This is a child who can bathe herself, brush her own teeth, apply her own moisturizer, wear her own shoes, wear her own clothes, buy her own things and quite sensibly carry on a lucid conversation with an adult.
But she can't identify numbers, can't quite identify alphabets and she certainly cannot write them. Read? Not one word!
The day has come: The blog is fulfilling its mission.
My first-born is reading this blog in earnest.
On more than one occasion I saw him going through the archives, reading carefully about our family history, chuckling here and there.
The first time I saw him, I snapped: Don’t read my blog lah!
It’s a knee-jerk reaction. I cannot take it when I see people reading my work in front of me. I don’t have issues if they read it when I’m not around. But not in front of me.
Right after I shoo him away, I realize how stupid I sounded. The blog lives for the kids and family.
I see him reading, and I know that somewhere down the line Jo and Lu will, too, read in earnest.
And now, as the most important audience for the blog starts to view it, I worry:
• Will any of them take offence with what I wrote before? • Will any of them imagine any sort of favouritism from the words I use or the amount of blog coverage each gets? • How much of their childhood memories would be coloured by my writings? • Would they mind that so many strangers share these memories? • And how long can I go on capturing their lives before these main characters in my stories shy away from the Internet limelight?
The past week has been all about seeing people we see only once a year.
This time, I try to find out a little bit more about the relatives. It doesn’t have to be a case of hi-bye, or dang why do I have to hang around with these people I don’t even know.
I accord more time and effort into talking to newsmakers than my own relatives. I should be ashamed.
So. The most interesting discovery this year is that one of the kid’s cousins, Marcus (I am still not sure how he is related to me), is a yoyo champ who went hungry to scrimp $247 from his pocket money, to buy a top-of-the-line spinner.
I hardly know him but I talk to him, like I’m doing an interview, and the boy whom I had thought of as a quiet introvert responds like I have never seen him. He loves going on and on about the yoyo.
As I start digging in deeper, the relatives suddenly start making a bit more sense. If that makes sense.
Like flowers, the kids unfurl new petals every now and then, blooming into the adults they will soon become.
This Chinese New Year, Jo starts labelling her red packets.
What does this say about her personality?
We give the kids their first angbaos on Day One.
Day and Lu give me their packets for safekeeping. Jo asks me for a pen before writing her name on it, big as can be so no one can mistake that it’s anyone else’s but hers.
She does this for every single angbao she receives throughout the day and watches my bag like a hawk.
The one time she thinks I accidentally gave out her angbao to another child (a mistake I am likely to make because inside the bag is a war zone), she is beside herself.
She is certainly more careful than her easy-going mother, who would be happy just taking out all the money received at the end of the day and dividing it by three.
In fact I think the way I am compels her to be what she is becoming, because she thinks she must cover mummy’s back (like how she makes it a point to manually lock the car after we leave it because I never do. Lock the car, I mean).
For sure, if there was anything which needed safekeeping, I’d entrust it to her.
There was an article in Urban the other day on how to “detox your wardrobe”.
It seems that a quarter of women only wear 10 percent of their wardrobe contents, and the average woman has about 22 garments in her wardrobe that she will not wear but refuses to junk.
Most women, it seems, stand in front of a full wardrobe and declare that they have nothing to wear.
I assume the same stands for shoes and bags.
Which made me think about my own wardrobe and wonder again: Why haven’t I ever had that problem?
I’ve never stood in front of the wardrobe and said I had nothing to wear. I mean, how can there be nothing to wear?
Why didn’t I ever become the shopaholic? Why didn’t I ever care about how I looked? Why wasn’t I ever turned on by pretty clothes and bling and bags and shoes?
It’s not that I don’t like beauty. I do. I appreciate a beautiful dress or a pair of shoes on a magazine page, or somebody wearing it. I just never think about it for myself.
I think that in this aspect, I’m just lazy. You know what they say, about how there are no ugly women, only lazy ones - like me.
Anyway. It’s good to stock take. I only ever think about fashion during Chinese New Year.
