated. He said he had difficulty sleeping at night but told me not to fuss when I asked him to see a doctor. He said he thought it was just 'hong' and he preferred to see a Chinese doctor, which he in fact did already. This was Saturday. So I said okay, see your Chinese doctor, but better take the meds for high BP and his diabetes and if things don't improve, see a proper doctor. He said okay, okay. On Sunday morning when I brought him his breakfast, he still looked okay but I thought he seemed a bit breathless, but refused all offers and nagging to see a doctor and said he could sleep better. And dad being dad, I didn't dare push him too much.

By Monday, mum was home. I came over in the evening and noticed that he seemed to be breathless but better than the day before. I also noticed that his feet were swelling. Mum had nagged him enough to bring him to see Dr Chiam, his regular doctor. Dr Chiam suspected some form of chronic lung disease and early cardiac failure but apart from some meds, did not prescribe more since dad was due to see his doctor at TTSH on Wed. Dr Chiam also felt that dad should go to hospital, but again dad being dad, refused. Stubborn man.

But after I'd gone home on Monday night, the call came. Dad had gone to TTSH and was warded immediately. He had water in the lungs and they were suspecting some form of cardiac arrest. He was placed in the High Dependency ward.

They monitored him on and off for the next few days but when they first tried to schedule him for an angiogram, he became breathless and the heart, weakened by the first suspected heart attack, did not work well. So they abandoned the angio for the day.

By Friday, they managed to do the angiogram and the results were not good at all. Dad's arteries leading to the heart showed massive blockages - mostly 80 - 85% blocked. But the crucial main artery which supplies blood to the heart is 90% blocked. They had to insert an aortic balloon immediately to help him and this meant that a bypass is necessary, not as an elective but emergency.

Mum immediately arranged for him to be transferred to the Heart Centre at SGH. She had worked at SGH for more than 40 years and had friends there that she could rely on. The transfer was effected very quickly despite some annoying red tape on the TTSH end which I shall not go into detail here, suffice to say that I never was so boiling mad in my life with a doctor's arrogance. I stayed with mum and I was overwhelmed by how fast things moved and how urgent the situation was. To add to the dilemma, I was due to leave for Japan early the next morning. I was anguished for dad and on the other hand, for the plans that I had laid for almost a year that seemed certain to be dashed.

Once at SGH, the senior consultant took one look at the results and said, emergency surgery now. He told me and Paul bluntly: If we don't do this, your dad will die for certain. The next heart attack will almost certainly finish him off. As it is, because the blockage is so massive and the heart starved of oxygen for some time, some muscles may already be diseased. This meant that surgery would be risky. And because dad's diabetes was not well controlled, that meant that the risk of wound infection was high. Because the heart was not working properly already, the lungs were filled with water. All these were serious risks that meant that dad was, as the doctor put it, a very very sick man. If the heart did not function well during and after the bypass - and this was a real risk since many of his heart muscles were likely to be diseased or dead already thanks to the deprivation of oxygen and bloodflow, they might have to put him on a heart-lung machine indefinitely. He showed us the angio video. We saw how blood was spurting from a pinprick - that was how badly narrowed the arteries were. Honestly I don't know how dad made it this far without collapsing already. And I am grateful that he did not suffer undue pain before this - I thought heart attacks were characterised by chest pains etc, but dad never went through this.

The nurses briefed us about what would happen, that dad would be intubated for the op, that he would have tubes coming out from his chest to drain the fluid etc. But it all sort of went right over our heads in a daze. We gave personal information like emergency contact nos automatically but not really registering it at all. I think I was just focussed on how the doctor said and how grim things were.

Mum never cried but teared up. She is one strong woman. Paul and I cried. I'm sorry to say that I am ashamed of myself for being such a weak baby. At a time when I should be strong for mum, I was babbling like a baby. I knew it was touch and go and it was terrifying to see the number of doctors and nurses working on dad to prep him for the op. They were moving at such a clippingly efficient pace, there seemed no time to say anything. And I was afraid that if I never said anything, I would never have the chance to.

Dad and I have never been close. I always thought he was closer to Viv and I was more like mum. I never liked it that he was never around for me, that he paid more attention to his life than to ours as a family. I remember I once told mum quite angrily that I made sure I never married a man like dad, that the person I married would make me and our children number one always in his life. I was that resentful.

But on that day, at that time, all that flew out of the window as I watched them prep him. He looked pale but grinned bravely when I managed to squeeze past the doctors and nurses, to his bedside to snatch a few seconds to say what I had to say. I carried Owain with me and cried hard as I said: I just wanted to say thank you dad. Thanks for bringing me up. Thanks for taking care of my kids and for loving them and being their grand-dad. I held on to his one good hand hard and told him: 88. Remember? You said you'd live to 88. That's another 22 more years. I want to see you when you get out later. Okay? You're not going anywhere. I'm going to see you later when you wake up. You hear me?

He grinned and said, don't cry. I'll be okay. I'm in good hands. I nodded, yes, the very best of hands.

And then I was pushed aside as they wheeled him out of CCU and into the theatre. He was waving as he went.

So drama right? I am paying the price for this today as I write, being the family joke since everyone has already sniggered about how drama I was. Sigh.

After that, Paul, mum and I sat outside in the waiting area. Our eyes were red. We called Vi and she was already on her way in a bus from KL to Singapore - all the flights out were full. At that time I remember feeling very sad that she might not get there in time to see dad or say anything to dad.

People walking past us gave us curious looks. I was too drained to care. What is it about human drama and grief that attracts the curious anyway?

It was time to pray but I couldn't. I just couldn't. So I whipped out my handphone and did the next best thing - call for prayer support. Within minutes, I was getting messages of comfort and hope and assurances of strong prayers. I felt so grateful and cheered. As if with my friends and family all praying, things will turn out fine. I felt loads better knowing that people out there shared what I was going through and I wasn't exactly alone.

