The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched - they must be felt with the heart. – Helen Keller

Sometimes I feel like the old mother.  I feel like the old mother because of the need to impart as much wisdom as possible to the children before they leave home ( which is still many light years from now).  I mean, Daniel, the oldest turns nine this year.   He will probably be home for another good ten years before going out on his own.

Anyway, because I felt like the old mother the other day I wanted to teach my children about having choices in life.  Many of us ( especially adults ) are not aware that we, as humans, have the highest capacity to make choices daily in our lives no matter what we tell ourselves.  

Often we say, “ I don’t have a choice.”  But we do. 

I picked an important topic to discuss with the boys; relationships. 

So, last night I started rambling like the old mother.  On three separate occasions the old mother gave the same exact scenario to each child. 

“Someday you will get married, right?” The old mother asked. 

Daniel said yes, and James doesn’t know.  Brian said that I am his girlfriend and he wants to marry me. 

“What if, your girlfriend is a pretty girl, but she always makes you cry?” The old mother continued.  “She doesn’t laugh at your jokes and doesn’t listen to you speak? What do you do?”

“What if you meet another girl who is not so pretty, but she always makes you laugh, and listens to you, and talks to you, and hears you sing?” the old mother said.

I am supposedly, to be the old mother who knows all the secrets of the universe.  Naturally, the old mother provided the boys with the ‘correct’ answer. 

“You need to say good bye to the pretty girl who is always making you cry,” the old mother replied.  “And even so, what if the other nice girl is not so pretty? She makes you laugh and listens to you sing.  That is the most important thing.  And you must listen to her too.  There are after all so many more other girls in the great big ocean besides the pretty girl.”

“We all will grow old one day.  And we won’t always look so pretty.” 

 “Do you understand what I am trying to say?” the old mother asked each of the boys in turn. 

Daniel and James said they understood but Brian ( who is only three years old) was already distracted with his pillow.  

The old mother felt like a great communicator who had successfully imparted a deep secret to the next generation.  The old mother felt her chest burst with great pride at the wisdom passed on to her sons ( except for Brian of course.)

Now came the litmus test.

“Now, who would you choose to marry?  The pretty girl or the not so pretty one?” I asked

“The pretty one,” Daniel replied.

“The pretty one,” James replied.

“The not so pretty one,” Brian replied.

It looks as if the old mother must try harder to get the message across.   

And the old mother learnt the greatest lesson of all; never pre-judge any of the children, especially Brian.  He seemed to have learnt the lesson better than his brothers.

Brian.  He is my three and a half year old toddler.  The moment he was born, he opened his eyes to take in everything around him.   There was a sense of excitement and adventure in this baby when I held him in my arms for the first time.  I inspected him carefully and counted his tiny fingers and toes over and over again.  I scarcely believed it.  In my arms lay a tiny miracle.

He was perfect and the prettiest amongst our three boys.

He has never spent the night away from me since the day of his birth.  This was the child I spent long afternoons with.  We always looked forward to the thrilling game of hide and seek every afternoon.  He would ask me where to hide first, and then tell me to close my eyes and count to ten.   I would count and promise not to peep.  When time was up, I could hear his muffled laughter under the bed covers. I pretend not to hear and search the other less obvious places.  The suspense too great for the little boy, he would fling the covers off and cry out ‘Surprise!’ while fixating the most enormous smile on his face.    

And then, we would play the game all over again with him hiding in the same place.  He never got tired of this game, and neither did I.  It was enough for me to see his smile. 

Most afternoons while our room bathed in a warm orange glow, you would hear amateur cronies in action. Our must sing list comprised of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and London Bridge.  Thereafter the songs that followed were very much depending on our moods. Some we made up along the way, others we affix our own lyrics to their original tune.  Occasionally you could hear a singular off pitch voice entertaining an audience of one followed by thunderous applause.

Other afternoons, I would randomly pick up a book to read aloud to him.  It could be a book about anything and everything.  He wasn’t fussy and didn’t seem to mind.  It could be a book written for children, like Dr Seuss or a pictorial book, like a picture dictionary or a serious magazine like the National Geographic.

Usually after an activity, we would have quiet moments together just before he settled down for a nap.  I enjoy nothing more than to lie down beside him, sniffing his hair and listening to his rhythmic breathing.  

And always, I would take this opportunity to tell him how much I love him. 

In turns I asked the following questions; Who is mummy’s favourite boy? Who is mummy’s cutie pie? Who is mummy’s handsome boy? Who is mummy’s laughing boy?  

In the beginning, he didn’t know what to answer.  To each question, I would reply on behalf of him; Brian. 

As he got used to me asking the questions, he would give me the correct answer without any hesitation.

Then, comfortable silence would envelope us like a snug blanket, and he would fall into deep slumber.

I love this boy for his enthusiasm and spontaneity.  As an adult who has seen too much of the cynical side of our world, I needed his positive energy to refresh my being.

I will always treasure those precious afternoons with this little one. 

