Bugs and Cowardice

It came out of nowhere. One minute, I’m happily going through my hectic week, feeling good about sticking to my new-found determination to work out and generally being a productive member of my household and society when, AAA-Chooo!!! There it was. A bug so virulent that I woke up with a 38.5 degree fever, burning eyeballs that won’t stop crying; dry, muscle reacquainting cough and a runny nose that must have seen Kleenex tissue sales ramp up in a weekend. And I bravely soldiered on, mind you. I finished the rough draft of my gallery paper through a fever-induced haze. I sat down for every meal. I swallowed an impressive array of cough and cold medicine, over-the-counter, homeopathic, herbal and everything in between. And then I gave the bug to my kids.

See, this is what I’m bemoaning about. After the very real ache of missing out on hugs and kisses given to and received from my offspring, I am feeling very sore about passing on this, well, flu, or whatever it is. What was the point of shooing them away from my room? Or of wiping the keyboard and mousepad with antiseptic? Or of washing my hands after every sneeze? My poor babies. Because that’s what they are when they’re sick. My babies. In my eyes, I see the babies that they were and I revisit each and every memory of their growth. I tell myself that this episode is far less worrying than the time we had to rush each kid to the hospital, over bad falls, convulsions brought on by fever, allergies, jaundice… I put my faith in God and medicine. Surely, these are good kids and the Lord will hear my simple prayer.

And yet, as I stay up all night to put cold compress over a seven-year old’s feverish forehead, I lose all my confidence and start to let my mind wander. Why is he not responding to the medicine like his big brother? When I see our older son bravely state that he thinks he can manage to go to school and then promptly collapse from a dizzy spell, I ask what did I miss? I go crazy over the type of soup they should eat, if they are drinking enough fluids, or if it’s time to see the doctor. What if it’s worse than I think? And so on and so forth; one grim possibility compounded by another.

“Children make cowards of us all,” a wise old friend paraphrased Hamlet to me. I was once a fearless, perhaps even impetuous youth. Nothing fazed me for I knew early on that life is hard, it is tragic, and it is not for the faint-hearted or for the lazy. I would dare to do anything I believe in. I used to say smugly, “I live my life at 200 miles per hour” with all the heartache, drama and excitement that came with that speed. But that has all changed when my children came into the picture. All of a sudden, I am afraid. Of so many things – the air we breathe, the water we drink, the food we eat… are they clean enough or will they make my children sick? Afraid of speed, the one thing I loved the most about anything and everything. I never liked waiting, and all of a sudden, I worry that cars are going too fast, that the lessons and activities in the classroom are just a blur, that everything in media sets up ADHD, and that the kids are growing up too fast. I worry about wars. I worry about the economy collapsing. I worry about real estate. I even worry about my getting sick. Again. Who will take care of my kids?

I just set up a doctor’s appointment for tomorrow. It can’t hurt. They are better, or so they say. The fever is slight. The TV is on. The short school week almost over, and the Chinese New Year long weekend is waiting for us to be back on our feet so we can face everything head on once again. A barbecue and a swim have been set up. A visit to the museum. Plans for play dates (the term which the kids no longer use) and grown up only dinners. House cleaning (hah!). Emails to be checked. Photos to be scanned and uploaded. School project to be worked on. We can’t afford to be sick. I can’t make myself sick with worry.

So I will put on my brave face and smile as I check up on the two boys. I will use my chatter about vitamins and sleep and rest to hide my fear. I will insist on them eating the chicken vegetable soup as I check their temperature. And I will say we're going to see the doctor tomorrow with nonchalance. After all, it's just a little bug (I hope).

1.1.11

It's a glorious winter's morning on the first day of the new year and I find myself in my unsexy but comfy flannel pajamas, happily slouched in the worn leather armchair in our bedroom, the smell of the morning coffee and fresh laundry lingering in the air. The boys have been out for over an hour now, skiing Blackcomb on what would be hopefully a mountain deprived of hung-over skiers and boarders. I made them a hearty breakfast of bird's nest with parmesan cheese and ham, youghurt and juice - my contribution to their excited quest to ski as often as they could whilst we spend the holidays in Whistler.

