In Michael Ende’s book Momo, which relates the story of a girl who owns nothing except time and who, with the help of her friends, fights against the time thieves, we read: “Life holds one great but quite commonplace mystery shared by each of us.  That mystery is time. Calendars and clocks exist to measure time, but that signifies little because time is life itself.”  - Reader’s Digest

I have a Yahoo! email account and, know how to handle a digital camera but I would hardly label myself as technology savvy.  I have no ‘i’s in my life, namely the i pad and the i phone.  By the way, these are the only two ‘i’s that I know of.  The only blackberry I know is a fruit.

I’ve heard of Facebook, Twitter, Flickr and YouTube but could find no special reason to further explore these popular sites.   I also know the existence of a sophisticated game set called the PlayStation 2 but only played it firsthand this recent month.

I played the stud Legolas in a Lord of The Rings strategy game, lasting a mere 10 minutes before I failed my dangerous mission.  My spouse was not all pleased.  After all, Aragon needed a good fighting partner to get through the Army of the Dead.   Legolas couldn’t fight properly because I got confused with the buttons on the controller.  The top left button is to jump and kick, and the bottom right button is to swing the sword, or is it the other way round?  Needless to say, Legolas was fatally killed by the enemy easily.    

I haven’t played the game since.  I am sure that my spouse is on the lookout for a new partner to play the PS 2 with. 

You know what I mean when I say about not being technology savvy.

Even so, technology has invaded my home.  I understand this is inevitable as this is after all, the information age.  

It is not uncommon to have this scenario at our home during some nights when the children have gone to bed; me at our personal computer in our tiny upstairs hall and my spouse seated just behind me with his laptop in our tiny bedroom converted into an  office cum audio room.   He is normally working away banging hard on the keyboard or meddling with his cell phone with loud music in the background.   

When I shout out my thoughts at him sometimes while at my pc, I get no respond. Fed up, I send him a message via Yahoo! messenger.  Voila!  I get a reply almost instantaneously! So, the man is breathing and very much alive after all.  Having learnt my lesson, I now send him messages if I want to get his immediate attention.  This is ironic knowing that he is just within close proximity of me.  I can just turn round and literally touch his nose. 

Technological advancement has radically changed the way we communicate with each other. 

Last week, my dad drove me out to run an errand.  Brian tagged along with us.  On the way home, we decided to stop at an eatery for tea. 

It was 4 pm on a weekday.  The place was relaxed and quiet with only two tables occupied.   We placed our order and took a seat.  

My dad is almost seventy years old.  He has no interest in using the computer, nor does he have any of the ‘i’s mentioned above.  He does not even bother carrying a cell phone. 

Being with a person who carries nothing except his wallet was a refreshing experience for me. 

I could finish all my sentences uninterrupted.  I didn’t have to fight for attention with a sexy sleek black Toshiba notebook or a ringing cell phone.  I got focused attention.  It felt great.  

Of course, we were not chattering the whole time.  On the contrary, we were quiet most of the time.  Even the silence felt comfortable.  Time had slowed down enough for us to live in the present moment. 

I breathed deeply.  I relaxed my usual tensed shoulders.  I tasted the sweetness of my favourite cake and enjoyed it immensely.  My nostrils were filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. 

I loved it.  I was celebrating life.        

There was still noise, but thankfully, not the noise of shrilling calls from a cell phone.  These were different sounds.  It was the sound of squeals of pleasure from a four year old boy who had just been presented with a yummy chocolate Sundae ice cream. It was the tones of a pleasant conversation enjoyed by good company.     

There were no calls from my boss, also known as my spouse.  There were no calls from the banks asking for payment on long overdue credit cards. There were no calls from the telemarketers.    In fact, there were no calls to entertain at all. 

Having a spouse who has a short fuse can be unnerving.  Every unpleasant incident is surely to be peppered with colourful language.  Tempers fly and voices rise.  My dad is the total opposite.  He is the most patient man I have ever known.  He could sit in a traffic jam for hours and not swear.  Being with my dad has a calming effect on me.   

The most difficult decision my dad and I had to make that day was to take either coffee or tea.  Both of us chose coffee.  And the second most difficult decision that both of us had to make was to have our coffee flat white or long black.

Thereafter, the three of us enjoyed a simple existence of good companionship. 

It has been a long, long while since I enjoyed such good company and coffee.

Celebrate life with your favourite cup of coffee or tea today!  When you do, remember to turn that cell phone off. 

Wishing you a lovely weekend!  Cheers!

A new baby is like the beginning of all things – wonder, hope, a dream of possibilities. – J. Le Shan

Little Simon turned one on the 21st of this month.  I was feeding him a while ago.  Taking one of his hands into the palm of mine, I marveled at how much he had grown.  He walks now with support and is a sturdy little fellow with a loud laugh.    

A year ago, I went into labour for the fourth time praying for a healthy child to be born.  Simon came out screaming at 10.14am.  He had ten perfect little tiny fingers and toes, and a head mopped with hair.  Our little miracle was born perfect.   

He was my bonus baby.  With him, I would have a new beginning.  I would be the perfect parent that I never was with my other children.    I would sing him songs in my off tune voice and shower him with kisses in abundance everyday.  I would whisper into his ears ‘I love you’ a million times over and dress him up in nice little blue overalls.  I would be the perfect mummy. 

Sad to say, it didn’t turn out that way.  He was crying for milk every half hour.  He woke up every hour in the night wanting to be carried or fed.  He slept most of time he was not crying and didn’t care whether he was dressed in blue or pink or white.  He only cared if he had a clean diaper on and was well fed. 

And I was cranky most of the time from the lack of sleep.  His crying sometimes drove me up the wall, wearing my patience thin. As it turned out, I didn’t care very much either about singing to him or showering him with kisses.  The only thing that mattered most was that he slept soundly. 

