It’s Almost Halloween…

Posted on October 15, 2010 by admin

Halloween decorations are in… Ocean Park and various other amusement parks will probably be having some cool events for the youth population again, like they do every year.

And people dress up too… Best costume I’ve seen was the teenaged girl  enjoying the Ocean Park ghoul rides dressed as the traditional evil spirit under an umbrella (Pei Pah Ching I think they call it) – elaborate period chinese costume complete right down to the shoes, plus an old chinese parasol, and all the white makeup

Rockstar refused to stand anywhere near the spiders so he’s standing just outside the frame while I get this shot of some of the decorations newly put up around our development.

For School Dress Up Day in 2 weeks, Rockstar wants to be a policeman, after briefly considering the fireman costume: “It looks hot. No, I want policeman then.”

It’s going to be my first attempt at volunteering for the school and us volunteers meet today at the Hong Kong Cricket Club. The Year 2s had several mums  (led by a mum who was an event organizer) who wanted more activities, so they rolled up their sleeves and organized ‘em themselves. Zero budget from the school. They pay first, split up among all the mums, absorb the difference.

When the school suggested Year 1 mums follow their lead, me and another working mum raised our hands (do they still do that in the schools?)

I’m thinking about what I should wear.

What, you thought people only put on “costumes” for Halloween?

Really?

You have another think coming. Many of us “dress up” a lot more than that.  We do it for work to be taken seriously, and when we don’t work, we do it to be taken seriously.

I wear my diamonds when I’m hanging around our housing development (I bother less, when I’m shopping or hanging out with friends). And I’m definitely not the only mum chasing their rockstar on his bike or scrambling up some toddler gym with her diamonds on. Seriously – beautiful, antique looking engagement rings, classic Tiffany 3-stone rings with the sapphire side stones, Big Fat Rock rings, you see em all.

(Why? Didn’t ask the other mums, but I’m doing it because sometimes an idiot guard or receptionist mistakes me for a helper when I’m walking JD and gives me a hard time (much to the amusement of ex-colleagues I relay this to):

“It is the rule to muzzle your dog in this development. Oh, she’s wearing a muzzle? Well, you need to change it because the dog is black and the muzzle is black.”

“Yes, I can see you have now sewed a pink ribbon onto the black muzzle. However, I can now also see the dog is panting heavily despite having it on. That must mean you have not tightened the muzzle sufficiently.”

“Are you even 30, to get to live in a place like this?”

Welcome to the concept of “F* O* Diamonds.” Wear them, and you don’t have to say that to people. F* O*, I mean

I like a drugstore fake tan on occasion. However porcelain fair skin is highly prized among North Asians, there is absolutely no market for “hitam manis”. So if you’re darker and not a Sarong Party Girl or on a Gwailo’s arm, you must be the maid.)

AND THEN –

I’m going to put myself out there and say mums judge each other.

(Fine, You Who Do Not Judge, you’re a better person than I am. Happy?)

It’s like telling yourself not to think of Mc Donald’s French fries when you’re on a diet. Or Double Fudge Sundaes. Or Starbucks Grande Caramel Lattes with the whipped cream on top. Or a Bailey’s. Snickers. Mars Bars. Oooo Kit Kat.

It’s reflex. Human nature. We stop judging when we’re 6 feet underground. Or in an urn.

Sitting and waiting together for the principal to arrive and give us an introductory talk as mums of the new kids, WE JUDGE.

In the holding room before our group of toddlers begin their evaluation interviews, WE JUDGE.

When another mum is totally dressed to the nines and clicking after her toddler in 4-inch heels, WE JUDGE.

When the other mum is on the cellphone and doesn’t see her toddler clambering up the barricade until he topples over the top and starts bawling, WE JUDGE.

So I put on my “appropriate Mummy outfit” today – preppy Ralph Lauren or some other collared shirt, no wide neckline (many mums of toddlers would have learned the hard way that no matter how trendy you wanna dress, you can’t wear a wide neckline because you will forever be flashing everyone as you bend over to tend to your toddler), nice flats – except Rockstar isn’t even with me today.