CLOTHES COUNT
* KK's clothes on the left, mine on the right
Too few to throw. KK and I share one wardrobe. His shirts, which I arrange by colour because I like the way it looks, outnumber my dresses and shirts. In this picture, he’s already removed two bags worth of clothes.
My clothes include a shirt which a friend gave to me in secondary school (!), nursing wear and hand-me-downs. Urgh.
I buy a couple of tights and shirts, chiefly because this year I need to cover up loads of marks and rashes.
SHOE COUNT
Definitely too few to throw! These are my entire collection of lovely shoes, which I will wear until there are holes in them.
* The daily pink slipper * The red shoes which are a present from dear Priscilla and which I wear whenever I need to meet people, I hope it lasts for years more * The track shoes for exercise (not pictured) * The black knee-high boots which were a few hundred bucks but which are comfortable as socks and which are my sole pair of formal / gig / concert shoes
And, my nod to Chinese New Year shopping! A new pair of high heels.
Which, for the record, are cheaper than EACH of the shiny pair of shoes the girls made me buy them.
I actually kind of hope the girls take a little more care with their appearance than I do. I’m terrifically boring, fashion-wise. But I can't be the one to inspire them for sure.
Jo catches sight of the Korean hotties and, with a tiny smile, dimple twinkling, comes up with this: Oh wow, I like them. They’re so handsome.
I froze. What does SHE know about handsome?
This being the first time she lets go with the H word, I can’t let it go.
I test her. In the process, Day and Lu get so excited they join in too. (Everyone has an opinion)
Is this guy handsome?
Day: Yes Jo: Yes Lu: Yes
What about this one?
Day: No Jo: No Lu: No
And this?
Day: Yes Jo: Yes Lu: Yes
A few more random names thrown into the mix (they don’t’ agree on all though) and then I think I sort of get it.
Specs automatically cut off the handsome factor. Teachers and playful uncles they like are automatically in, but old men (like grandfathers) are definitely out.
When I’m in the mood – which doesn’t happen often maybe once a week or less – I play the piano for the girls to dance.
Or maybe they dance to their own tune and I get so inspired looking at them I play.
Lulu holds an imaginary guitar (a tennis racket), humming along to the melody, while Jo follows a fixed set of steps which she choreographs in her head.
Once I made up a musical picture, where they were two little birds hatching out of their shells, but they got so terrified at the subsequent passage where the dog hunts the birds down (it wouldn't be exciting otherwise) they never wanted to dance to that tune again.
Now when I play a bit of the dog tune, both girls shriek and cling to me on the piano bench.
A gratuitous dancing vid, thanks to Day who tried very hard to follow the two imps with the camera.
There is a particular shelf in their wardrobe which opens a gateway to sartorial splendor.
It’s where I chuck all the shiny sequined poufy dresses, skirts and costumes from a few year’s worth of school concerts and which the girls raid once every few days.
They change, they pull out socks, hats, scarves, bags, jewellery and sometimes even shoes which I draw the line at.
* Dresses, jackets, baby mittens
* Lu's idea of rainy-day fashion
They then mince over my wardrobe and open the door, so they can preen and primp in front of the only mirror in the entire house (apart from bathrooms), and they fantasize.
Jo is particularly set on Twinning with Lu. She insists that they both wear similar styles. Not colour, but styles. So it must be poufy skirts for both, or long-sleeved shirts for both, or pants for both.
* Flowered shirts and hats
Sometimes, if Jo bathes first, she pops her head into the bathroom where Lu is bathing to ask: What are you going to wear, Lulu?
Of course Lu doesn’t know or care (Lu isn’t interested in matching). Then Jo stays naked until Lu is done so she can be sure that they match.
Milly and Molly have their own cardboard house painted by the girls which is falling apart because it's held up with scotch tape.
* Jody's Milly on the left, and Lulu's Molly (in pink) on the right, in their home
The girls put Milly and Molly to bed, feed them, read them stories, give them medicine when they're sick, ride with them on the tricycle, change their underwear.
Occasionally, the dogs (Rosy and Max) or some other calefare soft toy makes an appearance. But it's always been about Milly and Molly.
The girls surround themselves with imaginary friends and teachers. A popular character is a naughty little boy called Ethan whom they are perpetually scolding.