We called my dad's people. Dad did not want to tell them and for some time, dad has been estranged from most of his family. But I felt that the situation this time was serious and they had a right to know. So I called. And they spread the word. Within two hours, three of his sisters descended on us at the waiting area. Calls and SMSes were coming in from my uncle, cousins and my aunt in Shanghai. My aunts stayed with us all the way until they knew dad was out of the theatre. KH came after work with Isaac, then left to bring Isaac and Owain home before returning to the hospital to wait with us. Finally Vi came around 10pm, looking tired from the journey. But I was so relieved to see her. She had always been stronger and tougher than me and I think both mum and I needed her strength and her positiveness. She scoffed at the idea that something bad would happen in the theatre and was certain that dad would be alright.

Finally at around 10.30pm, they wheeled him out of theatre. He had numerous tubes coming out of him. But what frightened me most was that he had the waxy yellow-white complexion of a well-embalmed corpse.

Dr Chua came out to talk to us. He said dad was stable but not out of the woods yet. The first 24hrs were crucial ones. He said it was good that dad had "big blood vessels" and that the bypass went successfully for now. Dad did not have to be placed on a heart-lung machine but they would need to monitor how well his heart was working for now. If all went well they would remove the ventilator the next morning but keep him highly sedated for the next day or so.

We all trooped in one by one to see him. But he was still unconscious and hooked up to a whole bank of machines.

Mum told me to go to Japan. She said there was nothing I could do for him here. I knew that on one level, but I also remembered that I said I'd be here to see him when he woke up. And I was quite superstitious enough to fear that if I were not around, and renege on what I said, things would go bad. Mum, Viv and Paul urged me to go. They said they would pick me up early the next morning, bring me to see dad and then send me to the airport.

My head was spinning badly from the decision-making process and I had a headache from the crying, the stress and the constant volley of thoughts, pros and cons. By the time we left the hospital, it was already 11.30pm. Got home at midnight. If we were going to Japan, KH and the kids would have had to leave for the airport at 3am. Barely a couple of hours from then. Rita SMSed me asking me how? Going or not? She said that whatever decision we made would be the right one. KH had already called the travel insurance to clarify some points and we knew we would be able to claim for travel cancellation. We would lose the frequent flier points from SQ though. Finally I told KH: okay, cancel the trip. We're not going.

Tried to go to bed but could not sleep. I was straining to sleep but could only fall into restless napping, acutely conscious of the nearing of 3am. 3am came and went. I felt so anguished. I thought of the children, how disappointed they would be, of all the preparation I had done, then I thought of dad, of mum. Then at 3.30am, Owain groggily asked to nurse. And I asked him, do you want to continue sleeping or go to Tokyo? He became more alert and said:Tokyo.

So that did it. I woke up KH who was snoring away - he seemed very comfortable with the decision that was already made. I thought he was going to be angry when he woke up, because I kept changing my mind. But he wasn't. He just got up, woke all the kids up, got them dressed and ready. There was a sense of excitement in the air for them. And when I saw them, I thought I made the right decision.

They left in a flurry for the airport, sent off by hugs and kisses and cries of "See you later! In Tokyo!"

I spent the rest of the hour from 4 - 5am packing, topping up whatever needed to be packed - but still missing some stuff - like my hairbrush and my Rough Guide to Japan! Then tried to sleep for an hour. Not successful. At 6am, woke up got changed, woke Gillian and baby Trin again. Viv, Mum and Paul were at our gate at 6.30am but I still wasn't ready. At that point, I was still ready to give up and not go if dad was not looking good.

All of us headed for the hospital, hushed in the early morning. Dad was sleeping but the nurse told us he regained consciousness already. They had to sedate him heavily because he was a bit restless. He moved all four limbs, which is a good sign. His vital signs were stable, the blood pressure looked low but the nurse assured us it was normal for this stage.

I stared long at him. We couldn't go in, just watch from the glass window. He still had the waxy corpsy look. I let Gillian come in to look at him. And then we turned to go to the airport.

So why did I decide to go eventually?

1) Because I'd said what I needed to say already and I know he heard me.
2) Because I could leave mum with Viv and know that Viv will be strong for mum, surely stronger than me.
3) Because I made them all promise to call/sms me twice a day to update me on dad's condition and to not fudge the news if it was really bad.
4) Because I know dad is already receiving the best care he could and there is nothing anyone else can do for him at this point.
5) Because I looked at my kids and felt I could not let them down.
6) and finally because, selfishly so, I could not let myself down.

Everything that could go wrong, can and has!

First it was dad and now, my grandma. I just got news that she 'fell' and her leg broke. This is an 84-year-old woman who has been more or less wheel-chair bound for the past two years or so. Her right leg has been bent at a very awkward angle and she has been unable to walk, hence she was in a wheelchair for some time.

I just got word that her bad leg sort of gave way under her as she was moving from the wheelchair to I-dunno-where (bed? bathroom? the details are not clear at this point) and she collapsed into an awkward squat. But because her bones are so brittle at her age, they are now worried that her hips and ribs may also have been fractured in the process. Cardiac arrest is a real risk when this sort of thing happens to someone her age.

Poor po-po.

She brought me up since I was a baby. She's been one feisty dragon lady but she has mellowed over the past year or so. I'm going to hospital to see her now. She's probably still in the A&E. This is SGH and grimly convenient since dad is also still warded in the high dependency cardiac ward there.

Why do these things happen all at one go?

I feel so sorry for my mum. She's had a hard two weeks or so - with dad's hospitalisation, emergency surgery. She's been literally living at the hospital with him, leaving him only to go home for change of clothes and some 'rest' (my bro says she could not rest well at home, always fretting and anxious to go back to the hospital). First dad, now po-po, her mother. I can't imagine the stress mum is going through right now.

Living it up later

Okay, on to something lighter now... enough of all the naval-gazing. I'll bounce back soon enough from the brouhaha.

Was having lunch alone today and saw the gardeners at work in the poly garden. There were about 7 of them. All in a row, all on their haunches, carefully weeding out the unwanted growths, some laying a plastic layer on soil and pebbles on top. Grab, pull, throw. The work had a rhythmic quality that was almost hypnotic to watch. They worked in silence in the blazing mid-day heat, hats or caps the only protection from the sun.