Then it happened. For a few months last year, he saw my belly growing bigger and bigger.  One fine day mummy disappeared for a day and a night.  When she came back, she brought home a new baby with her.    

Suddenly our afternoon fiestas came to an abrupt end.  Brian and I no longer had the afternoons to ourselves.  I shifted my focus to the newborn who seemed to be needing my attention every moment of the day.

Change is never simple.  Brian was a sweet boy. Overnight he turned aggressive, using strong language his mother would never approve of.  He was constantly shouting at the top of his voice.    

I attributed these behavioral changes to the influence of his two elder brothers.

He adapted by tagging along more with Daniel and James.  He played the games that they played and fought the fights that they fought too.  Sometimes there was fair play, other times there was not. 

To my dismay he replaced our afternoons together by watching television.  He has a new friend on the block nowadays.  His name is Ben Tennyson.

These circumstances brought about many changes in Brian.  Nonetheless, one sure thing he has not lost is his sense of excitement and adventure.

Change was inevitable when the baby came along.  It seemed to me that Brian had adapted well albeit his acquired bad behaviour. 

One afternoon when baby Simon at two months of age was more settled, I had the chance to spend some precious personal noon time with Brian.  Just like the old times. 

We sang and we read but somehow for reasons unknown, we did not play hide and seek that day.   Perhaps he has grown a little and found the game to be no longer appealing.

I did not forget to ask my routine questions.

“Who is mummy’s favourite boy?” I asked. 

There was a moment of silence before he replied.  He seemed to be thinking really hard.

“Simon,” he said.   

His answer gave me a glimpse of his soul.  It revealed his deepest boyish thoughts.  Oh, how distressing it must be for a child to feel dethroned! 

Does he not know that he will always be mummy’s favourite?

“Brian,” I replied. “ Brian is mummy’s favourite boy.”

I now spend more time with him whenever I can.

By the way, he is still the prettiest amongst the four brothers.   

My spouse took a day off work and I took a day out of the house.  We decided to watch the highly acclaimed show Avatar on a weekday minus the children.  The truth was I had two free tickets that were going to expire soon.  That led to this day out.
 
Movie watching is a complicating affair these days.   I was thrown aback by the vast choices that were made available, ensuing from the fact that I haven’t been to a cinema for quite a while now.  Once upon a time, only regular class existed.  Now there is premiere, and gold class.  I have never watched at gold before, thus I will have to use my imagination to justify the services provided having been charged such an exorbitant sum.  After all, a gold ticket is able to pay for our water bill for three months.   

Perhaps I will be seated in a seat of gold, along with a tray of grapes freshly flown from Australia.   Thrown into this deal will be my very own butler at my beck and call, serving a bottle of wine of my choice.  But wait a minute, who would have time to eat anything while busy watching aliens and the sky people fighting, I thought.  What more in darkness, I reasoned further. The butler disappeared from the realm of my imagination. 

Perhaps I will be blasted with more speakers and highly sophisticated sound systems to make my experiences more real.  Or just maybe, I might be able to lie back flat on my back and watched a movie in comfort before falling asleep.  I had always wanted to do that.   In the end, I deduced it would be simpler to just ask those who have watched at gold.  It seemed a lot easier than firing up my imagination. 

Then, there are different fares for different categories; ladies’ day, students and senior citizens, shows screening before and after 6pm, public holidays etc.  To add to this array of choices, one can choose to watch 3D or 2D, and book a regular or twin seats. 

It took me a good 20 minutes to read and digest all of this information.  By the time I finished reading, I had forgotten why I was reading.  I told my spouse to get the job done.  Just redeem the tickets dear, I told him. 

He tried to redeem our tickets for the movie of our choice, Avatar but to no avail.  Our tickets were only valid at one cinema and that particular cinema was not screening Avatar 2D at premiere class for our date of choice.  Never mind if you didn’t get that.  It’s suffice to know that our tickets were useless in exchange for Avatar on the second of February. 

Anyway, we decided that we should watch Avatar even if we had to pay an arm and a leg for it.   Fortunately we didn’t have to.  We paid a discounted price for a weekday before noon movie, which is a fraction of our monthly water bill.  It’s good to know that we will still have water running through our taps in the next two months.

Let me just regress a bit here.  Before we left for the highly anticipated Avatar in the morning, I thawed enough frozen breast milk to last baby twelve hours. Daniel was at school, and simple arithmetic tells me that there would be three little boys left at home.  But when James and Brian come together to stage a protest against mummy going out, that would be an equivalent to a mob of terror. 

Amidst the chaos that morning, someone was quick witted enough to entice them upstairs with a bath in the tub.  As quick as lightning I bolted for the door and out of the gate.  There I stood waiting to be picked up.  And off we started our little adventure.

The atmosphere in the vehicle was relaxed.  We had begun the day on the right foot.  None of the boys bawled and cried when we left the house.  The sun was shining brightly.  It was going to be a great day.