And why am I not at all surprised every single mum at the meeting is swishing on an iPhone to keep up with the school emails, health notices and what not? Oh, and we’ve all downloaded software like ABC Balloon Pop for our kids…

Viva la Halloween. When everyone comes clean about putting on costumes.

And you have an actual excuse for eating multiple Kit Kats.

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Significant Conversation #99

Posted on October 15, 2010 by admin

Rockstar: I don’t have friends in school.

(Not completely true, more like he doesn’t know any of his friends’ names yet. There are a lot more kids in school now than he used to have.)

Me: Oh really? You had friends in your old school. And you had “Audreee”.

(Rockstar loved “Audreee” when he was 18 months old, She was the first toddler to ever approach my markedly reserved son. For months, every girl, every princess in his bedtime stories was “Audreee”.)

Rockstar (horrified): Audrey? Mum. That’s a GIRL!

Me: You liked Audrey, remember?

Rockstar: I don’t like girls. Girls are so funny. They are ALL. Funny.

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Significant Conversation #98

Posted on October 15, 2010 by admin

Rockstar (complaining): I’m so SMALL!

Me: You’re small because Daddy is small. But do you know something else?

Daddy is SMART. And , he’s NICE.

Rockstar: But he’s not PRETTY.

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Dear Rockstar, Money Can’t Buy You Happiness, But…

Posted on October 13, 2010 by admin

Dear Rockstar,

This is one of those posts that Mummy hopes you aren’t going to read one day and hate her for. You have a friend named Joe coming today. At the tender age of almost 33 months, you’ve decided Joe, at 16 years, is your idol (after Daddy of course).

Joe’s the big, blonde English boy who towers over your 5ft 6 ½ inch Mummy, is on his school rugby team (Rugby! How cool is that??) and – he treats you with respect and listens patiently when many of the slightly older kids in school and around you haven’t been.

Mummy and Daddy used to pay Joe to visit. We got to know him back when you were a baby and he was the stepson of Mummy’s colleague. Joe’s stepfather told Mummy back then he was saving up for a trip to Vietnam and looking for odd jobs.

But now with all the rugby he hasn’t seen you in awhile and wanted to see how you are.  (Your parents are still trying to give him lai see/ ang pow though.)

During the last Swine Flu scare, you caught a (not Swine Flu but nonetheless particularly nasty) throat infection, and The Nice Lady Doctor You Like Visiting advised us to keep you at home from your very crowded local playschool for awhile.

Mummy and Daddy were both working hard back then and we didn’t want to simply leave you at home for long hours with a helper, so we started paying kids we knew to come in and speak to you in perfect English or Putonghua when you were still a baby (and Jie-jie was supposed to speak to you in Bahasa instead of broken English). That was The Plan.

Your parents filled the house with all kinds of books and educational toys for them to entertain you with,  even a life-sized toddler cardboard house you could paint. Jie-jie’s instructions within The Plan were to be prepared to tidy up 3, 4 times a day if you decided to finger paint the afternoon away with your teenaged companions.  We had to replace the cardboard house 3 times, that’s what you and your friends’ trashing period was like.

(Btw now you also make your own powdered milk or Ovaltine – you got the practice in because Mummy had the energy to tolerate a few extra spills since there is someone else who helps with the general cleaning).

Part of the reason you currently think all the kids in your school are “rude” with the pushing and the toy snatching is because you didn’t spend as much time with other toddlers who were pushing and snatching (sorry). This might explain your current little Mr Holier Than Thou phase, to the other kids’ irritation and bewilderment. (Mummy said she was sorry – it was that or Swine Flu. But she hopes you outgrow that soon because you’re just begging to get picked on with that ‘tude.)

Joe was the tubby long-haired teenager with glasses who  surprised and impressed your parents with how well-mannered he was. Mummy’s colleague mentioned he’s also growing up with a stepbrother who is about 2 years older than you.

Of all your visitors, including the Asian ones on their way to top universities like Oxford, Joe was the only one who would tidy up your play area with you at the end of your play session, instead of leaving Jie-jie to do it. Jie-jie happened to mention this in passing one day, and Mummy figured if Joe was doing that, he was probably also treating Jie-jie with respect in front of you and she valued that. You see, Mummy thinks some things in life you will not learn from books.