I liked what they did. Whenever I do this in my garden, I get carried away and can go on and on just pulling the weeds. So I think I won't mind a job like that - just pulling weeds. Of course in a week or so of this, I might get a bit bored and then my mind would be wandering to find ways to either speed up the process or be more productive. Which is why I probably would not last long at a job like this. But it would be nice to do for a while.

Another job I think I would really enjoy is to be a local tour guide. Once upon a time I even explored the possibility of signing up for a tour guide course and then to be registered with STB upon passing the exams. Apparently you can also earn quite a bit from this - fees and tips included! But the course fee (I think it was $1800 then?) stumped me (yes, I was a poor struggling journo then!) and so I gave up the idea. But I've always liked the thought of meeting people from overseas, showing them around, giving them snippets of history, folklore etc. Who knows, when I retire, I just might do this! When I have more time on my hands next time, I might start off as a museum docent first - that would be fun!

I think I might like to try factory work too - working in a conveyor belt system where you just do that specific portion and pass it on to the next. Like weeding. It hypnotically mindless - don't need to think so hard, just fix and pass on and so on. Only drawback would be the shift work. I can't see myself working a graveyard shift!

Or an assistant in a GP's clinic - must be slow-moving clinic! - where I can happily label the meds, sit amidst the colourful bottles (always a fascination for me as a child!), call out names importantly etc. And educate the doctor about breastfeeding and birth on slow days!

See? I'm all ready to work up to 65 and beyond! But work aside, I would like to make time to do the fun things that I've never had the guts or the time to do before - like paint! On canvas - just mucking it up! Or 3D sculptural work with clay. Or learn a foreign language - French? Spanish? Japanese? Teach English for a month or two in a remote village in China! Learn to bake! Learn to do the tango! Or the foxtrot! Learn some taichi! Walk a bit further on an unknown trail. And when it comes to travel - backpack to South America, take the Trans-Siberian railway from Vladivostok to Moscow, drive on the Karakorum Highway, walk the footsteps of Christ in Israel, spend time on a retreat in a mountaintop in Italy and if possible, travel the overland route from Singapore to Paris in a jeep with KH.

All these dreams.

I might not be able to fulfil all of them. But half the fun lies in the dreaming today of what may come tomorrow. So that alone is good for a muggy Monday afternoon's worth of day-dreaming!

Me? A breastfeeding nazi?

Okay, I will be the first to say it - I believe in breastfeeding. I totally absolutely support it and I like to think that I walk the talk. I don't love it though, but I believe in it. Out of five babes, I have nursed three. While it hasn't been the wonderful earth-shaking emotional bonding experience some have touted it to be, I believe it is just the normal way for human babies to be fed and I believe that every baby has the right to human milk from the nursing experience.

Why is this surfacing here in the blog? Because I am working out my feelings and blogging helps me work out the kinks in my thoughts/emotions.

Over the last week and the weekend, several posts were logged in AP. A mother was wondering if she should give semi-solids to her baby. She was fretting about a 400g lag in weight, that her child was only in the 25th percentile. Underlining this was pressure from external quarters to have her baby plumped up more than he is now and hence, the reasoning that breastmilk was not sufficient enough to promote that kind of growth.

I don't know this woman. But from what I read, gut feel said this was not an issue of weight, or baby's wellbeing alone, but support (or lack of it) that this mother was getting. My guess was she was being worn down by the negativity towards breastfeeding and she is second-guessing her decision to breastfeed her baby.

Initially I wasn't inclined to jump in. AP had loads of these queries and the same information had been given out many times over. (I always wonder why people don't read the archives before posting!) But then out came a post from two mothers, both of whom claim to be pro-breastfeeding. But both, in the long and short of it, said okay, don't feel bad about not breastfeeding. Since, I thought, there are mothers who are encouraging her to stop, I felt that she should be given enough information on the other side of the coin.

So in I jumped, gave all the information on the sterility of the gut, the porosity of gut lining before 6 months of age, the physiological reason why breastmilk was necessary in the first 6 months etc. Other mom came back with Dr Jack Newman's handout, reiterated she was pro-breastfeeding but again said it was okay to give semi-solids. The reference to Dr Jack Newman seemed to imply that he thought it was okay, so it has to be okay!

Call me anal, but to me, it was not a question of opinion but fact. I read Dr Jack Newman carefully again, and clearly while semi-solids was preferable to formula supplementation, it was recommended in cases where the weight lag was significant, and after all measures to promote milk supply and the continuity of the nursing relationship had failed. So I posted this again.

Back came the reply and there was a whole barrage of other replies by then which went along the lines of "its her decision" (I never said it was not!) "don't let other people pressure you to nurse if thats what you don't want to do" etc, that the parenting relationship went beyond just breastfeeding, that one should "enjoy the baby" and if breastfeeding was causing tension in the equation, then it was not wrong to take breastfeeding out of the equation totally and she should not feel bad for doing so. (I have a problem with the last bit - read on)

Long and short of it is, I felt a bit gobsmacked at the reaction. Did everyone think me an unfeeling heel for giving the facts - as if in some indirect way, the information I gave was 'pressuring' her to continue breastfeeding. I read the response to me, and the other responses to the group and I felt as if I was deemed the local breastfeeding nazi - someone who would push aggressively for breastfeeding against all odds. Am I really a breastfeeding nazi? Or am I reading too much into this? Just being too sensitive? Did I really exert pressure for this mother to breastfeed? Should I have tempered my responses with similar platitudes about "breastfeeding is not everything etc"? To be honest I felt a bit hurt and unappreciated. But when I thought harder about it, I recognised it more as my need to belong surfacing again than any direct criticism. Here I go again - feeling lousy because I did not move with the crowd, and I stood out like a sore thumb. Urgh. Need to work on that.

