The most anticipated event of the year is just two weeks away.  My one and only sibling will be hosting his wedding dinner.  For years now, he has remained, I believed, a happy bachelor.  And for years now, my parents have urged their only son, my brother to settle down with a nice looking young lady.  At that time, he was in his early thirties. 

Two years ago, he surprised us all by bringing a charming young lady home for dinner on Christmas eve.  Late last year, he went hunting for the perfect diamond ring for the perfect proposal.  She accepted, much to our delight.  Early this year, the engaged couple announced that there will be a wedding this May. 

My parents were overjoyed.  Then, the mad scrambling began.  Nearly every other week, my mum and I were out shopping for clothes, or footwear, or makeup, or all those just mentioned.  I felt as if I’ve done more shopping in the last six weeks than I had  in the last six years.  

I am sure I will meet that long lost aunt that I haven’t seen for years.  Or bump into the old friend who happened to be in the same alma mater as I was twenty years ago.  These thoughts were enough motivation for me to put on my jogging shoes every morning. 

Suffice to say, I truly looked forward to this celebration. 

Alas!  Life brings forth unexpected circumstances.  James, our six year old developed a cough and had fever three days ago.    Yesterday, his buttock developed red rashes.  Today I wasted no time in taking him to see our doctor.  She took one look, and diagnosed him with hand-foot-and-mouth disease.  As this illness is contagious, she advised us to frequently wash our hands. After twenty minutes of dos and don’ts, she sent us home with some medicines and no charge on her part.  I learnt this morning, that life too, can bring pleasant surprises. 

I am expecting the worst.  Daniel and Brian both have fever now and are complaining of sore throats. 

We are invited to attend my brother’s wedding dinner hosted by the bride this Saturday before the church wedding next week.  Looking at our current circumstance, it seemed unlikely for the boys to attend the dinner which is only two days away.       

My spouse and I earnestly would like to join the wedding couple in their most joyous moments, and be part of their happy memories.  For both of us to attend, the boys will need a sitter for that night.  My parents, who have so faithfully helped us with the boys will, of course, not be available this weekend.

We sat scratching our heads, thinking up a solution for our current predicament. My spouse suggested that he would ask a sibling for help.  The plan was to ask the person to spend a few hours at our house, to help take care of the children, while we attend the dinner. 

I thought it was a good idea to our baby sitting woes.  My spouse proceeded to make the call.

I sat in my corner, thinking of life and its unpleasant surprise with the onset of this hand-foot-and-mouth illness.  Still swirling in the events of today, I was totally ill prepared for the next upcoming unpleasant surprise.

There will be no help coming from this person.  I scarcely believed what my spouse had to tell me.   She is just too afraid to catch this illness from the boys which mainly affects infants and children. 

“But adults are not threatened by this illness,” I argued. 

My spouse merely shrugged.  He is just as disappointed by her response as I am.  He has no words for me. 

Where is the family when we need help? 

Two nights ago, the baby decided that he would retire early for the day.  The rest of the bigger boys, having had an active day, also went to bed early.  On a rare occasion like this, I suddenly found myself with some free time to do as I pleased. 

I looked forward to spend some quiet time with my spouse.  As I came out of the room, I thought that it would be a good idea to call the bank first.  I tried to use my credit card that afternoon, but the transaction, for some reason unknown, was unsuccessful.

I called their twenty four hour telebanking service.  As usual, I was greeted by a friendly computerized voice.  Let’s just make a detour here.  Why is it that businesses always use a female’s voice but never a male’s?  Anyway, that’s not important.   I was put on hold as I listened to muzak. 

I noticed that I was holding on longer than usual.  Never mind, I told myself.  I turned on the computer, and started surfing the net while still holding on.  I had finished surfing my regular sites but had not had a chance yet to speak to a human voice.  I looked up at the clock, and discovered that twenty minutes had passed since I made the call.

Patience is a virtue, I told myself.  And so, I continued holding on.    Thirty minutes went by without me speaking to anyone.   I started fidgeting in my seat.  My spouse happened to walk pass.  Without missing a beat, I started venting out my frustrations. 

“I’ve been waiting on the line since you went downstairs,” I said. “Can you believe this?”