I have not found the courage to take skiing lessons. Fear of so many things keep me rooted to our warm, safe, chore-filled house. Instead of celebrating the new year on the slopes with my boys, I have several loads of laundry to do, beds to make, dishes to wash and put away, meals to plan and shop for, toys to be tidied up, and yes, a couple of social sites to be updated. I've got my routine in Whistler all figured out sans the resentment of being the unpaid housekeeper on what is supposed to be a three week vacation trip over Christmas. It's a new place to be in for me, this whole, loving service to the family ON A DAILY BASIS. I've done this countless times before, and I wouldn't say I'm ecstatic about this role, but I am strangely ok with it. I did have one outburst at the beginning of the trip - a necessary impassioned lecture of how I am NOT to be ignored whilst issuing my mommy commands to put dirty clothes in the hamper or putting plates away in the kitchen. That set the tone, and even though there are more misses than hits, the boys don't just sit around expecting to be waited on hand and foot.

I let thoughts of relocating our family to Canada intrude into my reality, wondering if this very "ordinariness" of living it out in our modest three-bedroom townhouse is giving me a taste of what it would be like to live in this part of the world. This trip is different, I think, because it's the first time I am not looking at it as a vacation/holiday per se. It is just IS. I thought we have been behaving as we would've had we been home, except that instead of school and work, there's the mad rush to get to the ski lifts in the mornings. And I am left to my own devices again. It is strangely freeing this time around. I know I have a choice.

I was looking forward to a lot of free time for introspection. My idea of not skiing involved a lot of reading on my new Kindle, photographing with my new macro lens out in the woods, catching up on my favorite tv shows, and dishing out lovely bowls of steaming stews to warm us up at the end of the day. None of these things have happened yet. The reality is that it is a challenge to set up our rental place to make it more OUR HOME than a serviced apartment, and my sensibilities won't allow me to let the place go to seed while we're here. I reluctantly rediscovered the simple joy (yes!) of keeping house, OUR house; the creative ways of cooking with a very limited pantry and very expansive tastes, the subtle challenge of relaxation when you're very aware of "mess" that could build up unchecked... I guess what would've been resentment for being the housekeeper by default was overcome with the satisfaction of ownership, and the warmth from seeing my family tired but exhilarated from days of conquering themselves on the snow-covered mountains.

********

Sigh... It is now three days later and I am determined to put up this post. Life happens as a mother blogs. The boys arrived and I had to give up the laptop for my husband's use - a marathon session on Bloomberg. The kids needed their snacks, dinner had to be prepared, laundry had to folded, exciting stories to be heard. The next couple of days saw us saying goodbye to visiting friends and taking down our beautiful Christmas tree, followed by a wrestling session between the vacuum cleaner and countless pine needles stubbornly clinging to the carpet. Our ornaments were carefully wrapped and put away for the year, and Santa's presents were packed for the long trip ahead. Wishes to stop renting out our place were voiced, together with the moans accompanying clean up day.

I eye the not-so-little children with a mix of nostalgia and proud amazement, marvel at how they display their personalities with a newfound confidence, slightly annoyed at this new tone of sassiness. I stifle a smile when Dylan said he wasn't ready to give up his Monobloks and toy truck just yet; there is a little bit left of my baby in that loud, happy, assertive, pre-pubescent boy. I barely keep my surprise when Jake puts his arms around me to give me a quick hug at the end the day. I relish our cuddling time on the couch that almost always end up in a tickling/dogpile session. The couch, nay, the house, can barely contain our growing kids. We think perhaps it's time to start looking for a bigger place.

So in the end, the familiar routine, the rhythm of our family togetherness, the cadence of my kid's growth, these things took the angst out of holiday travel and released me to enjoy the simplier things in winter time living in Whistler, really our second home. I can't think of where else we'd like to spend our Christmas in the future. I guess we better start looking for a bigger home here :)

Dining Solo

 

It’s just one of those days… I found myself rushing to complete and submit my visa application at the Canadian High Commission, and before I knew it, it was lunch time and I hadn’t made any plans.  I suppose most people would simply just head back home, but I was in the middle of a bustling central business district, surrounded by people happily chattering on their way to lunch.  I thought, heck, I should be going out to a nice meal, on a nice sunny day like today, visa application sorted and all.