I'm not the touchy-feely sort and I am inclined to be blunt and to call a spade a spade. But perhaps that does not sit well with everyone. I've been told this before but clearly I never learn. Couple of ways I can go from here - I can beat a hasty retreat, not post on AP for a long time, lie low, and if I ever do post, then be careful to sound solicitiously supportive and sugarcoat my facts. The other way is to ignore and move on - and to weave a thicker skin about me so I won't be so easily stung by the opinions and perceptions of others (hence negating the need for angsty-naval-gazing posts such as this). And not feel low because I did not get crowd approval. In other words, don't live with my version of the AC Nielson ratings! I need to believe in myself and in what I say - if I think this is valid and valuable information I am giving, then stand firm - why let a lack of popularity cloud the issue? And if people don't like to hear it, that's okay.

I believe in breastfeeding. I believe in giving mothers the facts. I don't believe in judging their motives for breastfeeding or not breastfeeding. I have my own personal convictions about this and very often, they do not agree with many mothers'. But I don't intend to convert people into breastfeeding supporters. But neither do I want to compromise my views on this issue.

I can't and won't sugarcoat facts. I can't and won't say inane things like "Enjoying your baby is more important than breastfeeding." Simply because I think those are two entirely different issues. This may sound very harsh but I think babies are not born for us to 'enjoy'. They are not toys nor possessions. We have a huge responsibility to do what is right for them. Hard though it may be at times. That includes breastfeeding. And the commitment to do so - to give them what is normal and right for them. And if one can't or won't give the commitment, then at least be honest about it - and then blame not the lactivists for any guilt that one might have.

Breastfeeding is not a smooth ride. Yes, women do face problems - but more often than not, these problems are fixable. Not talking about those rare physiological cases where breastfeeding is not physically possible. I am talking about women who can nurse, have the capacity to do so, but are finding it tough going.

I think sometimes, if breastfeeding seems like an issue, the root of it may stem not from the baby, nor from breastfeeding, but from ourselves. So we fix the problem, not by taking away the nursing relationship, but by being honest with ourselves, asking the hard questions about our motives and feelings on nursing. And if those answers come up against the devil and the deep blue sea, then so be it. If we decide that breastfeeding is not for us, then there is no guilt. Why should there be?

Breastfeeding is a very touchy landmine of emotions. It's got all the drama, the angst, the chest-beating guilt etc. I've been through this. I've been on the other side of the camp where I did not breastfeed and thought all breastfeeding mothers were supercilious heartless activists who loved to slather on the guilt to non-breastfeeding mother. I said so to assuage my guilt for my own lack of honesty.

But over the years, thanks to my long journey, I believe that you can bring a horse to water but you cannot make it drink. I believe that success is defined by ourselves. How or what is breastfeeding success, boils down to a mother's attitude and convictions. Women breastfeed for all sorts of socio-emotional reasons - good for baby, to please someone, to be seen as a 'good mother', personal satisfaction, for a sense of achievement etc. And that's fine, as long as they are honest about it to themselves.

I hope the mom who posted the original question will be honest - to herself at least. I think there may be other issues going on that we may not know about, and really, there is no need for us to know. But she's got to be honest with herself. The support, when it comes from the community, should be to encourage her honesty and respect her choice. Not just give inane sweet talk to whitewash any conflicting guilt that she may feel.

A marriage proposal first kisses

Isaac received a marriage proposal - from his best friend Patrick!

In the car on one of our many family outings over the weekend, Isaac announced that Patrick his buddy in school had suggested that their friendship could be further cemented into family ties by Isaac marrying either Patrick's sister or his cousin. And from Isaac's tone, he didn't think the idea half bad too! When I demanded: why can't Patrick just marry one of YOUR sisters (you have three for him to choose from!) instead of you marrying his sister, the disloyal boy protested vehemently: What! Gillian is too old and baby is too young and that leaves Ning-Ning! Hah!! No Way!!

To which his usual no-nonsense younger sister said: Hah! Better not! You think I want to marry him ah? I'll kick his butt if he tries to be funny with me!

Yes, the Ning-ster as I call her, can be quite the fierce, aggressive I-Am-Woman-Hear-Me-Roar type. KH and I think she's the supermodel sort - tall, thin and all arms and legs. And very sassy.

But I digress. The conversation was steered to first kisses. The Fishball was kissed by a P4 girl during Children's Liturgy at mass. One of Gillian's friends, the girl had apparently taken him under her wing during Liturgy and found him so cute and irresistable, had kissed him soundly on the cheek - to his horror! But this curly-haired little boy does have this effect on girls. Teen girls and aunties alike have been known to coo at him and exclaim: SO cute!!!

So there went his 'first' kiss. Gillian's first kiss was in the plaza in front of Milan's great cathedral. She was 15 months old, standing in the sprawling plaza as we gazed up at the cathedral facade when an Italian boy came wheeling by on his tricycle (must have been about four or five years old), stopped, went over to hug her and kiss her! What a memorable setting!

Isaac's first kiss was given by a little girl neighbour around his age. The toddlers who were around 2years old then, used to hang out at each other's homes and on one of those occasions, she just leant over and kissed him on the cheek.

Ning asked wistfully if she had had a first kiss and I said, so that she would not feel left out, yes of course! The very first kiss you had was when you were just born.

Even when I was wet and with blood everywhere? she asked eagerly. Even then, I nodded, we were so happy when you were born.

She was pleased to hear that.

"This is not an emergency!"

I keep repeating this line over and over again in exasperation but it falls on deaf ears. My kids' deaf ears to be precise.

Since it is PSLE marking week, the tribe has stayed home from school. And because Gillian has no more school work, no more revision etc, with loads of time on her hands, she has been very restless. And infecting the younger ones with her restlessness. So I have been on the receiving end of countless phone calls on my cell phone for various inane reasons such as:

1) "Can we watch TV?"
In my house, I try (and I emphasise the word *try*) to limit TV times to a few hours in the day - usually one hour of sesame street in the morning, half an hour of Hi5 at noon and then the regular cartoon slots from 5pm to 6.30pm. Hmm, in retrospect this looks like a lot of TV!! Maybe its time to cut down - and drive my kids into a tv-less withdrawal frenzy. Not that they're not far from it already.

