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.