Except none of the people I rang could get away at the last minute.  One had a lunch meeting, another was finishing a deadline, another had kids staying home for the Thanksgiving break, and well, the last one was all the way in New Zealand!  I was this close to feeling like a big, sorry loser, when I decided taking my brother’s advice of eating out on my own was probably the lesser “loser” proposition. 

To my surprise, I had the most enjoyable lunch experience on my own.  I found myself at one of my favorite places in Singapore – Dempsey.  My favorite restaurant, Tippling Club, is there, and we’ve celebrated many a happy occasion inside that temple of food.  The day spa I go to is there as well.  Two of my favorite butchers/delicatessens are there, and there’s a good range of restaurants to choose from, should we decide to take people out for a meal, from Jim Thompson (Thai), Longbeach Seafood/Jumbo Seafood Restaurant (chili crabs), House (bistro-style food), Au Petit Salut (French), Margarita’s (Mexican), Prime Society (meat haven) and PS Cafe (cafe with killer desserts).  But today I found myself checking out one of the newer restaurants – Pamplemousse.

A small, elegant restaurant situated in the quieter corner of Dempsey (Block 7), Pamplemousse proudly displays its ingredient inspirations on its giant chalkboard, eliciting an excited smile from me as I wonder if truly, the chefs have tried to create dishes that marry distinct world flavours together.  And were they happy unions or …?

I decided to try their prix fixe lunch menu (at$32++ for three courses).  To test the kitchen, I ordered the frisée salad with lardons and a poached egg enveloped with a crispy crumb crust.  Maybe it’s my head cold, but I found the lardons a little on the bland side, making me wish for a little bit of salt. The  frisée itself looked a little yellow (or I only got the yellow bits on my plate), but still held a good crunch.  I could see the mustard seeds from the dressing, but could not taste them.  The winner is the crumbed egg, perfectly cooked, and the liquid amber yolk was a beautiful addition to the salad.

For the main course, I ordered the Uni Tagliolini, a decadent pasta dish that I would definitely keep going back for.  The creamy “crustacean sauce” was rich without being cloying, and the fresh sea urchin was delicious without any fishy taste or smell.  The surprise was the pork gratons used as a garnish – at first bite I thought I had bitten on some sand, but they provided a good counterpoint to the richness of the dish.  The pasta was perfectly cooked as well, and I would not hesitate to order a dinner portion of this dish for next time.

Lastly, the dessert.  I am a pushover when it comes to panna cotta, and I was very intrigued with the description for this number: red bean jelly, lotus cream, “mooncake” crumble, pandan frozen yoghurt (fresh strawberry slices were used for garnish).  The panna cotta itself was absolutely delicious and I thought it should have stood on its own without the other embellishments.  It was firm but luscious, and the red bean taste was a good surprise.  The pandan yoghurt was a little overpowering for the delicate flavor and texture of the panna cotta itself.  Good on its own, and with the fresh, tart strawberry, and maybe even with the mooncake crumble (which also provided a nice contrast to the velvety panna cotta), but together with the panna cotta, well… it was like your drunk uncle showing up at your ladies’ tea party.

All told, the experience was worthwhile.  The service was impeccable, the setting absolutely lovely, and I actually dug the music.  I could see myself coming back with a few friends and finishing a few bottles of wine to complete a fine meal.  Today, I had to settle for a Pearl of the Orient tea (TWG?), which is what a spontaneous, decadent lunch deserves.

Will I eat out on my own again?  I think most definitely, yes!  But maybe next time I’ll bring a bit of “work” to do so I will feel less guilty about this sudden indulgence.  Oh, speaking of guilt, I actually walked next door to a Pilates studio to sign up for a trial class next week.  After a lunch like that, and with my new-found affection to dining solo, well, working off those calories will help ease my conscience.

Til the next food expedition!