I came to appreciate holding a conversation without the boys interrupting me every two minutes.  I talked to my heart’s contend that day.  I spoke of all topics and all issues, anything that came into my mind and heart.  I spoke of matters big and small, of possibilities and impossibilities, and of trivialities and importance.  I spoke of my joys and my sorrows, of my hopes and my disappointments.  It was as if someone had put me up in an oratory corner and it was my turn to speak.

I was unafraid to voice my thoughts, and didn’t have to worry about sounding idiotic.  I talked and finally, someone took the time to listen.  It felt wonderful that I didn’t have to compete with the boys or the TV to get my spouse’s full attention.  I am grateful that my spouse is a good listener.  He would actually let me finish my sentences.

If you would like to so something nice for your spouse today, here is a simple suggestion.  Be a good listener.  Don’t interrupt.  Just listen and nod your head.  Surely this will boost your relationship. 

Half way through our journey, I looked at my spouse and said, “This is great.  I can’t remember when we are in such close proximity.”  I looked across him from my passenger seat. Occasionally he talked and I listened.  But mostly, I spoke.  The best part was that he didn’t seem to mind.

We arrived in good time before the movie started.  We had plenty of time to buy junk food before proceeding inside.  And there, we were transported to another world.  The Avatar experience was made real to us with its clever computer graphics and blasting sound systems.  There was the dominating Sigourney Weaver with her signature cigarette in hand.  And of course, there were plenty of gore, blood and killings.  That and a hero plus a love story as well.   It looked as if James Cameron had every aspect wrapped up nicely in a hundred and sixty minutes.

By the time I walked out of that cinema, my over stimulated mind had convinced me that I would see an alien Na’vi strutting in the shopping complex.

I had a great time that day out with my spouse.  We were finally on a real date after a long while.  But for me, the magic of that day was not the movie Avatar.  The magic was weaved when we were deeply engaged in conversations with each other, and when  I was given the space to be totally myself in his presence that day.           

Thanks honey, for a great time! 

Cheers ! and good day to you.

Mother’s milk, time-tested for millions of years, is the best nutrient for babies because it is nature’s perfect food.  - Robert S. Mendelsohn

All the printed materials I have read about breastfeeding  revealed the secrets of successful breastfeeding. There seemed to be some absolutely important tips to adhere to.  I kept coming across the phrase ‘demand feeding’. Simply translated this means feeding the baby as and when he cries for as long as he wants to. 

Then there is the ‘no dummy’ phrase.  This means do not give the dummy even when your baby cries after being breastfed for two hours straight.  You risk a reduction in your milk supply. Reading further on, I discovered the ‘ no supplementary formula’ phrase.  This means throwing away all the pre bought formula milk into the bin and be prepared to have nights of short naps instead of deep slumbers.  Formula will also greatly compromise the mother’s milk supply.       

The next tip is my absolute favourite.  It read ‘relax as much as you can.’  This was my big escape from doing mundane jobs around the house. Apparently breastfeeding mums need a lot of rest and sleep, and housework is the main culprit for causing stress and tiredness.  I eagerly bookmarked that page to highlight to my spouse.

I had successfully breastfed Brian, my third child for nine months.  That was three years ago, and I was three years younger then.  I thought it would be a good idea to give myself a refresher course.
  
I absorbed everything with great reverence, memorising every single detail. I read everything about breastfeeding before the birth of my child.  I wanted to be ready when the baby comes.  

The baby came on time.  He wriggled and squirmed in my arms despite being wrapped tightly.  I nervously held him against me. My first thought was how warm he felt. I was a mum for the fourth time but that fact does nothing to quell the tight knot in my stomach.   I looked at him and smiled.  He had not had any milk since his birth for more than half a day now.  But he was still a happy baby.  He didn’t start yelling yet.  And I let him be, being tired out after a hard labour.  It was his father’s insistence that prompted me to feed him even in his happy mood.  He didn’t want his boy to die of starvation, he said.  What about me after a long labour, I sulked.  Well, that’s another story altogether.     

I pushed the nipple as far in as possible into the baby’s mouth.  I’ve had enough experience to know the pains of sore and cracked nipples.   The best way around these problems was to prevent them.  Also at hand, I had ready a tube of nursing cream. 

At first the baby hesitated, and then, he began to suckle as if he had done it countless of times. That was the beginning of our breastfeeding affair.

Like everything in life, the journey was hardest in the beginning.  It was the lack of sleep and the long nights of nursing that left me fatigued and emotionally stressed. 

It would take all my determination and will power and every single morsel of energy in my overdrawn fatigue being to offer the baby the breast every time he cried. 

I am going to quit today, I tell myself.  I was constantly tempted to give in and give up.  When I was at the end of the rope, I would pick up a book explaining the benefits of breast milk.  I imagined all the wonderful colostrum and antibodies and DHA he was getting from the breast milk.  This was a good time to try the visualisation techniques I learnt from an Anthony Robbins seminar a long time ago. 