(Much to some of her local friends’ amusement, your mother also fired a highly credentialed (on paper) preschool teacher who gave you one-on-ones for awhile.   You probably don’t remember her, but boy, do your parents remember. She had your parents buy almost HKD 800 in rattles, bells and other portable musical instruments (when we already added to the existing electric piano several strings of bells and a castanet for you) online at a site she recommended before she was even willing to start.

Mummy’s local friends find this hilarious because they’re convinced she owned that website or something.

But honestly that’s not why Mummy fired her. She was often about 15 minutes late to arrive, very timely to leave and dared Mummy to “check if (she) was ever less than professional about (her) timing.” <roll eyes>

Just SO asking for it.

Credentials, straight A’s  or talent are not a license to behave badly or treat others like they matter less, Mummy thinks. (Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton still went to jail.)

Anyway.

Then your tubby teenaged friend made his school rugby team and within the space of about 6 months grew into a strapping, handsome young man with a heavy stubble who now has contact lenses and a grueling training schedule that is near impossible to schedule your playdates around.

Mummy isn’t sure if she’s more amazed you still remember Joe after having not seen him for about 6 months or that you can even recognise him because actually Mummy didn’t. He looks completely different now, and yet you didn’t blink – he’s still Joe to you. Mummy still hasn’t figured how you knew it was him.

But after he left, you gravely suggested Mummy do away with your Putonghua lessons so Joe could visit more often. (Tell that to the rugby).

Since last night when you heard he was coming, you have been preparing to entertain your “guest” at home with all your train sets and cars, after school today. You have also been  thinking of all the things you’d like to catch your old friend up on.

So Mummy took the liberty of telling Joe about your recent painful encounters with older kids who don’t listen to you, take you seriously or treat you with respect, hint, hint.

Mummy’s just totally milking it – “Joe’s bigger than those rude kids at that horrible birthday party, isn’t he? Joe’s so much bigger than the naughty kids in school isn’t he? And – you know what? He DOESN’T BULLY! He DOESN’T SPIT! He says please and thank you!”

Wow. Like a lightbulb went off in your head. <Ding>

(Fine, if you checked your parent-teacher diary or Joe’s text and email messages, you would find also find your mother’s notes about topics, sore points, achievements you’ve been particularly proud (you put on your big boy underpants and uniform by yourself today!) – anything useful for your teachers and companions to strike up conversation with you about. Just in case you need a little help keeping your conversation going with them.)

So someday you’ll find out about Joe’s arrangement. Just remember Joe offers to visit for free now.

Besides, you seem perfectly fine with Grandmum  spending a little money to make you happy (yes this is a picture of you with the fire engine truck that came in the mail from Penang and that you’ve taken to bed 2 days in a row – you even wanted a pillow for your truck and to pull the blanket over it.)

Love,

Mummy

Ps: Aren’t you glad you got to talk about your underpants in school today?

Pps: By the time you’re old enough to read this you’ll have your own friends and be well adjusted. So feel free to call Mummy a little psycho, she’s fine with it.

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The Hong Kong Chye HSBC Bank Queue

Posted on October 12, 2010 by admin

Running errands at the bank in Little Hong Kong (Hong Kong Chye) after dropping Rockstar off at school, I look up texting on my iPhone suddenly, realizing the queue I’ve been standing in hasn’t moved in what seems like a long time. I look at my watch. 10 minutes have passed.

The 3-person queue I joined is now 6 people long.

A tall young bank officer with spikey pop star hair (strangely incongruous with the full suit he has on) walks out from an inner office and up to the row of tellers. He opens up an additional teller window and a ripple of appreciation passes through the crowd.

The Singh in front of me (turbans are substantially rarer in Hong Kong bank queues than say, in Malaysia) turns to me.

“Busy day, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it wasn’t that busy last time I came to this branch. I was done in 10 minutes, including waiting time.”

He asks me what I do for a living, how many children I have, then:

“Where you from?”

(How come he knows I’m not local?) “I’m Malaysian….. I don’t look local?”

“Your English. You speak beautifully.” (Really meh? Watered down Manglish accent beautiful meh?)

“And you’re very friendly.” (Really meh? Hongkies not friendly meh?)