Proud Moments

 

Parenting is never easy.  As a woman, it starts with the nine months of gestation.  You worry about what you are feeding your child through all those weird cravings.  You listen to the “right” kind of music to help stimulate his brain development.  You take walks in the hope the rocking motion will lull him to sleep and make it stop kicking you so hard.

Then you give birth, and all those books and blogs about sleepless nights, endless diaper changes, spit-ups, mastitis, well, they’re all true.  Don’t even get me started with your own personal issues that include weight gain and confidence loss.  Those are real enough, but that’s not the point of this story.

As your child, or in my case, two children grow up, parenting affords you more sleep.  In my case, that was when my youngest turned five and he started sleeping through the night in his own bed.  That meant nine years of sleepwalking excuses are out the window, and I don’t have to walk and look like a zombie during the day.  Getting enough sleep (for the most part) makes you think that parenting does get easier.

Every skill your child learns, like feeding himself, wiping his own bottom, dressing up on his own, preparing his own school bag, setting the table, googling his homework assignment and mercilessly kicking you to the ground in the latest Halo game, well, they all gift you with a sense of pride and amazement – pride that the little man has acquired yet another step closer to independence, and amazement that you were instrumental in some way in his achievement, be it only limited to buying the darned Xbox and controllers.

Our eldest has been a constant source of pride and concern, love and worry, wonder and puzzlement.  He is such an enigma to me, and his unique persona has always challenged the way I show my love as a parent.  He is such a kind-hearted, generous and forgiving boy that we lovingly tease him as the “Dalai Lama.”  A creative thinker with a vivid imagination, his classwork over the years had been pockmarked with meetings with teachers and specialists who remark on his distractibility and genius, and his seeming inability to finish work on time.  I don’t think I can venture a guess as to how many sleepless nights I spent worrying and shedding a tear or two for my son, whom I’ve now cocooned into this image of fragility.  And oh, the self-doubt as a mother! 

My youngest is almost the polar opposite of his brother. He is competitive, prone to melodramatic outbursts (unfortunately, like his mother), outgoing and quite mature for his age. At seven, he acts like a moody teenager, self-conscious yet assertive at the same time. He is a wonderful mix of intelligence, roughness and sweetness, but don't ever tell him he's cute. I worry about totally different things with this young man. He seems so self-assured sometimes it's easy to overlook that he is still a child.

After eleven and a half years, I’ve finally reached a place where I can pull back in respect and watch my eldest son transform himself into a young man, philosophies, quirks, humour, style, tastes coming into his own.  And his little brother is not far behind. It’s always been clear to me that our primary job as parents is stewardship that leads to responsible self-determination (that sounds like it came from a brochure!).  If we teach our kids correctly, then we would’ve equipped them with life skills, a beliefs and value system and hopefully, a world view that makes them live their lives as responsible, caring citizens of the planet.  It sounds like a tall order, but we have 18 years to do it, and fingers crossed they keep coming back to visit.

Proud and prouder moments as a parent are and always will be too numerous, but the real gems to me are those moments when I see my kids shine as their own, as individuals separate from me and my ideas of who I think they are or should be.  It’s when a clever quip comes out of my younger son’s mouth, or when my oldest, who’s normally quite reserved, cracks a funny joke or a witty remark.  It’s when I see my eldest tiptoe into the little one’s room to plant a goodnight kiss on the head and a pat on the back.  It’s when I hear them tell stories about their day that ends with a criticism or an opinion.  It’s when I catch them looking out for each other without being told, when they volunteer to help without being asked, and when they ask me about my day (like, you’re interested in someone else?).

I don’t know if I’ll ever reach the point where I am actually proud of myself as a mother, but dang!  I get sooo happy and full of love for these kids just too many times I feel so lucky!  Jake and Dylan, if you ever get to read this, know that Mom loves you and always will no matter what, and that your Dad and I are soooooo proud of you for just being yourselves!  Thanks for being such great kids! I look forward to your teenage years ;P

A New House Around the Corner

Aaah, the life of an expat! After almost three years in an old colonial style bungalow, we moved to a year-old, modern resort (read:all white, glass and concrete box with three reflection pools and lots of plants along the perimeter) house, ironically, on the other side of the dreaded highway. But what a difference a street makes!