Forget about being the perfect mum, I told myself.  I was barely surviving as I changed his diaper for the fifth time one morning. 

As time passed, a strange thing happened.  Once again, I found time to play with my other children, read for pleasure and, enjoy the company of my spouse at our favourite restaurant. 

It looks as if Simon and I have found a rhythm.  He now has a daily routine that I am really grateful for.  I didn’t realise I needed a routine so badly to  keep a smile on my face and my sanity intact.

He takes naps in the mornings and afternoons, eats at midday and 6 pm and knocks off at around half past nine at nights.

He takes in the world now with his sparkling eyes, and explores with his feisty little hands.  Everything that comes in contact with his hands goes directly into his mouth.  These include a sock, a tissue box, a toy car, a blue plastic blinking microphone and mummy’s nose.  Once, I gave him a magazine to keep him occupied.  When he was quiet for too long, I took a peep to see what he was doing.  He was busy chewing paper!  As quick as lightning, I snatched it away from him, but too late, he had already eaten bits of it.

I knew it went into his stomach because I couldn’t find the missing pieces anywhere in his cot.  Shortly after the paper swallowing incident, the little fellow gave out a loud burp as if confirming that it was a good meal indeed!
              
He really must love paper a lot.  Another time when my mum was taking care of him, he kept munching away even after falling asleep. 

My mum, suspecting something amissed, panicked, and forcefully opened his mouth even if she had to wake him up from his slumber.  Using a finger to dig the insides of his mouth, she found a piece paper printed ‘spiderman’ on it. 

That surely must be the most exciting event of the year for her.   

Simon wouldn’t keep still during bath times now.  He used to be so placid when I bathed him in the tub.  Now he arches his back in retaliation when I wet and shampoo his hair.   He hates it.  When I put him in the tub, he prefers to stand.  When he does sit, his favourite activity is water splashing using both hands. 

Little Simon has big words for his mummy.  The only issue is that I don’t understand his language at all.  He babbles and rumbles. 

I love echoing him.

He says ‘Arrgh’ , and I echo ‘ Arrgh’.  He says ‘Ouurhhghh’, and I echo ‘Ouurhhghh’.   He says ‘uuhhharrh’, and I echo ‘uuhhharrh’.          
   
Then, he would look at me as if we had exchanged some great thoughts.

And I would laugh and laugh.  His father looked at me once as if I had gone mad. 

“You are supposed to speak to him in proper sentences,” he said. “Look, he doesn’t even know what you are talking about.”

I laughed some more and was not at all bothered.  With my previous babies, I never used baby language.  I could not risk impeding their speech.  Now, I really didn’t care what the child experts out there said.  I simply loved having some good old fashion fun with little Simon.

Initially I thought I had a fresh chance to be the perfect mum I never was to my three elder children.  But as the past year unfolded, I realised that I had to live with imperfection daily when I did not pick up my crying baby immediately, or when I had to fight the urge to scream at him to stop after an hour of feeding him on my breast. 

In time I stopped striving to be the perfect mum.  Instead, I let go and adopted a relaxed outlook with this precious child.  I enjoyed mothering this last boy the most.  I sang silly songs and played silly games with him just to hear his laughter.  I made silly faces just to see his smile.  When he babbled, I babbled.  Sometimes, I do nothing.  I sit quietly next to him listening to him breathe.

Forget about the baby Einstein DVDs, or the pictorial flash cards, or the red dotted mathematical cards that were supposed to bring out the genius in my baby. 

Today I will enjoy his toothless grin and the smell of his saliva covered fingers.

Happy Birthday Simon!   

Today was a beautiful day.  The sun shone brightly, casting playful shadows under the trees.  It was a lovely day to spend outdoors.

I am attempting to start my walking exercise again.  I missed placing one foot in front of the other for the sheer joy of it, and at the same time enjoy nature. 

These days though, it is not easy to find time to walk alone.  At any time of the day, there are three boisterous boys at home. 

We have, thankfully, one helper to do our endless chores and cooking.  In addition to that, we have two veterans to assist in our daily childcare regime.  They happened to be my parents, and both are above sixty years of age.  I am pretty sure they don’t appreciate children jumping cushions and climbing window grills.  They say activities like these increase their already skyrocketed blood pressure and shorten their life span significantly.  And of course, there is also supposedly to be the most competent child minder; their mother. 

So, I always take one or two children with me when I walk to maintain the sanity of my household.  Sometimes we cycle, but mostly, I encourage walking time. 

Today I have the company of our third son, Brian.  He is four.  Always gregarious and playful, I looked forward to an evening of good company with this little fellow.

We made our way to a bigger park with a football field.  The first few minutes were full of complaints.  Why can’t we take the bicycle?  Why not just drive the car?  This is too slow.  And on and on the boy went. 

“Look at that black cat!” I said, pointing at one crossing our path.  That distracted him.   Soon, he was looking under a car for more cats but instead found kittens. 

After a while, we got into a rhythm.  We’d walk, pause and walk again.   We stopped to look at sign boards.  We stopped to listen to the birds chirping.  We stopped to count crows perched on a lamp post.  We stopped just long enough to look at cat faeces.  We stopped to look at drains.

After crossing a busy roundabout, we walked on a pathway leading to our destination.  One section of this pathway was overshadowed by a huge leafy tree.  The effect was dark despite the bright sun rays. 

“Look, it’s the deep, dark wood,” I said as we slowly walked through the shadows. 

His eyes shone with excitement.  He knew what was coming up next. 

“Aha! Oho! A trail in the snow!” I said, reciting a line from the story The Gruffalo’s Child.  “Maybe we will find the Big Bad Mouse here.”