"Ethan. why did you pee in class? Ethan, why did you spill your food? Ethan, stop talking!"
Today the girls decide to go to different schools. Lu in the Bedroom School where she mostly covers herself with a blanket and plays sick.
Jo in the Balcony School.
But school itself is not important. Jo just wants to play fetching Lu to and from school on the tricycle (it's still standing!) or on her back, and Lu just wants to play sick.
Once they reach "home", they go to sleep before waking up again. I think they do the whole cycle 15 times. Or more. They really love going to school when it's not real.
(On an off-note, Jo is incredibly strong and she can effortlessly carry Lulu OR David. She reminds me of those amazing strong Nepalese girls who carry their siblings in a basket secured with nothing but a strap around their foreheads. Jo loves sweeping Lu off her feet.)
When Day is done with his homework, he joins the girls and in playing teacher in the Balcony School, actually manages to teach Jo how to do multiplication.
When it comes to flights of imagination, the girls beat the boy hands down.
Jo and Lu indulge in a lot of play-acting which Day really has no interest in unless there is an engineering component, like having to make a door. Or curtains.
Playing house is a big, huge, deal.
Tonight they set up their little pink tent and decide to sleep in it.
Lu: Jo, you be the chae-chae and I’ll be the baby OK?
There’s a lot of fake drinking of milk from milk bottles (something which I suspect they crave because it’s something they never got to do), opening of windows, arranging beds.
For a brief moment, though, reality sets in.
Jo: Lulu, switch on the light. It’s night time. Lu: (going through the motion) Jo: Lulu, the light is not on. Lu: Jody, we are PRETENDING.
* Jo later runs out for a torch. That's what she meant. Just in case she reads this next time and thinks I made her look stupid.
There is no way of telling, looking at the girls now, whether they are on the cusp of forging a beautiful lifelong sisterly bond or whether this is the beginning of uncomfortable competitive conflict.
There is competition aplenty. But there’s also lots of loving.
These days, of all the people they encounter in the day, Jo spends the most time with Lu and vice versa. (Although if you asked Lu if she loved Jo she would retort NO.)
Most afternoons, Day and I are off going our separate ways doing our own thing (homework and housework respectively) while the girls do their own thing.
They play so well together, every time I try to join in they look at me with a twinge of disdain, like I’m the amateur bumbling into their well-rehearsed play. They momentarily pause their games to wander: What are we going to do with Mummy, now that she’s here?
Here’s a record of their games, so we can remember when they eventually stop.
BATHTIME GAMES
They bathe together. They spend a long time in there, 15-20 minutes. They soap each other, scrub each other, giggle at their own slippery bodies.
There is a lot of water, scooping, squeezing into pails and a whole lot of pretending.
Today they make a foot spa with two chairs, a pail and a ton of body wash.
KK's 40 and a light has gone on in his head: He wants to re-live his Olympian days.
First it was the cycling to and from work which has been going on for six months, and is still going strong, rain or shine.
Then suddenly, as we approached the end of the year, he announced that he is going to start windsurfing, a sport which he had stopped oh, maybe seven or more years ago to replace with golf.
I ask: “Are you not going to golf anymore?”
He says: “No. I’m still going to. When it’s off-season I can play golf.”
Both windsurfing and golf are peopled with what they called widows. Once I was a windsurfing widow who lamented my boyfriend’s utter lack of attention, and then a golf widow.
These days, 10 years three kids in, I am of universal benevolence and as long as he is happy, I am happy. (in other words, I don’t care!)
Honestly. I like that he is going to windsurf again. I have always thought of my husband as a windsurfer than a golfer.
Operation Windsurf is short and sharp. When KK makes up his mind, he doesn’t stop to consider options. In two days, he installs a roof rack on the car and gets his hands on a board, a mast, a boom, a sail, surf shorts, harness, life jacket.
My mother and brother Teng see the equipment on the car and they are slightly numb with surprise, that a golfing father of three young kids has so much time.
Teng, possibly thinking that windsurfing is life-threatening, asks: Did he buy insurance?
D-day arrives.