You've all heard me moan about "too much jungle" when we lived on Mt. Pleasant Rd. Well, I am happy to report that the new neighborhood doesn't have monkeys invading our trash bins every weekend. I haven't spotted a monitor lizard, or skinks or geckos. No squirrels, bats or owls. Most importantly, no snakes (knock on wood)!!! But this being Singapore, you can never be too far away from little critters. We have spied moths of various sizes, garden snails that leave disgusting trails on the white wall fence, cute little frogs (one of which has been successfully captured as a specimen and placed under a magnifier and eventually released), about five species of ants so far, but the best part - two birds who have made a nest in our balcony planter box. They are gorgeous and I am on a mission to find out what type of bird they are. My eleven year old and I were so inspired, we finished painting our birdhouse.



We are all pretty pleased with the move. Four bedrooms, an attic which serves as a guest room/arts and crafts space/storage, a basement and a small roof garden make for a spacious home where everyone has room to move. The boys are thrilled to have their own room, and I am just happy to have toilets that don't clog and doors that lock. There's still quite a bit of sorting and discarding and re-purposing to do, and we're to leave for our month long summer trip to Canada, but the house is shaping up. I'm hoping to have it ready for a housewarming/birthday party by September.



Having said all this, the house is not without its share of, er, problems. Ironically, it shares a lot in common with the older house across the highway. The glass panels that form the "sky wall" that runs the height of the house leaks everytime it rains. The contractor explained to me that the aluminum bars that hold the glass panels are hollow inside, and if there's even a pin sized gap in the joints, the water will seep in and run through what would be effectively hollow pipes. Thus, the water that pools at the basement. The outdoor kitchen which we thought was a blessing is turning out to be a major electrical hazard in the rain. Being built on an elevated platform and having very little by way of eaves or even a sloping roof, rain falls in sheets and splatters everywhere, drenching everything up to table height. I've warned our helper not to operate say, the iron, or any other appliances while it's raining. Lastly, the fuse box trips every time it rains, killing half the circuits of the house. That means the kitchen, study, basement,three bedrooms and the service area are without electricity. And funny enough, flicking the circuit breakers don't seem to help when it's raining. Doesn't this all sound painfully familiar? It's the same lament I used to moan about when we were at Mt. Pleasant.

At least our landlord here employs a property manager/broker who seems receptive to our requests. He really does seem like a nice, honest man, but it's been over a month now since our move, and well, the problems are still waiting to be fixed. And oh, I failed to mention the almost-deal-breaker: the property next door is being demolished and in its place will be two super houses. A year-long construction that involves piling is looming at us. The surveyor came into the house to take pictures and give us a copy of the house report before the demolition started (two weeks into our move) and to soften the blow a bit, gave us two bottles of wine with the report. Sigh...

On the upside, we are at least enjoying thinking about design and furniture. We tell ourselves that this is a dry run for when we build/own our own home. We will know exactly what we want, and what design flaws we want to avoid. A contemporary home cannot be all about looks, and I wonder how architects and designers can design good-looking houses with so many impractical features.

How long do we think we'll live in this new house? Who knows? As an expat, I've learned to take things as they come along, to wait wait until the last minute, to make the most of what is here and now and to think there's no such thing as a perfect place, but where ever my family is, is home. So this is home for now. It's a little like me, a work in progress. I hope this place will give us a lot of happy memories just like all the previous homes we've lived in.

Resolutions Return

As wont to happen to me, I start off hot and cool down to a low simmer until perhaps I give the impression that the fire is completely gone. Ergo, the gentle accusations of my husband about my rollercoaster interest in art, photography, and gasp! fitness! Who can blame him? This blog languised for half a year from neglect as I let real life take over my time.

But it is a new year. Yay, 2010! Eleven years of marriage and fifteen of togetherness. Two sons who are truly our pride and joy. Four countries and six abodes. Disparate travel miles scattered over several flyer clubs, countless hotel and shop memberships, almost a terrabyte of digital photos to catalogue our expat life, not to mention meals and bites and feasts to mark occasions both joyous and tragic...such has been my life so far.