A local mum with a sleeping toddler in a carrier just called after me in Cantonese when I dropped Rockstar’s pack of insect repellent stick-ons on my way into the bank.

(More like they’re afraid you’re going to try and sell them something if you suddenly strike up a conversation on the street/ in a bank queue.  If you manage to stop someone powerwalking their way thru Causeway Bay or Central for directions, they’ll probably answer you quite nicely. The hardest bit is getting them to stop before they run you over as they charge through the crowd.

Come to think of it the crowded bank is silent – no one is chatting in the queues at all.)

It’s Mr Singh’s turn in the queue.

His transaction takes 5 minutes, and he waves as he leaves.

My first transaction in HKD is done within 2 minutes. But the second one is in Renminbi, and takes about 15 minutes – partly because the teller seems new, and has to revise the form he fills in (and ask me to sign on the amendment) 4 times.

The teller next to him quickly clears her own queue and calls to the lengthening queue behind me to move over to her window.

Still, “Can you serve me and others in this queue? This queue is not moving!” The scathing voice of the man directly behind me cuts through the crowd of maybe 30 people in various queues. He’s addressing the teller in another queue.

The man behind him immediately chimes in pointedly, “Can’t some people move aside if they have forms to fill? Don’t people know how to fill their own forms?”. He’s referring to me.

I can’t even write my name easily in Chinese, I couldn’t fill the Chinese address and bank name onto the form for the China transaction even if I wanted to. The teller copied directly off the email I had ready for him on my iPhone (which actually took him very little time, but then he mis-filled 4 times and had to come back and have me sign on the amendments).

I briefly consider explaining I can’t write Chinese, then realize these men could easily hear my conversation with Mr Singh (the only conversation going on among all the people queue-ing) and my sheepish reply to the teller that I couldn’t read the Chinese on the email I proffer to him on my iPhone.

They don’t care. They just want to vent because they hate to wait.

There are two of them, loud, belligerent in Cantonese, and my powers of debate are uh, rather less in Canton. They don’t even look like they’re doing banking on their lunch hour, they look like semi-retired uncles – who would welcome a loud fight.

So I steadfastly face forward in the queue, watching them from the reflection in the teller’s window, and say nothing. Then I realize no one else has said anything either – not the tellers, not the other people in the queue.

One of the men marches up to a teller in another queue and asks again if they can do something about the wait. I can’t catch the teller’s sheepish reply but he flounces back in line.

As I get the receipt for my transaction and leave (dreading what I expect to be a Walk of Shame past all the other queues on my way out) I’m surprised to feel nothing. No scathing looks, no intimidation, just a mildly…. apologetic? – air as the Malaysian girl leaves. Total transaction time including my earlier 15 minute wait = just under 35 minutes.

E, Kings and my local friend who picks me up from the roadside when I’m done, says engaging the two men would probably result in an abrasive exchange. He simply never responds. (Which is when I remember no one responded to them in the bank.)

E asks me if the two men could have been from China. I’m doubtful, because they don’t sound like Mainlanders (whose Cantonese, far as I can tell, carries a heavy accent). Why does he ask?

“Mainlanders might not care whose fault it is, they just want to vent because of the wait, and they’d do it very aggressively.” And if they were Hongkies? “Then their exasperation was probably directed at the tellers – it’s the bank’s job to get the queues moving.”

“But I couldn’t fill the form in Chinese.” Periodically Kings and I get self-conscious about our illiteracy in Chinese, having resided in Northasia for almost 7 years. I periodically signed up for classes but used to get caught up in work.

I picked up enough “yours” “mine” “cut loss” Chinese for work.

Now I’d rather Rockstar.

There’s KFC, there’s Mc Donald’s, then there’s also Cafe de Coral which is like instant noodles and dim sun in fast food form…

Interestingly mainlanders and Taiwanese who express curiosity over where I’m from seem to be a lot less judgmental over my lack of command of the language when I explain I’m Malaysian – I think it’s because they ultimately don’t consider me Chinese, at least not in the way they consider American-born Chinese Chinese.

I got “How can you not know the language better?” sniffs when they mistook me for an ABC, but when I clarify I’m Malaysian it’s “Oh right, come to think of it, you do look Southeast Asian.” Hongkies have said that to me too. (I’m a Peranakan who still wears her Nyonya Kebaya blouses with cropped cargos and heels, on occasion.)