Saturday, a blistering hot day, our whole family drive out to a little corner of Changi Beach which is peopled with windsurfers and kitesurfers.
Me and the kids spread out our picnic mat under the coconut trees – thank God for good shade - and tear into our usual ham-cheese-cucumber combo.
KK suits up and waits.
Once the wind starts blowing away our hats and food, he steps onto the board and sails off. To my great surprise, he doesn’t fall once.
Day is curious, for a while.
The girls do not pay attention. After a while, we go back to making sand pits and hills, burying odds and ends (slippers and food wrappers) all over the beach and taking photos. Which is what we end up doing for over three hours.
The man doesn’t stop. While is mildly disconcerting because the wind is gusting and for a 40-year-old to be planning up and down, exercising parts of his body he hasn’t used in seven years on a brand new set of equipment, is not kosher.
When I catch him, I bluster: If you drop the sail out there, there’s no boat to tow you back! What am I going to do? And you’re killing yourself! I just wrote a story on exercising and the worst thing to do is to punish yourself until you are black and blue! You should build up slowly! Gradually! Let’s go home NOW!
Deaf ears. Back he goes. It’s too damn thrilling.
* KK manages a gybe (at about 15 seconds)
Everytime I see people windsurfing, I wish I could do it. The thrill is something else. But the pain and the work and the skill required (yes I tried) is ridiculous.
We ask the kids, all tired out in the car, if they want to windsurf. All three instantaneously shout NO! Pui.
Aftermath: For the rest of Saturday, he hobbles, his arms and back and abdomen hurt, his face and arms are brick-red, he’s wasted! But he’s OK on Sunday.
Now we need to find a way to make the entire beach experience a better one for the waiting family. A tent, perhaps. Board games. The Tab.
In what must have been one of the most heart-stopping moments of 2011, Day and Jo simply walked out of the house one night past 9pm and disappeared.
Why?
Day had misplaced KK’s lighter (for aromatherapy, not cigarettes). KK was mightily pissed off and told him to get a new one, thinking that even if the boy went, it would be on his own, to the nearby petrol station.
Instead, once again, the door clicked quietly, so quietly both I and KK, locked at our desks mired in work, did not hear anything.
Until a good 15 minutes later when I suddenly realized that only Lu had been coming to me for service.
KK, still miffed, went downstairs to the petrol station fully expecting both to be there.
He came up a while later – Are the kids back?
I said no. He said, They’re not there. Where are they?
He lurched back out into the dark night, heart in his mouth, scouring the pavements on both sides of the busy road.
In his absence, I did the laundry with a pounding heart. I asked Lu: Why didn’t you go? Because theoretically, she could have and we would have been none the wiser.
She said, all unconcerned and wondering at the fuss – I’m too small, lah.
It took another 10 minutes. At about 10, the door banged open and the two burst in.
Where did you go, I asked calmly.
They had gone to the nearby shopping centre, which entails crossing several small roads and one big one with a traffic light, to look for a lighter after trying the petrol station. They found it. Along with the lighter, Day bought Jo a tube of sweets from 7-11.
KK strides in. All he said was this – An ambulance passed by, sirens wailing, and I ran after it. I thought that was it.
He tears into Day, particularly since the boy was not even holding Jo’s hand when KK saw them.
Day protests. Jo had insisted on following him. He's walked the route many times.
But the fact remains that they had gone out without telling us, it was late at night and Jo went along.
Both kids are sent to bed in tears.
Why am I recounting this?
Because a few weeks after, Lu walks out of the house, my freaking three-year-old. She opened the door, put on her shoes, walked down three flights of steps, strode across the carpark and by the time I saw her she was almost out the big estate gate, about 10 metres from the main road.
I shriek and scream at her from the balcony to stop.
She said she wanted to pick flowers from the roadside to decorate the house.
Today, she asks me nicely for permission and I decide to bring her. “I want to buy something from the petrol station,” she says, holding Jo’s coin box which holds about two dollars worth of ten-cent coins.
She picks out purple grape sweets, makes me carry her up to the counter so she can pay the auntie, says ‘thank you’ and walks back home with me so she can dole out the sweets to her siblings.