“Aha! Oho!  A trail in the snow!” he repeated. 

He had grown to love the story of The Gruffalo’s Child and her quest to look for the Big Bad Mouse after being read countless times to. 
All too soon the magic ended when we came out of the shadows. 

Then, we heard a rumbling sound from above.  It was an aeroplane flying overhead. 

“Look Brian. A plane.” I said, pointing at the tiny plane way up high above us.  “Where do you think it’s going?”

Seeing planes flying across the sky is a normal affair for the both of us.  But that evening, we saw five or six planes flying over our heads.  

In the beginning, we gave logical answers.

“The plane is going to the airport.”

“This one is going to Kuala Lumpur.” 

“The plane is going to London.”

“Maybe it’s going to Paris, Eiffel Tower.”

But because we saw so many aircrafts that day, we thought of other possibilities.  

“Maybe this one is going to South Africa to see the wild lions.”

“Or maybe it’s going to see the polar bears.”

Then, a soccer ball flew past us, landing a few feet away from where we were playing.   Adjacent to the park was a huge football field.    

Without a moment of hesitation, he chased after the ball.  Running with it, he directed the ball back into the football field, returning it to the ongoing game.

It would be the first time ever I had seen him focused his raw energy, kicking the ball with precision and in powerful strides.  It brought out the best in the boy.    

I stood in awe watching my son run.  It was simply exhilarating watching a boy with boundless energy play.   

Soon, he stopped playing the slides and decided that the football match was more interesting.    

“Mummy, I like No. 10,” he said, referring to the red jersey a player was wearing. 

“Why?” I asked, as I too stood still with Brian watching them play.  I strained to look for No. 10. 

“Because he can kick the ball really high across the fence,” he replied. 

I saw the powerful kick as well.  The fencing was probably twenty feet high.

The boy stood nearby, waiting for a stray ball to come to his side of the field. 

He didn’t wait in vain for long.  When the stray flying balls came, he would run after them and kick them right back to the players.  It was as if, he couldn’t wait to grow up to play with the older boys.       

I had no inkling of his love for football until this moment. 

The day turned out to be unexpectedly memorable.  It had been an evening of possibilities. 

The thrill of the possibility of discovering the elusive mouse in the deep, dark wood. The possibility of the aeroplanes carrying passengers to  their faraway exotic destinations. The possibility of the boy becoming a professional footballer. 

All too soon, it was time to go home.

 Looking at the football field, I saw the possibility of a new experience. 

We ran across the vast field, instead of taking our regular well trodden path home. 

When we completed our maiden run at the opposite end of the field, the boy and I were breathless but in high spirits. 

After all, we had had an evening of sweet memories filled with possibilities. 

I wish for you too, my friend, a weekend of possibilities.

The possibility of an art project instead of turning on the TV. Or simply, the possibility of play with your children instead of reading the newspapers. 

Cheers! Wishing you a lovely weekend.     

One of the wonders of life is just that – the wonder of life. – Bill Copeland in Sarasota, Florida, Herald-Tribune 

It was a lovely morning.  The sun was just beginning to warm our earth, spilling golden yellow on our front lawn.  I looked forward to another sunny day.  

Daniel has gone to school. Simon was busy playing in his cot.  James and Brian were outside with me.  I was about to get into my car, but being outdoors was so lovely I lingered on at our porch to soak in the sun.

I needed the space.  Lately there have been many issues on my mind.

I took in a few deep breaths.  My eyes feasted on the myriad shades of green growing in our tiny garden.  My gaze fell upon our bougainvillea. Despite me diligently watering this plant, I had mentally written it off as a dying one.  It used to look pathetic with only one single withered branch. 

Today it tells a different story.  Its branch has leaves full and green, and blooming with bright orange flowers.  What a sight to behold!

I admired its will to live.  Given adequate water and sunshine, it has sprouted back to life. 

The boys’ shrill voices drew my attention.  I turned towards the direction of the commotion.

The sun warmed their backs as tiny hands did karate chops and legs kicked in all directions.  They were trying to wrestle each other to the ground. 

They were fighting, but they were not fighting.  Listening to bits and pieces of their conversation, they seemed to be playing a game of some sort. 

Engaged in their fantasy adventure, they were unaware of space and time.  There is no tomorrow, the moment is now.  Each must defend oneself from the other who is the enemy.

They locked arms and legs.  They chased each other across the lawn and unto that made believe sand hill. 

As I watched their lithe bodies in action, I too, lived in the present.  

Never have I seen play extended to be so real. 

Momentarily, I unloaded the baggage I was carrying in my mind. 

It was hard for me to believe that these were my boys.  It seemed only yesterday they were wriggling in my arms.  How strong and handsome they have grown!

That lovely morning, I took time to say grace.  I thanked God for my beautiful boys.  I thanked God for good health.  I thanked God for the sun.  I thanked God for my spouse and his wicked sense of humour.  I even thanked God for my fat thighs.  

My gaze fell upon my bougainvillea once more.  There it was, looking glorious in full bloom. 

As I got into my car, I knew that the day was going to turn out just fine. 

Wishing you and your family a lovely weekend.  Cheers!

A good book should leave you… slightly exhausted at the end.  You live several lives while reading it. -William Styron, interview, Writers at Work, 1958

Articles of enduring significance, in condensed permanent booklet form.  – Reader’s Digest, March 1987.

I’ve been reading lately.  Suddenly, I find myself having some pockets of free time here and there during the day.  I reckon the major attribution to these free moments is that the baby has grown somewhat and doesn’t need my fullest attention now.       

Some of us read for knowledge.  Others read to pass exams.  And I read for pleasure.  When I was a young woman I enjoyed reading Reader’s Digest immensely.  That was more than twenty years ago.