The funniest one I’ve gotten is from a Taiwanese, “Are you sure you’re pure Chinese? As in, no one in your family fooled around? Because those aren’t pure Chinese features!”

(I found that hilarious because this was the conclusion reached after much thought and a study of my facial features during a business lunch.

Anyway.

“Banks don’t only serve locals,” E flatly declares as we wind through Little Hong Kong before he drops me off. “Someone who expects you to fill the form in Chinese has a problem and I’m sure others in the bank felt the same way.”

There always seems to be something in Hong Kong under construction…

It’s true, I felt no hostility from the 30-something other people in the bank as I left. And I do find Hongkies in general to be quite un-racist (though local colleagues and bosses have occasionally grumbled good-naturedly about the mild inconvenience of having to switch to English at meetings).

Cabbies have declared, “I don’t care where you’re from, as long as you pay your fare. And if you use taxis, I hope you live here.”

Only problem is, given the outspoken-ness of the general population (both local and foreign), you get more bullies. Both local and foreign. Which everyone else just grows thick skin and ignores.

Almost 7 years here, Kings and I are still growing ours.

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Significant Conversation #97

Posted on October 11, 2010 by admin

Rockstar: Mummy, where’s your penis?

Me: Mummy doesn’t have a penis, darling, Mummy’s a girl.

Rockstar: What happened to you, Mummy?

Me: Nothing happened to me, darling, Mummy’s a girl. Girl’s don’t have penises.

Rockstar: Is that a Ms Chatterbox t-shirt?

Me: Yes.

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This One’s For The Wimpy Kids

Posted on October 11, 2010 by admin

ROCKSTAR IS BMX BOY…

There wasn’t anything smaller in the shop, and for months his feet couldn’t reach the pedals. Well, now they can.

Identifying and nurturing your child’s Serious Thing For Wheels has some advantages – especially when you want him to pick himself up after a bad spill and get back on the bike. (Even if he insists on calling Daddy at work each time, “I got back on my bike!”)

Being first Toddler With BMX on the block has an unexpected advantage – it’s raised his “cool” factor among some kids in his year who’ve been bullying him on the playground.

Suddenly the little pixie of a Chinese girl who follows him around bumping him repeatedly with her toy car or splashing pool water at him is waiting for him to arrive at the playground so they can roll together (she on a cute pink scooter.)

Suddenly the fearless, very handsome blonde Romanian boy who makes it a point to take over any toy car Rockstar wants to drive (regardless there are always at least 3 or 4 other vacant cars around them he must have Rockstar’s) and must always enter the building ahead of Rockstar doesn’t want to compete.

Or, for that matter, look Rockstar in the eye.

Somewhere deep within the Jungle Of Pecking Order Among Kids, bullies and victims are selected. We’re not completely sure of all the reasons kids make the selections they do. But both Rockstar’s parents have been on the receiving end as kids or teens.

They’ve wondered (not quite seriously) if it’s genetic.

No matter. You see, wimpy kids grow up and get jobs. Sometimes, they’re blessed enough to accumulate savings that allow them a few years off work to be with their own kids. Then they look for BMX skills to work on to give their kids a little help with that pecking order.

After that, they encourage their kids to put the bullying behind them and make friends.

And then they smugly tap away on their blogs.

To Infinity And Beyond!

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Run, Aileen, Run a.k.a. Let’s All Burn Our Webcams

Posted on October 10, 2010 by admin

Someone whose name I Don’t Recognise: Are you there??

Me: yes

SIDR: hey sweety how are you?

Me: ok, but eating… lunch? dinner? who can tell

(<thinking> She sounds like she knows me. Is this someone I knew at work? Someone I met on the playground with Rockstar? Oh no, cannot let on I have no idea who she is, must bluff a bit til I have some clue where I met her.)

what’s up?

SIDR: I’m great thanks for chattin with me. Might have to excuse me, i’m a little hornier than usual tonight lol

I’m not too into pics .. are you? i got something even better than pics u can see the real thing on my cam… <pastes webcam invitation>

Me: (<confused, thinking> Is there another use for the word “horny” that I don’t know of?)

umm sorry, did i accept your invite by mistake please? I’m a mummy blogger, I thought this was to talk about kids!