2) "Can we eat the box of stuff in the fridge?"
'Stuff' is usually defined as biscuits and chocs - usually the ones that KH and I buy for ourselves but never really get a chance to eat before its discovered and devoured by the hungry hordes.

3) "Can I eat your 'P'?"
Usually from Isaac. The 'P' is a slab of Belgian choc that KH brought home for me from Paris. He's always trying his luck and I always say no. The word 'no' has never deterred him from asking. Again and again.

4) "Can we watch the Japanese cartoons?"
This usually comes when I say no to tv time. They know I have a weakness for Japanese cartoons and I am trying to pep up interest in the coming Japan trip. So chances of me saying yes to this are considerably higher.

5) "Can I watch my Barbie DVD?"
Usually from Caitlin. I usually say no. DVDs only at the weekends. She does not get much support for this anyway from her sibs because they're sick of Barbie - Barbie swanlake, Barbie the ice princess, Barbie rapunzel etc. She's only missing the Island Barbie one - which she will probably get for Christmas. I never learn.

6) "Can Brian and Charmaine come over?"
Neighbours. I have issues with one of them. But the kids are a forgiving lot. So these days, I usually say yes if its 5pm or 6pm that the request comes in. Or depends on how I feel at the moment.

7) "Can we go to the playground?"
I usually say yes. With the proviso that the older kids bring the younger kids and looks out for them.

8) "Can we play Super Granny on the com?"
This depends. On whether they have done their work, are already on a ban but trying to be sneaky about it in the hope that I won't remember, and how long the computer has been on. I usually give my hissy spiel about saving the earth, saving electricity, saving money etc and not using the com for too long. But I usually give in - half an hour is the max!

9) "Mu-umm, XXX hit/kicked/punched me/pulled my hair/called me names/irritated me... all for no reason! I didn't do anything! Waa-aaah!"
All of them call me for this at some point or other. I hate playing remote referee.

10) "Trinny wants to talk to you.... (whispered loudly in the background) Say something Trinny... Trin say helloooo mummy! Hey mum, she REALLY said mama just now! Really!"
Of course I hear lots of movement, snuffling and heavy breathing but not much else. Trin has not called me 'mum' yet and I don't think I'm likely to hear this for the first time on the phone!

10) "Where are you? What are you doing? When are you coming home?"
Yes, they give me the third degree too.

And these phonecalls will keep coming in on my phone, throughout the day. To be fair, its not only Gillian who calls - they all do - 365 days of the year as long as I'm not home. I think this is how remote control mums function. It's not ideal though. And my phone bills have increased - enough to make contemplate upping my phone plan. I have stressed that calls should be kept to those of an urgent and emergency nature. I have diligently gone through the definition of 'Emergency' with them, ie:

Someone died
Someone is seriously injured
There is blood. A lot of blood.
The house is on fire
Lolita is tied up by bandits and can't get to a phone

Never worked. I've tried 'fining' them for every non-emergency phone call. Also never worked. (too much work for me to keep track!) Use my office phone at least, I begged. Never worked - they only know my cell number.

The "Call Daddy instead of Mummy" campaign also never worked. In the car at the end of the day, KH and I would trade notes with each other - did Kid #3 call about this? Did you give permission for Kid #2 to get on the com? And usually, daddy gets no calls. The only time daddy gets calls is when mummy says no. Then the discovery process goes like this:

"Did you give Kid#2 permission to play on the com?"

"Er... ya I think so. Why?"

"He's on a ban for flouting computer time rules! Didn't you know this?"

"Er I dunno... He called me in the middle of a meeting and I just said yes!"

He always says yes. He doesn't think before he says yes. They know this. Them wily ones know all the tricks in the book. They can't get past me though. I'm a lot sharper than KH and can sniff out a lie a mile off. KH is clueless and they know this. He's putty in their hands.

So I have been trying to get them to stop calling me unnecessarily. Until a line in a parenting magazine/newspaper caught my eye the other day. It said something like: Parents must keep the communication channels open and be ready to listen to their kids. Kids should not be afraid to call parents at work to discuss or share anything. To limit calls to only emergencies closes the communication channels. Something like that.

Made me stop and think for all of five minutes. Bah! The guy writing this does not have five children calling him day and night!

But the reporter is not wrong - if a mom is out of the house working, all the more important it is to keep in touch via the phone. Some diligent mums have video phones, video-conferencing set up on their office computers. I'm not one of them. Not that I don't want to talk to my kids. I just wish they weren't so prolific about calling! I could empower them of course - some people say how wonderful it is that the kids still call to get permission about everything - well, yes and no! Empowerment comes with trust. Unfortunately, I don't think kids, my kids at least, can be trusted to stick to any time allotted, say for TV or computer etc. So for now its still a double-edged sword - good that they call me to get my permission, but bad that they have to keep calling me for every other thing! There has to be a happy middle ground somewhere.

I don't have a solution to this at the moment. I'll think about it after I answer this call. Yes, the cell is ringing again. And yes, caller ID is flashing: "Home".

Lust Caution

Because my birthday was spent cooped up in the office listening to my managers being snarly to each other, I decided to treat myself to a belated 'happy day' at the movies.

With all the hype about Lust Caution going on, it being given an NC16 rating after distributors decided to screen the tone-down version, I decided to go watch the movie and judge for myself what the hoo-ha was all about.

So bright and early I headed for VivoCity's GV and bought myself a Gold Class ticket. This being my virgin Gold Class experience, I didn't know what to expect. That early in the morning, I found myself being the only one in the Gold Class lounge feeling like a Economy class passenger in a First Class passenger lounge. The prices in the menu were ridiculous but I decided that I would go the whole hog and order something for the movie. Somehow the good ol movie standbys like popcorn and Coke just didn't fit into the lofty Gold Class. So I ordered potato wedges with three different dips - one of the cheapest items on the menu already at $8. And plain water. :-)

The cinema was one of the bigger Gold Class cinemas with about 60 seats. Mine was right at the back. Have to say the seat was PLUSH. Almost made the $25 price tag of a Gold Class ticket worthwhile. It was a big comfy armchair which had buttons that allowed one to recline and for leg rests to come up. A thick blanket was also provided. I'd brought my shawl, so I wrapped myself snugly, tipped the seat back, leg rest up, blanket over my legs and prepared to enjoy the movie. I thought I was going to be the only one in there until a young teen couple came in (thats why the distributors made the movie NC16 - so smoochy teen couples could get in and mooch around in their armchairs!).

