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.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Monday, December 24, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)