When the kind nurses were wheeling me out of the labour ward a poster of a woman breastfeeding her child caught my attention.  It shouted, Breast is best!  Every time I am about to give up, I see the poster flash in front of me, Breast is best!  Darn!  That poster won’t let me quit. 

Surely this madness of night shifts is momentary, I told myself.  I focused so much on my lack of sleep I forgot to be thankful for what I had. I looked into the mirror one morning after six weeks of nursing to discover a shadow on my right breast. Thinking nothing of this, I buttoned up my shirt.

Casually I asked my doctor regarding this when I went for my post natal checkup.  He took one look and said not good.  He told me I had a breast infection.

 “I will give you a course of strong antibiotics,” he said. “It should cure the infection.”  I watched the clock like a hawk, never missing my dose of antibiotics. 

It’s perfectly safe to continue breastfeeding, he told me.  I did just that but I didn’t complain about the long nights as much as I did before.  Instead, I kept looking at my breast to see if it had healed.   

The breast did heal just as the doctor said it would.  I loosened up a little and sighed a lot less regarding my topsy turvy sleeping schedule.  The baby didn’t seem to mind the taste of the medication as he continued to nurse perfectly well. 

Three weeks after the infection incident, I noticed again some abnormality in my right breast.  Not again, I said nervously.  I went to my doctor once again.  He checked and told me there were blocked milk ducts this time around. 

These cleared too after taking medication.  I drew in a long breath and exhaled with great relief when the breast was no longer blocked.  I would have to go under the knife if the blockage persisted.  

Despite these blockages, I continued nursing and stopped complaining altogether about everything else. 

In between these two major incidents I was plagued with runny and blocked nose, fevers, body aches and headaches.  My school going boys kept bringing these different strains of flu virus home besides their homework. 
  
Once, I nursed the baby while my body was burning up.  I was running a fever of thirty nine degrees Celsius.  I held little Simon close to me as he nursed.  He did not fuss being in contact with his mother’s heated skin nor did he indicate any distaste for the breast milk tainted with medication.  I was happy that he was a happy baby. 

The nights did get better.  Baby Simon was two months old when he found a rhythm of his own.  Instead of waking up every hour, he would sleep for three to four hours at nights nowadays before waking up for a feed.  And that is enough for me to stay sane and be of some use to my other children.    

I functioned like a regular person once again.  I started brushing my teeth and combing my hair in the mornings.  This must be what heaven feels like, I tell myself. 

We are into our fifth month of breastfeeding now.  Both of us are more relaxed and make a great team now after what feels like endless days and nights of trying.  Some days I look at my baby and say, you are a junkie baby today.  Mummy ate junk food for lunch.  Other days I tell him, you are a vegetarian today.  And most days he is a coffee drinking baby.  Of course the best part of all these is he doesn’t mind at all what he eats and is always smiling.    

There is always plenty of time to sit and think when I nurse the baby.  Sometimes but not always, I try to uncover the one factor to successful breastfeeding.  Perhaps the prelude to all the knowledge you will ever need to know about breastfeeding is the desire.  It is the deep desire within to breastfeed your baby that will lead to successful breastfeeding. 

In the beginning, at the end of each day I felt triumphant having nursed my child.  We did it today, I would tell little Simon.  Of course, that hospital poster helped me when I was at my lowest point.  Breast is best!  Indeed it is. 

‘Let your imagination release your imprisoned possibilities.’
– Robert Schuller

It was a regular night.  The children were asleep and the adults are downstairs spending some time together. 

I was opening the day’s mail when a cheque made payable to myself dropped on my lap.  I was pleasantly surprise. Under normal circumstances, I have only bills awaiting me.  

The cheque could buy both of us comfortable seats at the cinema with leftover for popcorn as well.  I showed my spouse the modest cheque.  He wasn’t as excited as I was looking at double digit figure. 

“Where would you like me to bank in your 1.2 million dollar cheque, sir?  Your Swiss bank account?  ” I asked jokingly.

“Behave,” he replied.  “The neighbours are outside.  They might hear us.”

“Come on,” I said. “This is only for fun.”

But he would not participate in this joy ride.  Instead, he kept bringing up dreams that I had stirred up a long time but did not materialised.

I was growing increasingly incredulous by his concern of what our neighbours might think of our little drama that was taking place. 

There I was, sitting and thinking to myself that I had created only a 1.2 million dollar cheque.  Is that only how big my dream was?  Well, I could have made it more interesting with a hundred and twenty million dollar cheque! 

And my spouse is worried about what the rest of the world is thinking?  I realised immediately that we were on totally different tracks here.

Since when did we stop dreaming? It must be the day to day mundane routine that we go through that has slowly but surely built a sturdy wall between us and our dreams. 

They are thinking nothing of us, I wanted to say. 