Then life distracted me. I met a handsome young man, got married, and had children.  Marriage and children kept me on my toes. There was never enough time in a day to simply read for pleasure until now.

I found a recent copy of RD lying in my mail basket.  After a brief chat with my spouse, I found out that upon trying to enter a RD sponsored contest, he had subscribed to the magazine for a year long.

May 2010 RD was delivered nice and thick. It looked more attractive than ever with vibrant colours splashed all over its front cover. 

At the first available moment, I curled up on my favourite couch for a read.      

I quickly discovered that inserted between the covers were one hundred over pages of trash.  I say trash, because nothing from those pages that I read fired up my brain cells.

I was merely bombarded with advertisements from so-called best voted brands. To name a few from a ridiculously endless list, RD featured their trusted brand family restaurant, lingerie and beer.

“Our meals are made from the best ingredients.” 

“Our most popular items come from our Maximiser push-up range.”

“Our products are exported to 60 markets around the world.”

Why would I want to fill my mind with brands and branding?  I honestly don’t know.

So many precious pages wasted!

Three months ago, RD organised a poll based on this totally frivolous question; “Would You Marry the Same Person Again?” 

“I don’t give two hoots on how the world responded!” I said to my spouse.  “Their results do not make me love you more or less.”

Why would I want to spend time analysing a survey like this? I honestly don’t know.

More precious space wasted!

RD today features a regular “Dear Abby” column. 

Reading this merely fills my already cluttered mind with more problems belonging to someone else. 

An appointed mysterious ‘Aunty’ from RD has the absolute advice and solutions. 

Who knows who this big A might be?  Another man on the street, a woman psychic, a budding psychologist or perhaps the editorial staff takes turns?  

I’ve read it all in the newspapers and gossip magazines; the nosy mother-in-law, the inconsiderate neighbour, the cheating partner etc.

So, now I have the newspapers, gossip magazines plus RD bringing the world’s problems right to my door steps.   

Why would I want to read about Jack’s and Jill’s problems, I asked myself.  I honestly don’t know.  Perhaps I should ask RD’s Aunty.  

Another page wasted on trash!

RD today dedicates one whole page to cooking recipes every  month. 

I now have four cooking recipes and no answer to how these can changed my life. 

By the way, where can I find paprika?

If I had wanted recipes, I would have gone out and bought myself a Women’s Weekly magazine. 

Oh, there goes another page wasted!   

RD today features guest writers in their monthly column Voice.   

Finally, let’s get down to some serious reading. 

These authors are well established in their respective profession.     Some have common names, others have so complicated ones that I can’t pronounce. Regardless, they are all followed by big titles. 

They write so well.  Even so, reading these required the mind, and not the heart. The topics discussed were befitting a classroom discussion or a thesis research.

Possibly the only difference between them and a student is that, these writers write flawless English.

A recent topic discussed was terrorism.  The writer categorised and explained his writings concisely in point form.  He broke down the meaning of Victory in three levels; Tactical victories, strategic victories and grand … yawn…  Where was I again? 

Reading RD these days is like reading an encyclopaedia.

April 2010 issue dedicated one full page on hotels having achieved the ‘-est’ factor, namely the tallest, the most expensive and the coldest.  

Why doesn’t RD feature also the flattest, the least expensive and the warmest hotel, I thought to myself.  By the way, does RD know that there is no ‘est’ in expensive?  

Perhaps RD ran out of space, or she ran out of ideas, or she second guessed that her current readers enjoy digesting mindless facts. 

My brains have gone shopping.

The hotel feature was on page 23.  The page before that, which happened to be page 22, RD tried to have some fun with the number 26.

It was reported that 26 million people got displaced because of climate change, 26 percent of Australians would like to get a tattoo, the longest human appendix measured 26cm etc.

You know what I mean. 

“Why not have fun with the number eleven, or ninety nine, or two hundred and twenty three?” I asked my spouse.  

He didn’t bother answering.  He is now getting used to my sudden outburst regarding the magazine. 

Why would I want to fill my head with the number 26?

 I honestly don’t know.

All I know is that my life had zero change after reading this. 

The current RD look so much more sleek with laser sharp graphics and pages printed in different shades compared to their older issues twenty years ago.  Even the editor gets to display a different self portrait each month in RD’s Editor’s Letter nowadays. 

And yet, RD today lacks.  It just lacks. 

RD today lacks the Ali-s ( an Indian elephant handler who fought fiercely and survived a tiger attack at India’s Corbett National Park ), Jutimitta-s ( a Police Major in Thailand who is uncompromising in a corrupted society and risked his life daily hunting down drug traffickers relentlessly ) and Gudlaugur-s ( a fisherman whose boat capsized at sea and he unbelievably survived seven hours in icy cold waters). 

Where is the presence of the resilient human spirit, the blood, the gore and the glory in today’s RD articles?

RD today is all about Super and famous.  She prefers to devote precious space interviewing and writing up on Hollywood superstars, Sports superstars, famous singers and famous chefs.  I read about these superstars and their relationship with their roles on TV, their fathers, their guitars and, their restaurants. 

I stifled another yawn.

My life remains unchanged still. 

Perhaps the most disturbing trend I discovered reading RD today is that she is peppered with sarcasm. 

I’ve come across offensive put-down quotes by superstars (not them again!) as if these were words of wisdom.   

RD today prefers to highlight Paris Hilton look-alikes and making fun of another person’s ignorance.  Even her jokes bordered cynicism.  

I was a great advocate of RD but now, I am not so sure.

I shudder to think of the influence this will have on RD’s young readers.  Would they willingly accept sarcasm as part of life?  

I felt a twinge of sadness.

Somehow, somewhere along the years, RD changed its core concept. 