My potato wedges were served to me later - nothing to write home about and the sour cream dip was so thin it was almost watery. So definitely the food was not worth it. I thought that for a $25 price tag, at least a decent minimal buffet of food could have been included - like just tea or coffee or free popcorn or for a really luxe experience, even finger sandwiches wouldn't have been half bad. That would really have been classy of GV but I guess the bottomline always gets in the way of class. Although something like that might well have made their Gold Class halls more full than near empty since it would be considered better value for money. Ah well.

So anyways the movie came on and I snuggled back down in my bed-like chair and watched. If you intend to watch the movie then better stop reading - some spoilers ahead.

Lee Ang as always, creates great mood and setting. There seems to be a constant touch of blue in the light and indeed, Tang Wei's lovely cheong-sums were largely in shades of blue and turquoise. With a haunting score, it set the tone for a melancholic mood. The sets, the costumes and details were down pat, bringing us right back into Japanese occupied Shanghai. While the movie is largely in Mandarin, there were bits in English, Cantonese and Shanghainese. And I loved the sing-song lilting tones of Shanghainese!

With Lee Ang, its always a case of less is more. So you never get the excessive outbursts of emotion and one has to read the faces and body language of the key characters to understand what is going on - which is good. And hence this is why it is a pity that the sex scenes were slashed for the NC16 version. Because it is through the sex scenes that one can better understand the dynamics of the complex relationship between Mr Yee and Mrs Mak aka Wang Chia Chi. The NC16 version is so clean that you do not see any skin below the neck. There are one or two scenes of post-coital facial expressions where you get fleeting glimpses of the intensity and ferocity of their sexual experience but not enough for one to go deeper into their characters.

So how far and how much each gives to each other, how much each reveals of themselves, and therefore how much more they stand to lose can only be guessed at but never revealed fully. And this is why the sex scenes, unlike many other movies, are central to the plot and character development and never merely gratuitous.

Clearly the affair is one where both let go a bit of themselves, lose a bit of that identity they had and bare more than they bargained for, invested more of themselves in each other. But we can never know or understand the full extent of this, thanks to the snips. Of course, the more they reveal, the harder they fall, the greater the loss. And loss is revealed, devastatingly but wordlessly in the white-faced anguished eyes of Mr Yee in the last scene.

Not for nothing is Tony Leung known for his liquid eyes - sheer deep wells of emotion. Fear, sadness, loneliness, tenderness - you see them all in his eyes. And as for Tang Wei, I think Lee Ang chose right when he passed over the Zhang diva for the unknown actress. She brought to the role courage, loneliness, fear and sacrifice. Even Joan Chen, the mahjong-playing tai-tai wife of Mr Yee, rose to the occasion (has she never??). All the performances (with the exception of Wang Lee Hom - who looks good in blazers and vests - but who cannot summon up much convincing emotion and just ends up looking wooden and pained!) were spot-on.

The movie and the acting never called for big drama moments so all these big emotions lay more as undercurrents in the movie and were shown through spare, careful, controlled, small actions - the cast of a mahjong tile on the table, the intonation of a word, the camera's lingering on an elegant hand and of course, the careful facial expressions. Some people say this is self-indulgent of Lee Ang and makes the movie drag, that it only serves as build-up to the sex scenes which has been so hyped, but I disagree. I think the dialogue and pacing, the style of speaking, the nuances are typical of the era and of the tension of the day. They don't serve as handmaiden to the sex scenes, but the sex scenes cap and underscore what the reserved nuances cannot say.

I would want to watch the movie again. There are so many details that I think might click better with a second viewing. But this time, I'd want to watch the full version.

So the NC16 movie is still not a bad movie - it still maintains the elegance that Lee Ang intended, the melancholic mood, the great cinematography, the perfect costumes etc. And the plot is still gripping enough, with a constant sense of danger and exposure, to keep you riveted through the movie. But it could be much better had the distributors put art ahead of money and screened the full and complete version.

Kids say...

And while we're talking about Fishball, I have to blog this or I will forget.

These days when I deny his request to nurse, he will groan very dramatically and say: So cruel!!!

Cait has started counting down to Japan. Everyday she will ask me: How many more days is it to Japan? She's looking forward to it and so am I! When I ask Fishball if he is looking forward to Japan, his eyes light up and he says: Yes! That means we can eat sushi everyday!!

The kids all have opinions on what I wear. The girls being girls, will comment on my accessories and my outfit. Eg Gillian will say: this makes you look thin/fat. And Cait will say things like: I like your outfit today especially your necklace - it matches your skirt!

Fishball, on the other hand, is learning and showing an early preference for cleavage and skin! He will point to female underwear ads in the magazines and papers and say: Mum, this one is very nice! And yes, he loves to watch pageant shows! Women in bikinis also get a second look from him. Certain night-dresses that I have will earn an approving (slightly leery) smile from him as he says: Ooh mum, I like you in this dress!

I find all these children very funny - their comments are innocent and yet so honest.

Playing Dum

The boys (KH, Fishball and Isaac) were in my room playing Dum until quite late last night. And what a game it was. Fishball held Isaac to a draw and would have won on sheer points alone except that Isaac refused to give in and admit defeat, so KH had to call it a draw. This morning, KH told me what happened.

Couple of nights ago he had a game of Dum with Fishball. To his surprise Fishball actually almost had him at point non plus. There were several times during the game when he had to pause and really think hard to get himself out of a bad situation. He won only by the skin of his teeth. KH of course, was impressed with his son and told me that its a whole different game with Fishball now. No more is Fishball making beginner moves, or even thoughtless silly amateur moves. Fishball is now thinking, totally serious and absorbed in a game - and making calculated moves - enough to make his daddy sweat. He said the look of concentration on Fishball's face is similar to that when he played Rush Hour.