“Look around you,” I said, laughing while looking at him and around our tiny hall.  “There is no one here.  I don’t care if I sound moronic and stupid.  It’s only you and the four walls.  And what if our neighbours can hear me?  They have no idea what I am talking about.  And even if they do, I really don’t care. ”

That was the truth.  My spouse might think me as dumb, and ignorant.  What does it matter?   It is after all, only him.  He also happens to be the man I share everything with, except my toothbrush.    

What really mattered to me was that I started talking about my dreams and wants once again after a long while.  There were endless possibilities of what we might attain once I opened my mind to them.    

That million dollar cheque is waiting for me.  

Cheers ! to you my friends and a good week ahead. 

PS  Let your mind unleash the possibilities once more.  And forget about what your neighbours might think of you.  They think of nothing.  

Recently my home is saturated with language foreign to my ears.  Some of them sound like these; Army – tricks, Flup Jack, Rig Jaws, Benten, Chau-dur, and Mong-door.

With some eavesdropping on the boys’ conversations, I discovered that these were cartoon characters made real in their world through the television.  The way their eyes lit up, and their voices up an octave as they speak about these made believe creatures, it was easy to see that television has a deep influence in their lives these days.

It was getting increasingly harder to get them to participate in other non electronic activities like painting or reading or playing board games. 

After a particular long and arduous day (for their mother at least) of TV watching, I knew that I simply had to put a stop to this madness of TV marathon.

Late into that night in the darkness of my room, as the boys lay sleeping in theirs, I asked my spouse if he had any interesting activities for the children the following day. 

He said that Daniel had been pestering him to paint the front gate. And they would do it tomorrow.  Surely, this will keep the boys busy, I thought to myself before falling asleep. 

Tomorrow came bright and sunny.  It was a perfect day for gate painting. 

The green paint came out from the store room after lying there for a year.  My spouse had wanted to paint the gate a year ago, but I protested then, saying that the boys will surely create a mess. 

Now, I would trade a regular TV watching day for any other kind of activity.  Besides, papa would be around to supervise our three incredibly energy laden boys, I consoled myself. 

Each with a brush in hand and a hat on his head, they went out eager to start work.  None asked to turn on the idiot box that morning.

My spouse was obviously not as paranoid as I was.  He let them paint the gate with minimal supervision.  In the beginning, I could hear him yelling at the boys.  By the way, this is not the best parenting skill to adopt but it is the most effective one we know of. 

I was in the house busy with the baby.  Later the yelling stopped.  And then, nothing.  What I mean is, I didn’t hear any fighting and screaming among the brothers. They must be so busy painting,  I thought. 

We had some peace and quiet for at least fifteen minutes that day.   I was getting a bit nervous because of the loud silence.

I stood at the doorway of our house and saw three little humans working hard.  Would we be charged for child labour, I thought.  And where was the responsible adult?

He was out of the sun and inside our porch submerged in his own work. 

“How can you leave them out there on their own,?” I asked quietly when inside I felt like yelling.

He has been married to the same woman for ten years and knew how to keep the peace around the house.  He kept quiet and continued about his business.

I was not about to go under the hot sun with a sleeping baby in my arms.  They seemed happy anyway with the painting and with each other. 

Brian came in first.  The good looking brush he held in his tiny hand that morning had turned into a lump of bristles.  It was not the lumpy brush that mortified me.  He had green paint on his hair, hands and legs. 

“Look at all the green paint,” I said, trying very hard to speak calmly.

“Just wash with water,” he replied.  He has played with enough water colour paint to come up with this reasoning.  

His papa yelled at him, and I yelled at his papa.

“I told you to take care of them,” I said.

He was too busy looking for his magical solution which happened to be a bottle of turpentine to listen to me yell.

Thankfully, the boy willingly let us clean off the paint.  Then, he went upstairs for a shower.      

In the meantime, James came running in and out with his paint brush.  I was busy with Brian, and papa was busy with his own business.  And James was busy with his paint brush in the house.  

Brian came downstairs looking and smelling fresh minus the paint.  I was glad that the paint came off without much fuss. But my gladness lasted only for a minute. 

When I looked round the hall, I could see smudges of green on the hall tiles.  There were no signs of great quantity of green spilt but they certainly were noticeable, patches here and there.  

Already in my mind, I had decided to clean these green patches up when the children go to bed later that day.

My spouse walked into the house later that day to get a tool from his storeroom.  The green patches caught his eye immediately.  He yelled and screamed on top of his voice. 

“Who let James in with his paint brush?” he asked. 

“Well, the adult who let them paint should be supervising them,” I replied. 

My spouse lost no time getting into action.  He rubbed the unwanted paint away with his magic potion, went to the bathroom and promptly came out with a mop and a bucketful of water and soap. 

Then he furiously mopped and clean.  Without warning, little Brian came out of nowhere and ran towards him. 

I was mortified for the second time that day.  I screamed again, asking the child to stop.  He didn’t, and ran straight into the wet tiles.  Needless to say, he fell down hard.

Amidst his cries and my screams, his papa yelled once again at me. 

“You should have just stopped him!” he said.