He gave me a look that said, “ Why are you  still holding on?”

“They really need to improve their services,” I continued. “Or maybe, no one is working tonight.  They conveniently turned on the answering machine and went home.” 

I had no inkling why I held on the line for such a long time.  Perhaps I have this stubborn streak in me that would not let me hang up. 

After forty five minutes of waiting, I was feeling really agitated and ready to give the officer at other end of the line a piece of my mind.   Let’s not waste time, I said to myself.  And so, I rehearsed my little speech of dissatisfaction in my head over and over again. 

I never got to speak with anyone that night.  My patience ran out after an hour of holding on.  I slammed down the phone and stormed downstairs. 

It was already closed to midnight.  A supposedly simple ten minute phone call turned out to be an unpleasant experience that night.  After a brief fifteen minute conversation with my spouse, I was ready to hit the sack.  Quality time between the both of us will have to wait some other time.

It was a perfectly good evening ruined.   

Real People, True Stories.

Cheers! 

“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)

I was not unlike any child.  I can barely recall playing with Barbie dolls, but I clearly remember wanting to be a princess.  Once upon a time, I deeply desired to wear the beautiful delicate tiara on my hair, to adorn the long flowing white gown, and to waltz around in my high stiletto shoes. 

My present is far less glamorous.  My only pair of high heels are kept snugly in the shoe rack, at rest patiently for the next formal dinner to be worn.  In the meantime, they provide a conducive home for a spider who wants to spin a web.  When I go out these days, I instinctively reach out for my dull grey sneakers. I reasoned that wearing comfortable flat shoes is a better deal when I have to chase after a four year old while juggling two bags of groceries.

I just rummaged through my wardrobe the other day, looking through my apparels.  Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of my stunning green two piece ‘princess’ dinner gown.  I only wore it once at my cousin’s wedding.  That was one of the few times I truly felt like a princess walking into the beautiful ballroom.

Hanging next to this is my stunning black glittering dress which I wore for my own wedding dinner.  That too, I wore only once.  I never did find another good enough reason to put it on again.   

Reminiscing the past, I was quickly brought back into the present when I looked down at my worn out T shirts.  These seemed to be hot items to dress oneself in nowadays now that there are one infant and three other boisterous youngsters to care for.  After giving birth seven months ago I am still happily adorning my bulky pregnancy clothes.  Somewhere along the years, comfort seemed to have taken precedence over outer appearances. 

I cut off my beautiful mane after the birth of my eldest child.  He was a difficult baby who loved to cry incessantly. I discovered that it was too cumbersome to towel dry my hair with one hand while carrying a wailing child in another.  Life is too short to be stressful, so I simply did the easiest thing I knew how.  I cut my hair short.  

Never mind if my shirts are three sizes larger than me, or if my hair looks like a mop.  My children can never tell the difference between a mother and a stylish princess.  There are unsettled bills, an untidy house to clean up daily and four children who need several baths a day.  Despite these and the daily obstacles called life, I feel content of my existence. 

Well, if this were a fairy tale, the prince and the princess would have lived happily ever after. 

Unfortunately my spouse and I are not cut out from a storybook and I was not a princess. 

The unexpected, or should I say, expected happened.  My Prince came home one day, and called me an aunty!  I don’t know how, what, why and where it started but he called me an aunty.    

I stared at him with laser beam eyes.  “What did you just call me?” I asked. 

I couldn’t believe it! I was supposedly to be his perpetually beautiful princess.  And now, I am transformed into a frump. There isn’t even a wicked witch in this story.

He laughed and I frowned.  He loves to see me irritated, and he loves it even more knowing that he is doing a good job at it. 

It used to be, “ How was your day hon?”, now it’s “How was your day aunty?” 

It used to be, “Dearie, please come here”, now it’s “Aunty, hey, aunty, come here.”

What’s worst than being called an aunty is that I respond every time he calls!  In the beginning, I retaliated but eventually I got tired of fighting and conceded. 
 
Perhaps now I know why I keep buying my fish from the same fishmonger.  He greets and addresses me as ‘little missy’.

Real People, True Stories.

Cheers!