So before last night's game, KH warned Isaac that his little brother was no longer playing 'baby dum' - no more could Isaac play Dum with Fishball, read a book at the same time and still win. Isaac of course, laughed it off and bragged about how it would be easy-peasy thrashing his baby brother at Dum.

He stopped laughing soon enough when Fishball cruised very quickly to establish two Queens. KH said that Isaac had several moments of panic where he had to stop and think frantically about his next move.

The game ended with Fishball having 3 queens and Isaac two. But Isaac refused to concede defeat, sputtering indignantly all the way and demanding a re-match. KH finally refereed it and put it down to a draw and the night ended with Isaac telling Fishball that "tomorrow, when I get home from school, I'm gonna play with you and this time, you're dead meat!"

Well I won't be around to see this, but even should Fishball lose (and it seems likely because he has not lost his innocence and naivete yet about openly sharing his next moves freely with his opponent! Fishball likes to say, with all the impulsivity that young children have - "I'm going to eat your pawn here!" or "Kor-kor, you have to eat my pawn here or I will chung-kong you!") I don't think Isaac will have an easy time as he used to.

Stressed out

Its been a slightly stressful two weeks. At work, I've had to work on my off-days thanks to a number of important meetings at work, preparation for audit etc. Those work days included my 39th birthday. Usually I take the day off, go off for a nice lunch as I did last year, go for a nice spa experience perhaps, but not this year. Instead I was in the office generating and compiling data for a big meeting, sitting in on meetings and ducking the cross-fire that erupted. I will take my birthday pampering treat another day when the heat is off.

On the birthright end, I had one private class and gave my usual talk during the Parenting with Grace workshop on Sunday. Also busy preparing for class this weekend. So things have been busy. The stress is not bad stress, but challenging stress, which is good.

At home, Gillian was preparing for PSLE over the past few weekends/weekdays. So that meant drilling her in paper after paper for maths. I didn't give her anything for English - I was, am, pretty confident that she can pass the English paper. It is Maths that is the big problem. Late Sunday night, I was awakened by KH's yelling and thumping of books on the table. If the sound could reach me through closed doors and through deep sleep, you know he must have been pretty loud.

Immediately I went downstairs. I saw Gillian looking sullen, KH looking murderous, shaking his head in frustration. I sat down. While I didn't want to interfere with KH teaching Gillian, I also didn't want father-daughter relations to sour either. At the age of 12, I don't think Gillian now takes kindly to loud scoldings and shouts. Plus it was late - 11+. So I just said quietly, okay, if you can't do it now (and it was a simple question: give the formula for finding the area of a rectangle!) you're tired. Your eyes are red. Go to bed.

I looked at Gillian as I said this, and saw that she was teary. Poor girl. She always takes it like a champ, right on the chin. I felt sorry for her. Even I feel tense when KH gets into one of his snits, what more her? Yet at the same time, I could understand how KH felt. I felt like this too, once upon a time. Frustrated, angry, depressed and worried.

I sent her up to bed, and spoke to her quietly, telling her to just work as hard as she could. The PSLE was right around the corner. Just push herself these few days and it will soon be over. I explained how her daddy felt and she nodded. She's a good girl, she understands, but she's hurt I can tell.

The next day, I speak to KH in the car on the way to work. I never have to belabour the point - he knows what I mean. He agreed that he needed to back off a bit or it may stress her so much that she shuts down for the PSLE. I said that he had to get things in perspective - we already know what her situation is like, so no amount of screaming, yelling or table-banging would solve things. Just got to let it go, leave it in God's hands, do what we can and not stress out about it. So I volunteered to take over the bulk of the coaching for maths - something I have not done for yonks because it affected us so badly then. That day, I took half day off, came home and tutored Gillian. Same the next day and so on.

Yes I was frustrated at times, but I was also impressed. And hopeful - something I have not felt for a long time with her. I saw that she had improved. She was not as bad as she used to be. And what made me so happy was the fact that we could sit down and do this and not have a usual round of screaming, tears etc. She told me later, mum I prefer you to teach than daddy. You're more fun and you explain things better. Now that, really made my day.

With me taking over, KH had less to scream about, or maybe it was because of our talk in the car. He let go a lot over the past few days. So we kept revision tension manageable in the days running up to the PSLE.

We kept the tone casual in the morning as I wished her good luck for the PSLE and said, just pretend you're doing it right at home, and mummy is right there, telling you the usual thing: read the question, don't guess. I told her, and I believe this: you can do this.

She came home after the English paper, sounding chirpy and confident. Then at night, I let her sit through a two-hour specimen PSLE maths paper. She scored 79/100. So we left it on that note for the night. I showed her the many loving messages that I got on my phone for her - from Barbs, Cory, Mags, etc. Mama smsed all the way from Israel to say that Gillian will always be uppermost in her prayers. Uncle Paul said 50 for every subject she passes. Gillian said gleefully, 50 what? Dollars of course! Both of us were touched by Aunty Pam's message telling us that she would say the rosary with Gabriel for Gillian that night and send her baby angel Paul to watch over her. I think so too - that baby angel Paul must have been right there.

This morning, she went for her Maths paper. It should be about by now over as I write. I am keeping my fingers crossed. The results will be out on Nov 22 - and we will be in Kyoto then. We will get them from her school when we return.

Strange sleep habits

Miss Mu-mu aka Caitlin, is one weird kid. She reminds me of Christina Ricci in the Addams Family sometimes.

The other day KH went in to check on the girls in the night after they'd all gone to sleep and to his horror, found Cait sleeping with her eyes and her mouth taped SHUT with masking tape! He whisked off the tape immediately of course. When we asked her about it the next morning, she just said she did it because she liked it. When I probed further, she reluctantly revealed the reason: she didn't like to snore in her sleep. But, I told her, every one snores sometimes - its okay to snore. Even her venerable mama, I added, ruthlessly decimating my mother's reputation, snores like a freight train. Cait nodded but said she still didn't like the idea of snoring or talking in her sleep. Either way, I told her, she must not tape her mouth and eyes again - it was dangerous.