I have given up on making new year's resolutions a long time ago. I think it came together with the realization that I never fully enjoyed the body that I had at any moment, always focusing on its flabs and flaws. I stumbled upon some old photographs taken when I was three months pregnant, me - in a two piece bikini, sunning on a rock in the ocean, surrounded by limestone cliffs. Man, I was hot! And I never fully knew it.

So I tell myself to take it easy on the self-flagellation (albeit of the emotional kind). To like my body, and dress it to show its good side, to walk a little taller in my better clothes and fancy shoes. Heck, it's been one challenging journey to get to where I am, I need to like myself.

So now I do, and maybe a little too much. I fear I've spoiled myself with the good life and ignored the inches and lbs, the little aches and pains, the lines and folds... Until I woke up startled at dawn a few days ago with a word ringing in my ears: GOUT! It was followed by DIABETES. The diseases that my late father suffered through until he passed away. What if... I had been warned seven years ago that if I'm careful with my health, I would be susceptible to the same diseases, especially since I had gestational diabetes. And oh yeah, that disease known as the "Big C." Has it been so long ago that I had been sick that I have forgotten my risks?

I had a conversation with God after all my chemo and radiation therapy were done, that if I get twenty more years, I will be so happy, and anything on top of that would be like the icing to the cake. It will be seven years this year.

My eldest is in fifth grade, and the youngest in first grade. A long way to go before I can see them graduate from university, and God-willing, perhaps get married. My husband is just entering his peak and is in the prime of his health. There are so many things we do and still so many things left to be done! I want to be around them for as long as possible, healthy, able and active.



So you see, perhaps it's not a bad idea for me to have a few new year's resolutions. I found a stronger incentive than looking good in a pair of skinny jeans and a tight t-shirt. Motivation, inspiration, reason, thy names are Scott, Jacob and Dylan. I have to, want to be healthy for them. I hope I'm not too late...


nb:
Will blog about my efforts just so I can either rejoice in my accomplishments, or shame myself into doing better ;)

Painting with Goh Ee Choo

This is my painting corner. The past year has seen me visit the Nanyang Academy of Fine Arts once a week, to take lessons under Singapore contemporary artist Goh Ee Choo. He has won numberous awards and accolades and his works are owned both by private collectors and the Singapore National Museum. But you would never know it just by looking at him.

Mr. Goh, or Laoshi, to his students, is my first true exposure to the quitessential Singaporean. He is very opinionated about Singapore, and all the trials and tribulations that living here entails. Yet, his comments are always done in good-natured humour, and with an endearing self-effacement that one can't help but get swayed, if not altogether involved in his discussions on everything economic and politic, and to our consternation, art.

See, Laoshi is a reformed artist. A Buddhist who has wrestled with his demons and has now found peace teaching painting to bored housewives, cocky art students and working professionals with a few extra hours of spare time in their hands. To say that he is laid-back is an understatement. Nothing fazes the man, and he is a pragmatist when it comes to his students' talents, or lack thereof. I suspect his wonderful wife, Mrs. Goh, who is also an able artist herself, is a grounding presence and must be responsible for keeping him sane and on time (private joke here).

Thanks to Mr. Goh, I found out that I can stick to something and see it through. At the end of the year, I was able to finish two charcoal drawings, two watercolor paintings, and two oil paintings, the difference between each piece evident and startling. I chuckle to remember how terrified we were at the beginning of each painting, how impossible it seemed to get anything finished, and how daunting it was to look at a subject and recognize the various tonal values, shapes, color and proportion.

To compare the first drawing with the one made towards the end of the year is to feel a sense of satisfation, not because the pieces were perfect (far from it!) but the knowledge you have learned and improved is truly empowering. Anyone can paint after all!

I am far from being an "artist" but now I approach my paintings and drawings not with dread and apprehension, but with an inquisitive mind, a more intelligent eye, and a humble belief that in time, it can be done. So thank, Laoshi, for being a patient and encouraging teacher, and a funny one at that.