I continued flipping the pages listlessly, looking for an article of interest.  I found a write up on Toy Story 3.

Not this again.

Their merchandise started selling before the movie premiered in the cinemas.  I’ve already seen their over publicised trailer countless of times on TV.  My spouse, my children, my friends and their children already know the existence of this movie.  And they didn’t need to read RD to find this out.    
    
Another precious page wasted!

I flipped the pages some more.  There were more reviews; book reviews and phone reviews. 

I skimmed through a write up on Google’s Android.  It was a review of comments and, statements and, more comments, written in that order. 

My brain, it has gone to sleep!  Is there not an article for the serious reader today?

At that point I felt that reading nothing was better.   

In an instant, I shut RD up.  I’ve had enough thrash reading for the day.  

So many wasted pages!

Two days ago, by sheer coincidence, an issue of March 1987 RD lay on my reading table.  I picked it up, planning only to read for a few minutes. 

I turned to page 45.

Jessica. This article was condensed from “People” by Susan Hill.  I’ve read Jessica many times over the past years.  Even so, every read of Jessica is like a first read.  Ms Hill wrote lively descriptions of her nine year old Jessica.  The author also wrote of how her daughter’s birth transformed her.

I loved how the author captured the essence of motherhood and childhood in a timeless manner.  This article was written more than twenty years ago, but her recorded experiences are just as relevant to me today. 

Reading Jessica years ago inspired me to write about my newest baby then.  His name was Brian.  After my current reading of Jessica, I am once again inspired to write.  This time the child’s name is Simon. 

I turned to page 99. 

The last Rainbow, condensed from Outdoor Life, Jim Berlin had a colourful title.  The rainbow was not the seven coloured striped one I had expected it to be though.  Instead it was fish, a trout.

The author wrote warmly of the last time he went fishing with his dying dad.  He wrote of baby loons, the bridge and stream they both knew so well, and fishing for the best rainbows under the bridge.  It was a beautifully written poignant final precious moments shared between a son and his father.  The story timeless, the emotions evoked bitter sweet. 

I was pleased with myself for picking up this particular issue of RD.  On its front cover in capital bright red letters, it printed for all to see ‘Unforgettable DeWitt Wallace’.   He was the genius behind RD. 

It has been almost an hour since I started reading.  The children are beginning to get rowdy, and the baby is fretful.  Even then, I couldn’t resist reading once more, despite the countless of times I had read, of DeWitt Wallace’s rise to success with RD.
 
He founded RD in 1922.  In those early years, he would condense articles of interest, writing in long hand on yellow sheets of paper.  All articles published were compressed and condensed for straight to the point easy reading.  His relentless search for good articles to condense benefited me tremendously.

DeWitt Wallace is truly unforgettable. He changed my life.  RD changed my life. 

His condensed little magazine taught me most about living.  RD constantly reminded me of the dangers of smoking.  Thanks to RD I don’t perceive the Marlboro man to be cool. Now, I tell my children the same message RD taught me repeatedly years ago. Cigarettes kill.  

RD taught me the importance of writing thank-you notes.  She taught me the importance of marriage.  She taught me about good manners, humanity, exercise and having fun. 

No wonder this little booklet is the World’s Most-Read Magazine.

Time ceased to exist as I burrowed myself deeper into the story of DeWitt Wallace.  Nothing else mattered except for the printed pages I held in my hands.   

I was finally reading for pleasure!   

My baby was wailing too loudly to be ignored by now. I reluctantly parted company with DeWitt Wallace. 

I have been thinking.

When I read RD of the yesteryears, her articles resonated in my life. 

I read of a child’s battle with AIDS in Go Toward The Light by Chris Oyler.  Ben was seven years old when he discovered he was dying of AIDS.  I held my breath.  I have a seven year old child myself.  After reading this, I thought of Ben constantly for days after.  His mother wrote of the pain and helplessness they had to endure watching their child slowly waste away.  My heart ached for his parents.  I thought deeply of death. 

I read of the ordeal of a Chinese mother who at 8 months pregnant, was forced to have an abortion by the Chinese government.

I felt for this young mother.  After reading this, I am grateful  to be able to bear four babies with no major consequences. 

I read of one family’s relocation from England to Spain in Happy Valley by Chris Stewart.  Chris and Ana Stewart gave up their old life in England to run a farm in a remote location in Spain.  They relocated anyway despite the many challenges, one being the lack of funds.   I like reading this piece of work. The author cleverly injected a wicked sense of humour in the right places.
 
Follow one’s dream, the story suggested. 

I read of Sabeer Bhatia.  Chances are you might never have heard of him. Neither have I.  He was a Stanford University graduate.  With a friend they launched a company called Hotmail in Silicon Valley.  They later sold the company to Microsoft in exchange for shares worth a whooping $400million.  He was only 27 years old at that time. Unbelievable!   

I wished I had his idea and guts to make it happen!

There are countless more stories I can tell you; stories that brought tears to my eyes, stories that changed the way I lived, stories that sang a song in my heart.

Here is one of my absolute favourites; Why a Man Needs a Woman by Herbert Stein in RD’s March 2000 issue.  

It is two pages long, and written simply for easy understanding. 

The before and after effects of reading this piece of work was remarkable.  I was plain Jane transformed to Cinderella.

A work of science and art interwoven intricately to produce a masterpiece, this is a great read.  The highlight though, belongs to its brilliant ending.  I had such a thrill reading the ending given its unexpected twist.

You are never an average man, or woman to the one who loves you. 

RD yesterday created waves, RD today merely makes statements.

Wishing you a good day today!  And make a book, not just any book but a good one, your companion today.  

“…let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action” 1 John 18

So, I‘ve been sulking for the past two weeks.  Life has been giving me a hard time, I thought with self-pity. 