“I would if I could,” I screamed back. “You should have put a chair in front of the wet zone area.”

The boy turned out fine.  He was probably more shaken up by our screams than his fall.  He stopped crying after a while and soon was back to his old self. 

By now, I could hear James and Daniel fighting outside over a piece of spread out newspaper.  The baby was getting crankier by the minute.  He wanted to be nursed.

Little Brian was no where to be seen.  When I saw him later on, he had paint on his hands again!  The little boy had gone out to play with his brothers, inadvertently getting painted green once more. 

For the third time that day, I was mortified.

“I just cleaned you up!” I said. 

So, once again the magic potion came out to perform its magical task of making green paint disappear. 

With the sun beating hard on the two older boys now, I motioned them to come indoors.  The gate was still half painted and some of the painting was uneven but what does it matter. 

Their papa showed no concern of his children getting sunburnt.  Instead, I could hear him rapping the children on the mess and bad paint job they had done.

That’s a bad parenting skill, I wanted to tell him.  But I had no chance to give him a piece of my mind with a hungry crying baby in my arms. 

Brian and James had long lost interest in this gate painting adventure but Daniel was quite adamant to finish the job.  He took a break and came in for lunch.  After his meal, he insisted on going out to paint again although it was drizzling. 

His papa and I tried to put some sense into him by explaining that paint and water do not mix well, but he wouldn’t listen.  He whined throughout the time it drizzled.  He whined to a point it became unbearably irritating. 

When it finally stopped drizzling, we gladly let him out again to paint.

He continued his work and came back with green on his eye brow.

His papa screamed again that day.  The magic potion reappeared once again.  Then, we sent him upstairs for a bath. 

The children went to bed easily that night.  They were all tired after a full day of activity. 

I stumbled upon a dot of green on one of our kitchen jars and cups.  Somehow, my spouse must have missed these when cleaning up.

After a TV free day, we boast of a newly painted gate!  Also inclusive were lots of screaming, yelling and bad parenting skills!  But surely, the children would have had more memorable experiences painting rather than sitting in front of telly watching Ben Ten and Chowder.   

It’s the holiday season once again.  The children are restless.  They want to go for a holiday. 

“Mummy, where are we going for a holiday?” James asked.

I told him that we just had a new baby, and so we won’t be going for a holiday this year. 

He thought for a second and said, “Why don’t you stay at home and we go for a holiday.”

Why didn’t I think of that brilliant idea before?

It was a wet Sunday afternoon.  The day was rather cloudy.  It had been raining the whole day creating a relaxed mood.  Although a Sabbath, Daniel needed to revise his studies in view of his upcoming exams.  Neither his papa nor mummy have the capabilities or patience to attend to this matter.  When his grandfather volunteered to teach the little boy, we willingly let him. 

His grandfather stays near us.  To get to the house, one needs only to take a simple and straightforward route.  We just need to turn right after our gate and travel the main lane for about three hundred meters in a straight line.

By my definition, there were three ways of getting the boy there;  by car, by bicycle or on foot.  But for my spouse, there were only two choices minus the first one.  The car was not an option because it just rained and it was muddy, he said.  If I understood him correctly, he was trying to communicate to me that his car would melt like sugar when it came in contact with rain water.   I’ve been married to this man for a decade, and yet I still have difficulty understanding his male brain and his relationship with his car.

Sorry for the digression. 

Taking the bicycle seemed to be the preferred option.  Daniel had just received a brand new shining bicycle as a birthday present last month.  He eagerly looks forward to bicycle rides ever since.  The current situation presented a great opportunity. 

I had a brilliant idea.  Why don’t we, I told my spouse, let him cycle there on his own. 

“Are you serious?” he asked.

I nodded my head.  Of course, there were risks involved.  Perhaps a moving vehicle might hit him, or his bike might get stuck in a huge pothole or worse still, our little boy might slip and bleed to death.  But I kept reminding myself not to be overly protective and paranoid.  After all, the boy is already eight.

“I think he can do it,” I replied.  “It’s just a short distance and he can visually be seen until he reaches the other house.”

The distance between the two houses was just about perfect.  It was far enough for two families to retain their privacy, and near enough to be reached quickly by walking or pedaling. 

I asked Daniel if he would like to cycle there on his own.  He was ever ready.  I was starting to get nervous a little. I asked him again if he was really sure.  It was more like I was asking myself for a confirmation.  He nodded his head nonchalantly.

I was upstairs busy with the baby.  When I went downstairs, he was already outside the gate and on his bike, ready to leave.  Before I could give him motherly advice on being out in the big bad world, he was off cycling away without a head turn.  He left behind a cheerleading group of parents and siblings. 

“Bye!” I cried out. 

Apprehension swept over me as I saw him out there on his own.  Did I do the right thing?  What if he vanishes into thin air?  What if he slips and falls?  Who will he turn to for help?  What if? What if?  

Out of nowhere, we saw a blue car coming from the opposite direction towards Daniel.  It seemed to be traveling at the speed of a snail crawl.  Nonetheless, it looked menacing enough. 