Then again the other night, she fell asleep on the living room couch so KH carried her up to her bed. When he put her down, he felt something hard beneath the pillow. It was not one object but three! A picture of the Virgin Mary, a small framed picture of St Michael slaying the dragon, and of course, a rosary. Perplexed, we asked her why she had so many religious objects beneath her pillow.

She said she got scared after I told vampire stories. Well, I don't remember telling her any vampire stories recently (I say 'recently' because I admit to enjoying telling my round-eyed crew about the old pontianak and orang minyak legends - I think its a part of their cultural heritage, but that's another story altogether!). She said the pictures were there as religious 'protection'. Yes but why THREE? A rosary would have been sufficient devil-repellent I thought. But she told me confidently: three better than one! I see.

I let her keep them under her pillow.

Retirement moolah

With all the recent noise about retirement funds etc and the fear that our CPF would run dry, I decided to see how poorly off I would be at the age of 60 and whether I would have enough moolah to last till I am 80. So I used the CPF calculator - pretty detailed - it included mortgage payments, projected expenditure (down to haircuts and facials!!), savings and investments etc.

You're basically supposed to fill in the blanks - to the best of your knowledge but try not to cheat - and the programme will do the rest. So I did - put in everything, down to my $74 Shunji Matsuo haircuts. And ta-dah! I can afford to have monthly payouts of $800 from the age of 60 to the age of 80 - with a surplus of $200k + too! Woohoo!

That answers my question about whether I would have mad money to spend or not when I'm older, freer and crazier.

And this is a conservative estimate because it assumes that I am working half-time on this sort of salary until retirement at 60 (with yearly increments of 3%), it assumes that I alone will be paying off a mortgage of $384,000 on my home (which I am not!), it does NOT include property asset value (heh, like my house!)and it assumes NO other investment plan etc, just good ol-fashioned savings accounts, saving conservatively at $300 a month with an interest rate of 1%.

So all things considered, not bad at all. I think one can live - frugally - on $800 a month. As mom observed a tad wistfully - when you reach that age, you don't really think of enjoying expensive steaks anymore (bo geh - no teeth!) so you settle for porridge. I think that's the way it will be.

Growing old mom's way

My sister called me from KL, puzzled: Eh, where did mom go?

She, like me, got an SMS this morning that said goodbye in mom's usual jaunty/abrupt way which left her puzzled. Mine (sent at 6.40am this morning) read: Hi boarding plane now take care of yourselves and the children say goodbye to them for me keep an eye on your father. Tense free and punctuation free.

Mom, I informed my clueless sister, is off to Israel. Didn't she tell you?

I last saw mom on Saturday evening and we said our goodbyes then. I know she's going to have a good trip filled with holiness! With Father Johnson at the helm of the group of pilgrims, it will surely be so!

She's off to 14 days in Egypt, Israel and Jordan, covering the major sights from the Sphinx and the pyramids, to the stony hills of Mt Sinai, the mud from the Dead Sea (she's looking forward to slathering mud all over herself!) to the lush countryside of the Beatitudes, and the pink stone palaces of Petra.

My mom is one senior citizen globetrotter who can't keep still. When we parted ways on Saturday, she was still considering if she should go with me and my brood to Japan, hesitating only because she does not want to impose. As if she will. She's no lame duck, but an experienced traveller who is game for anything, does not need mollycoddling and will be the first to offer help/support than expect to be supported!

I've received confirmation from JTB that I can change my room reservation in Kyoto to a triple room to accomodate her (a good thing because Kyoto is totally, solidly, absolutely booked out for the autumn-leaf season). A check with Northwest also shows available seats. The rest of the accomodation has no problems too. So all that is left is for her to say yes and I will do the rest!

Mom has been all over the place and her lifestyle now is what I wish for myself when I get to be her age. She's internet savvy, travels widely, holds a good job that pays decently, she is financially independent, her mind is alert, barring the aches and pains, she is healthy. Her only vice is an obsession with K-dramas! So with the recent discussion on CPF changes and the proposed annuity, I do wonder if I would be able to achieve this.

Mom's lifestyle is also partly possible because her medical needs are taken care of. As a pensioner, state-subsidised medical care is available. I think for anyone over the age of 60, medical care and the funds needed for this, would be a major concern. But with the pension scheme scrapped, most of us would need to find our own way for medical funding in our old age. I've got my Incomeshield plan already, so I guess I'm covered for the biggies should I be (touch wood!) hospitalised. And I am taking care right now, to seek medical help and referrals from the polyclinic and not the usual GP-private patient route. I think that would be unsustainable in the long run. So for my hypertension management, I see the specialist in SGH, but as a subsidised patient since I was referred by the polyclinic. So its important to manage expectations here.

The second issue for me would be savings and investments. Which I have none of at the moment! I know its important, I do try to plan for it, but I get sidetracked very easily - witness the Japan trip! Okay, okay I know... willpower and a structured plan! I will make this a 2008 resolution!

I don't disagree with the annuity scheme. I think it's not a bad idea, and while some can complain about the lack of a state-funded pension or enviously eye the generous schemes of the Northern European states, lets face facts: this is Singapore, with pragmatic leaders, whose style has always been a co-operative, shared care approach etc. So unless you want to leave the country and settle elsewhere, better get used to the pragmatism that embodies their policies.

So if the annuity scheme will help take care of my day-to-day until I'm 85, I'm okay. I'm just wondering if I would have any extra left for 'mad money' - used for travels, fun, etc. I just can't see myself enjoying old age if I am counting the pennies and surviving on $300 a month!

So where else to get money from? Well... I guess there's always the house....

Or if Singapore becomes too expensive to live in, move next door! Buy a small house in a remote kampong, rear chickens, grow veggies and eat lots of ikan bilis!

Or don't live so long!