One night while at the computer, my hand wandered to the left side of my cheekbone and discovered a tiny bump somewhat similar to a mosquito bite.  It was painless, and so, I thought nothing of it.

The next two days the bump ballooned into a huge lump.  It made me looked like Frankenstein with a swollen face on one side.  Still I did not go to the doctor.  I was consuming a thirty day detox package, and thought that maybe this was a side effect. 

Another day went by with me looking hideous, but it was all right since I rarely go out, and my children didn’t seem to be bothered by my altered appearance.

Later that night, my hand wandered again and discovered that I had a swell behind my left ear.  It was the same side where the lump was.  When I went to bed that evening, my ear throbbed.  Needless to say, I had a sleepless night.

Fear can drive a person to act swiftly.  The next day, I consulted a doctor immediately.  He shone a torchlight at my face.  He diagnosed my ugly lump as shingles. 

“This is a case of a weak immune system,” he told me.  Great.

He prescribed medicine for me, and told me not to breastfeed.  I asked for an alternative medicine, but was told that there was none. 

I had to decide.  I didn’t want to look like Frankenstein for the rest of my life, so I took the no breastfeeding choice.   One tablet four times a day, and no breastfeeding made my life totally miserable.

The baby slept fitfully that night.  My mother who was so kind to help me out, also didn’t sleep well.  My breasts were engorged.  I tried pumping them for some relief but could not completely drain them.  Besides, my lump didn’t seem to be getting better despite the aggressive treatment. 

I was ready to look like Frankenstein for the rest of my life just to make my baby and me happy once again.  Anyway, my spouse, in order to save the sanity of his family, checked the internet to learn more about the medicine I had been given.  We read that it was safe to consume the medication and breastfeed at the same time. 

This is not happening, I thought, after having to put up with the baby’s fuss. 

Anyway, I continued consuming the same medicine and breastfeeding simultaneously after consulting another doctor.  I was happy once again and thankfully, so was the baby. 

My shingles eventually shrivelled and dried up.  However it left behind a scar that stubbornly would not go away.  Thank goodness, the swell disappeared all together.    

My life resettled to its regular rhythm.  I breathed easier.  I started consciously looking after my health.  I started with the basic, like drinking three litres of waters daily.  I made the effort to put on my walking shoes every morning. 

Surely, life can only get better with a healthier lifestyle.

Then, James came home from school with a fever.  He complained of a sore throat.   Two days after this, his skin was dotted with a red rash at the buttocks.  His doctor, took one look and said he has hand-foot-and-mouth illness. 

“It’s contagious,” she told me.  It must be, because when I was still in the consulting room, she had washed her hands twice and swiped her table with an alcohol swab.

“First the shingles, and now this,” I whined. “This is just too much.” My spouse patiently heard me out. 

My mum who again, so kindly helped me with the children also caught this infectious illness. Her beautiful hands were dotted red, and so were her feet. This happened one week before her son’s wedding. 

She was entirely miserable regarding the whole situation and, the lousy timing.  She found solace in talking constantly about the illness.  This illness that plagued her that she so freely confided in her siblings eventually turned against her.  Relatives who knew of her illness did not dare come close to her during the wedding.  Not one came to congratulate her in church. 

She ended up teary eyed. 

It was the happiest day of her life, and I am sure, also the saddest. 

I was angry. 

“Would not one take a little risk to do the right thing? I asked myself.  A simple handshake or a touch on the shoulder would have made her very happy.  Or perhaps if one is so afraid of catching this disease by touch, a kind word shared with her would have provided great comfort.”                
 
Alas! They feared the illness more, treating my mum like a leper. 

There was a lot of anger in me.  There was a lot of anger within that I did not know how to dispel. 

I went for my regular walk the other day.  I got to know of  stories that I did not want to repeat.   

A nice gentleman who stays in our neighbourhood was diagnosed with pancreas cancer.  He would need chemotherapy for the next six months.  To add stress to this, he would need to pay exorbitant medical fees for this treatment.

Our opposite neighbour’s brother fell off the roof, shattering his elbow.  He would have only limited use of his right hand for the rest of his life. 

I am not angry anymore. 
 
It is good that the bride and groom were happy and most importantly, healthy during their wedding day.  It is good that my children and I made it to the wedding party.  It is good that my mum made it as well to her son’s wedding party. 

It is good that my children can read and write.  More importantly, I pray that they will take some risks to do the right thing in life.

I am sure they learnt through the shining example of their grandmother who took a little risk taking care of them even when she knew they had this contagious hand-foot-and-mouth illness.  

Cheers!  And a good week ahead.

“Carpe diem! Rejoice while you are alive; enjoy the day; live life to the fullest; make the most of what you have. It is later than you think.” - Horace

My morning started with the baby moving restlessly beside me.  I looked up at the time.  It was already almost eight, with plenty of chores waiting for me downstairs.  The other two boys were also in the same room with me, lazily uncurling themselves as they greeted a brand new day. 

Right after their early morning stretch, the boys dived relentlessly into their daily activities of climbing, fighting and screaming.  

One boy spilt ice cream on the floor, another threw a tantrum when he couldn’t win a game he was playing and later, two boys were wrestling on the floor with one ended up crying when he got his crotch kicked. 

I’ve taken these chaotic moments in my stride in order to keep my sanity.  I was beginning to look forward to another ordinary day with my active foursome. 

Usually by midday, the movements in our home slow down.  The baby and toddler almost never miss their afternoon naps.  It would not be an exaggeration to say that I rely heavily on routines more than my children to give myself some breathing space. 