“What is the car doing? Why is it moving so much towards Daniel’s side?” my spouse said out loud.

I had never heard my normally composed spouse sounding so urgent.  It looked like I was not the only one with all these uncertainties of ‘what ifs’ floating in my mind.

Soon Daniel was just a dot.

“Where is your dad?  I don’t see him outside,” he continued.  I had called my dad a few minutes earlier to expect Daniel’s arrival.

“I don’t know,” I replied absentmindedly, trying hard to focus on the dot.  “Has he passed the house yet?”  I spoke lightly but my eyes were fixed intensely a distance away.  They never left sight of the dot. 

I didn’t know if the little boy would know how to stop at the correct house. What would I do if he continued cycling straight on?

I realized with hindsight that it was a silly worry taking into account of the hundreds of times he has traveled the same route to get there.  And he knows the house number by heart. 

“Not yet.  He needs to pass the brown car first,” my spouse replied, referring to a faraway stationary car.

Then suddenly, I could see the boy and his bicycle no more.

“Has he arrived?” I asked.  Not waiting for an answer, I ran into the house and upstairs.  At that moment, I felt eternally grateful to Mr Alexander Graham Bell and his great telephone invention.     

“Heelloooo…,” came the familiar boyish voice at the other end of the line. 

As I plunge into the role of a mother, there were many times in my life I doubted whether I had made the right decisions for my boys.  That day, I knew that I had made the right decision sending him out alone into the world, if only for a short while.  

Our house is quiet except for a passing vehicle and the swishing of the ceiling fan.  On rare occasions like this, the baby is asleep downstairs contentedly without any noise disturbances.  Today is a special day.  It’s a special one because James is graduating today.  Every other member of our family, except for me and the baby, has gone to attend his graduation and concert ceremony.  

This morning, on the contrary, was total chaos.  Our house was buzzing with activity with three very excited boys, especially James.  Once again, I opened up my vanity case. 

I’ve had this vanity case since I got married.  That was ten years ago.  My mum handed it down to me.  She kept it for many years since she was a young lady. It’s a handsome deep maroon coloured casing with a sturdy handle on its top cover for easy carrying.  Its base measures fourteen by six inches, and its height is six inches.  With no deep visible scratch marks it looks recent, barely resembling its age. 

It contains all my makeup and makeup accessories.  There is a burst of colour inside this case.  I have at least twenty samples of cool and warm coloured lipstick each.  And then, there are colours for the eyes and cheeks.  Also present are pencil sticks for the eyes, eyebrows and the lips.  There is even a white sharpener for my sticks.  Included inside this casing there are also a few bottles of foundation for the face plus a tube of base controller.  Not to be left out, also available are bottles of nail colour.  These have not been used for so long that the colours have segregated from the oil creating a two toned effect.     

I bought these colours once upon a time ago when I was younger and single.  I had aspired to use my colours to make every woman beautiful.  More importantly, I had once, wanted to make myself beautiful with my colours. 

I married and my priorities changed.  I had babies.  I became a mummy.  Wearing this title, I performed the various tasks that came along with it.  I fed my children, changed nappies, told stories, took them to parks, sang songs, played hide and seek etc.  I quickly learned that babies and makeup are like water and oil.  They don’t mix very well together.  As the years rolled by, there lies an unrealised dream of a once young woman in that vanity case. 

Nowadays, the vanity case sits in the corner of my room collecting dust.  Despite its rare usability, it contains many special memories.  It has become somewhat of an icon.  The vanity case is only opened on special occasions.

I lugged it about with me on my wedding day using its contents to touch up my bridal makeup.  That would be the first time I put it to good use.  That first time was ten years ago.  Fast forward to now.  I attended my cousin sister’s wedding a few months back.  To apply colours on my face to celebrate her special day, I opened the vanity case for the first time this year.  

Today, I open it for the second time this year for another special occasion.  I have with me a child struggling to get away from the colours of the vanity case.  I tell James to close his eyes.  He does.  I put on some eye colour for him.  Half way through, he opens his eyes and laughs.  He wants to look at himself in the mirror, he says.   He is squirmy and fidgety.  Stop moving, I command in vain.  I colour his cheeks bright red.  The red is redder than any red I dared to apply.  Experience has taught me that the red colour will create a rosy look for him when he performs up on stage. James is an inquisitive six year old.  His hands are all over the place.  His fingers dig into a purple eye colour.   He paints his cheek with the purple.  I quickly try to rub it off.  I attempt to cover it with more red.  If you look closely enough, you will find a purple spot on his right cheek.   I cake his face with powder.  He cannot stand still.  He complains of an itchy eye.  I ignore his complaint and continue powdering.  He chatters a lot.  Today is no exception.  He talks about all things; the songs he is going to sing, the costume he is wearing and asks where papa is.  I finish by applying on lipstick for him. Stop talking, I say to him. He does and purses his lips.  I tell him to relax.  Deftly, I use a lipstick brush to apply on a pink colour.  No, I think to myself, the colour looks too girlie on him.  I change my mind and use a darker red.  Perfect.  And now, for the final touch up I put on some lip gloss.