Today is no different.  I started breathing easier again after the children had fallen asleep.  I glance at the calendar.  April 13 is the day I am supposed to collect my pair of pants from the tailor.  It would take me a long while after that to realise that today is also the death anniversary of a friend, Thomas.  I had almost forgotten! 

Well, I have not forgotten him, that’s for sure! 

Of course I remember Thomas!  He called and asked me what I needed when my eldest was born. I asked for a bag of diapers.  Later, he visited me with one bag of diapers.  When my second baby was born, he came with a baby bag and a bag of diapers.  He didn’t call to find out in advance what I needed though.  He was learning fast.   He said that he wanted to present the bag with the diapers in it but found that the diapers were too big to fit into the bag.   Today, I am using the bag still.  Of course I remember Thomas!

We were university mates for four years.  We hung out late into the night, finishing up projects due the following morning.  Somehow, it seemed more exciting doing assignments last minute.  It was common for us to sip hot chocolate at the nearest food stall during the wee hours of the morning after cramming in for an upcoming exam.  Of course I remember Thomas!

Being a student of accountancy, I had to deal with numbers which I was never good at, and accounting concepts I did not care much for.  Thank goodness there was Thomas!  He seemed to be the brainy one with all the correct answers.  If there was a financial accounting question ( especially on consolidation), call Thomas.  If there was an audit problem, no problem.  Just call Thomas.  If taxation issues were giving me a headache, call Thomas.  Of course, I remember Thomas!    

Why did he have to leave so soon, I asked myself.  His life was just beginning, being only in his thirties.   He was just getting into a serious relationship, and had set his sights on advancing his career in a new company.  It seemed as if all the good guys were going first.  I remember this senior I looked up to during my schooling years.  We were in the girl guides together.  She was bright, and beautiful.  Suffice to say, I wanted to be like her.  The last time I heard of her, she was bright and beautiful, and dead.  “But it’s not possible!”, I said when I heard the news.  She was only in her late thirties.

I look at my messy hall with all its ice cream stains and the boys’ toys strewn all over.  I look at my unpaid bills steadily piling up in our mail basket.  I look down and caught sight of a flabby stomach.  The children are screaming.  I can hardly hear myself speak. 

On any other day, I would have screamed out loud and called for order.  But today, I let go and let live.  I am happy to be alive!  I love the chaos!  I even love my flabby stomach! I love myself, even if I was not bright and beautiful!

And dear Thomas, wherever you are, know that today and everyday you are well remembered by a friend. 

Here’s one for you Thomas, your favourite tune by Bread.

IF

If a picture paints a thousand words,
Then why can’t I paint you?
The words will never show the you I’ve come to know.
If a face could launch a thousand ships,
Then where am I to go?
There’s no one home but you,
You’re all that’s left me too.
And when my love for life is running dry,
You come and pour yourself on me.

If a man could be two places at one time,
I’d be with you.
Tomorrow and today, beside you all the way.
If the world should stop revolving spinning slowly down to die,
I’d spend the end with you.
And when the world was through,
Then one by one the stars would all go out,
Then you and I would simply fly away

” Meanwhile these three remain: faith, hope and love; and the greatest is love.” Cor 13:13 

 It’s a Tuesday today.  Everyone in this household is running on a routine schedule.  One has to awake for school early in the morning, another attends classes in the afternoon.  The toddler is being what he is everyday, running and jumping and looking out for adventures. 

It’s a routine day for me as well.  I go through the daily chores with familiarity, except that my thoughts are somewhere else today.  Someone special to me passed on five years ago today. 

I recall this conversation I had with my spouse a week ago. 

“Have you forgotten your grandmother?  You don’t talk about her these days,” he asked me out of the blues while at the computer. 

“No.  I never forget her.  I think of her everyday,” I replied.

That’s the truth.  You never forget the person who raised you. 

Our four boys are a handful.  They are energetic, competitive and each has a strong personality.  Come together, they create a source of boundless energy. 

My spouse is the sweetest man I’ve ever known.  He is accommodating, and a good listener.  Lately, he has the opportunity to spend more time with the children when he changed jobs.  

When he does spend time long enough with them, especially with little Brian, he is suddenly transformed into a tyrant.  I hear the screaming and shouting at the boys and I cringed.  It would be unfair for me to comment that this is bad parenting for I know these boys and the mischief they are capable of.    I do the same when my patience runs out. 

Brian, our three year old toddler has tricks up his sleeve every minute he is awake.  He is simply too intelligent, too strong willed and too aggressive for any self respecting adult to deal with.

There was this one incident I remember well.  The little boy was disobedient, totally disregarding his father’s repeated orders.  The man, who at that time was full of anger, called him a monkey. 

What man would call his son animal names, I asked myself.  

It was hard to believe that this docile man was now spitting out sarcastic remarks at his beloved son.

“Stop bullying him,” I said forcefully. 

The young boy was defenceless against this sharp tongued man.  He merely stood by soaking up his father’s torrent of words.

Later that day, I examined my own childhood days.  My memories were of my grandmother’s deep gentleness and endless patience.  I cannot recall an episode of blood hurdling screaming from her, nor a moment of harshness. 

And that is the truth.

A person once told me that his grandmother was formidable.  After exchanging this conversation, I began to appreciate the happy upbringing I had so taken for granted. 

With my boys I’ve tried harshness and hardness.  They always end up agitated and go to bed crying.  My boys’ demented spirits were more torturing than my physical exhaustion.  

Is this how you want them to remember you as, I asked myself. 

Surely, my grandmother would not approve of this.  Her legacy of gentleness, unending patience and tenderness has enabled a safe haven for my being to grow at my own pace and discover myself. 

Even after her death, I strive to please her.  And that is the power of love.          

Every day today, and thereafter, I try my utmost to be patient, kind and tender towards my children, more so in their most rambunctious moments.  It is not half as hard as it sounds when you had had a grandmother like mine.  All the goodness within me is a culmination of her love and devotion dedicated towards a young girl almost four decades ago. 

It is my hope that the boys will one day grow up to be fine young men, each fulfilling his own destiny.  It is my hope too, that one day when my children  are grown, they will look back and say that they led happy lives, and had a mother of a gentle spirit. 

Every time I apply some patience and tenderness instead of harshness, I know that my grandmother lives in my heart. 

In loving memory of Mdm Wong Mei Tai, beloved mother,
grandmother, great grandmother and friend.
(1919-2005)

“My life was now so utterly wretched that I wished I might, like Ginger, drop down dead at my work, and be out of my misery and one day my wish very nearly came to pass.” – an excerpt from Anna Sewell’s Black Beauty.

Daniel is nine years old.  He is turning out to be a regular boy.  He prefers to plop himself in front of the TV rather than play a board game.  Or worse still, sit for hours in front of the computer playing games rather than read a book.

I am somewhat disappointed by his preference of these electronic items over an interesting book.  It is hard to believe that this is the boy I spent afternoons reading to every other day.  I read various types of printed materials to him, all this time trying to instill in him a love for reading. 

He spent many hours reading the renowned ‘Peter and Jane’ series.   I spent many hours coaching him.  We had finally come to book twelve which is the final level of the whole series two months ago. 

“Now you can read any book you want,” I said excitedly.

He did not seem to catch my enthusiasm.  He gave me a look that said, ‘What’s the big fuss all about, mum?’.

The last book of that series had extracts from some well known stories and poems, one of them being Black Beauty.  By chance, I had a copy of Black Beauty in paperback in my drawer upstairs.  I bought it at a fraction of a original price at a warehouse sale.  It still gives me a warm feeling in my stomach to think that I bought the book at such a bargain. 

I shoved the book at the young budding reader and said, read!

He decided that he had better things to do with his time.  The TV and computer were more enticing items than an old boring horse story.  And so, the book lay untouched and in mint condition for weeks.    

Being out of the drawer and onto the table in the open did create some changes if not for the boy, then the mother.   For every time I see the book, it shouted ‘read me!’. 

The instruction from me to read seemed to have fallen on deaf ears.  I was fed up of fighting a losing battle against the TV but as yet, did not know what to do.  After countless attempts to get the boy to read the first chapter, I felt like a fake myself.  A fake because I have never read Black Beauty myself and did not know what lies in between the pages. 

Late one night, I picked up the book and opened Chapter one.  I   started reading the first page.  In the beginning, I would not say it was pleasant reading .  I know nothing of horses and have never experienced a live one before.  I came across unfamiliar vocabulary and terms used to describe a horse and their everyday living.  I stumbled a lot while trying to grasp the meaning behind the words but I continued reading, albeit at a tortoise pace. I was mortified at my slowness and lack of understanding of the printed words. 

“Surely this is not because I am losing it?” I asked myself.  I know I haven’t had any serious reading for years now after my babies were born but surely it is not so easy to lose one’s skill of reading.

If reading this book was giving me such a hard time, then how could the nine year old boy handle this, I wondered.  I was casually looking at the back page when I discovered that this was reading material for ages eight and up. 

I looked at my wrinkles and stretch marks and laughed.  I was so over eight years old!  Now I know I really am losing it.  

I doubled up my reading time.  Days later, I had familiarised myself with horse terms like a bit, bridle, saddle, crupper, bearing reins, dogcart  etc.  and found that to my pleasure, I was starting to read with reasonable ease.

I no longer harassed the nine year old reader to pick up Black Beauty.   I needed the book to myself now that I had started reading it.   I read it as and when I had the chance.  I read it one night while nursing little Simon.  The rest of the boys were upstairs with their father.

I opened Chapter twelve and started reading.  I read of Black Beauty carrying John and his master to town and back when a storm caused damage to a low wooden bridge that ran across the river.  The rushing waters had broken the bridge in the middle but the men were not aware of this.  John coaxed Beauty to cross it but the horse didn’t budge. 

Then I heard a voice from up above.  It was my spouse.

“Are you down there?  It is so quiet.  Do you know that it is past Daniel’s bedtime?” he asked.

I glanced up to look at the time.  Indeed it was!   It was going to be a quarter to nine o’clock!  I had never missed half past eight every night to put Daniel to bed.  He has to wake up for school at six o’clock every day. To ensure that he gets enough rest, I follow this strict regimen of half past eight bedtime every night.   For the first time today I had not kept time.  I was having too much fun.

Suddenly it did feel quiet.  It was quiet where I was sitting nursing my baby.  I could hear the clock ticking and the baby’s regular breathing.  It wasn’t like that a while ago.  There were winds blowing, and branches swaying before a tree uprooted in my world with Beauty. 

I had finally rediscovered the joy of reading for the mere pleasure of it. 

Oh, how I loved Beauty and his adventures.  I read of his good friends, Merrylegs and Ginger.   I read of the goodness of John and James, of the cruelness of man in Nicholas Skinner and  of how Beauty, a prized possession ended up with the old broken-down horses at a horse fair and sold for a mere five pounds.         
         
I should have read this book when I was nine, I said to myself.  There is simply so much to learn and enjoy from a horse like Beauty. 

Well, my son simply considers reading a pre-requisite to the computer for now. 

“If I read one chapter of Black Beauty, can I play the computer after that?”, he asks every weekend. 

“Don’t you want to know what happened during the fire?” I asked once, trying to ignite some form of interest in him.

Nothing magical has happened yet. 

What happened to Black Beauty in the end?  If you haven’t read the book before, it’s never too late to read it now.   It sure beats watching the TV.  

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.