You are ready, I say.  Not yet, he says, you need to apply hair gel for me.  In my haste I forgot.  That’s right, I reply.  I rush into the bathroom for some green gel.  I comb his short hair haphazardly hoping to create a punky look.  He runs out of the door before I can count to three.

I send James to his preschool to catch his bus.  Some time later, the rest of us pack ourselves into the car to the concert.  I decide to stay behind to nurse the baby.

The house is quiet once again.  I walk into my room to tidy up the vanity case.  I organise the colours, rearranging them into their respective storage containers.  As my hands work, my mind reminisces.  I think of James during his early days at preschool.  He would cry when I left him with his teacher in class.  He wasn’t sure if I would come for him ever again.  Then, I think of how he ran to join his friends just a moment ago when I dropped him off. He didn’t even hesitate to cast a backward glance.  I imagine him looking dashing in his graduation gown.  My little boy is all grown up now. 

I shut the vanity case.  As I do so, I also close a chapter of James’s life.  Another new beginning awaits him when he starts ‘real’ school next year. 

I put back the vanity case in its usual corner.  There it sits patiently waiting.  It is waiting to be opened at our next special occasion. 

Cheers !  and a good weekend to you. 

For sleep, riches, and health to be truly enjoyed, they must be interrupted. – Jean Paul Richter

Long days are common these days ever since baby Simon was born two months ago.  Long days coupled with a lack of sleep in the nights are a norm for me now, not an exception.  Due to this, most days I am less patient, less understanding and less kind to everyone, especially towards my children.  

I know the hangover of a lousy night of sleep too well.  It had put me in the worst kind of moods these days.  And so it seemed that having no good sleep at all has been my excuse for my bad behaviour. My children get to experience the worst of their mother. 

“Don’t slam the door!”

“Don’t jump on the bed!”

“Don’t eat in the room!”

“Don’t scream and shout!”

It was no longer fun being around mum these days with all her don’ts, especially for little Brian.

And then, it happened.  I experienced cold hands and feet and goosebumps one fine regular morning after as usual, a night of lack of sleep.  I paid no attention to this as I went about my usual routine of nursing and cleaning the baby.

But my body was screaming for attention by late morning.  I could no longer ignore the hot forehead or the aching bones.  I had relied heavily on my healthy physical being to get me through this rough patch of raising a newborn and three boisterous boys.  It had not let me down until now. 

My spouse stuck a thermometer into my ear. It showed a spiking temperature of thirty nine degrees Celsius. 

I groaned.  This was totally unexpected. 

I made a trip to the doctor.  He told me that I had a viral infection and prescribed only fever tablets.  And yes, I could continue nursing the baby even with a fever.  Throughout that night and two nights after that, I fed the baby with a body as if on fire and with a parched throat. 

I won’t ever complain about the lack of sleep again, I prayed earnestly.  

The fever lasted for four days before it left me completely.

I made another trip to my doctor for my post natal checkup.  I casually mentioned about a red rash visible under my breast.  He took one look and said that I had an infected breast.  And if I did not take care of it now, it might turned to pus and will have to be surgically drained out. 

I cringed and made a face. 

He prescribed strong antibiotics for me which I diligently took for seven days.  During this time as well, I checked my breast every time I finished nursing the baby for signs of improvement or worse, deterioration. 

I won’t ever complain about the lack of sleep again if given my health back, I prayed earnestly.  

The infection eventually healed.  I looked forward to my regular days once again.   

And then, it happened again.  It was a regular morning when I heard noisy breathing while nursing the baby.  Now it was his turn.  He had a blocked nose and was breathing heavily. 

I checked on him every time he went to sleep and especially in the nights when it got chilly.  I rubbed Vicks Vaporub on his tiny feet to warm him up despite warnings stated on the label that the ointment was only to be given to children above two years old.  
 
I won’t ever complain about the lack of sleep again, I prayed earnestly.

The baby eventually got well and continued nursing with ease.  And once again, I looked forward to my regular days.

But my regular days turned irregular once more when I noticed a raw red rash in the same breast again. 

I rushed to the doctor once again.  My breast had some milk ducts which were blocked, he diagnosed. I was given anti inflammatory tablets to clear them.  These too I took diligently.  Once again, I was regularly in front of the mirror.   

The blocked milk ducts eventually cleared.

After five different visits to my doctor and two douses of medication, I reckon that a lack of sleep is not such a bad deal after all.  

And now, I have to care for two coughing young children and one feverish toddler.  In addition to that, there is also a nursing baby to look after. 

I won’t ever complain about the lack of sleep again, I prayed earnestly.  

These days even with a lack of sleep, I strive to be more patient, more understanding and kinder, especially towards my children. 

Cheers! And a good day to you.