SIDR: I dont mind showing you through that link. i dont want to get in trouble showing t*ts and p**sy to minors ya kno what I mean?

Me: (<beginning to feel fear, real fear, thinking> – there canNOT be a PG use of those words. Ohmigosh. She’s going to kill me. She’s horny and I’m totally wasting her time. She’s going to freaking kill me.)

i’m really sorry to waste your time if i made a mistake

SIDR: yes im real

Me: yeah but i’m not – i didn’t understand when accepted your invitation because it was along with a bunch of mummy invitations

i’m really sorry i wasted your time, you should just ignore me from now on

SIDR: Click <pastes webcam invitation again> it’s a more secure place with my cam u will have to verify your age, i had to do it too but dont worry its 100% FREE and its alot of fun once u get in

OHMIGOSH, OHMIGOSH, OHMIGOSH!!! She doesn’t believe I’m really stupid enough to accept a freaking webcam sex invitation by mistake! She is going to be so freaking angry I’m wasting her time! Hell hath no fury like a horny woman scorned! She’s going to freaking KILL me!!!

<all around me, imaginary voices screaming>

RUN, AILEEN, RRRUUUUNNNNNNNnnnnn…!

SIDR: are you busy??

I’m not picking up. I’m not looking up. There are hundreds of apartments on either side of the bedroom window where I’m happily eating my Maggie Mee (curry flavor forever!) and surfing Shopbop.com (20% off til midnight Monday!). SIDR COULD BE ANYONE WATCHING ME RIGHT NOW!!! She must be SO FREAKING ANGRY WITH ME!!

Omg. Omg. OM FREAKING G I SAID I WAS A MUMMY BLOGGER!

SHE KNOWS I HAVE A CHILD!!!

“GGRRROOOOooooooo….”

Kings is still ASLEEP behind me with all this going on?

HOW CAN HE SLEEP AT A TIME LIKE THIS???

I need to burn my webcam. We need to burn all webcams. We need to do away with chats, and laptops, and possibly the internet.

Oh wait my iPhone 4 arrived on our doorstep at 8.30pm 2 days ago. Ok fine, we can keep the iPhones. Oh heck, what’s the point of an iPhone with no internet. Fine, internet can stay in this world.

Oh I just got a text message. Could she have got my phone number?

“HSBC estatement now available online”

What’s the point of no chat if you have text?

Oh, alright fine, they can all stay.

But they’re all on probation. These things are EVIL.

I… have to go walk my dog now.

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First School Outing to Watch Stick Man

Posted on October 8, 2010 by admin

HOW DO PEOPLE DO THIS EVERY DAY FOR A LIVING……??

Do Kindergarten teachers get psyche evaluations? Just in case after all the screaming chaos they want to kill themselves.

My ears are ringing. My head hurts. Every peep from the 3 children in Canadian International School uniforms sitting at the next table is just making me want to stuff giant cotton balls in my ears. I could stuff the whole value pack where my brain would normally be right now.

This doesn’t count as a volunteer effort – that’ll be when we start organizing things outside the school’s regular activities.

This one’s a school trip – Hong Kong Academy of Performance Arts’ Stick Man.

When the school invited parents along, I jumped at the chance. Anything to understand Rockstar’s schooling system better. They try to pair you up with another kid whose parents aren’t attending, and we are told that will be Z – a BOY, specifically.

(Yes it’s a blur picture. Try capturing your child jumping up and down in the chaos without catching anyone else’s child’s face in the background. In case you’re wondering, they filled all 390 available tickets so you can imagine the number of kids doing this.)

Rockstar is pleased. He’s all ready to “help out” because I’ve explained he’s lucky enough to have his mum along, he should be nice to the little boy whose mum couldn’t make it. “Where’s Z?” he keeps asking.

Rockstar meets other stars…

Most of his class are late to the meeting point – they were on the last school bus and it got held up in traffic. In the scramble to take attendance and pair up before entering the theatre, Rockstar’s teacher brings over a — GIRL.

Rockstar immediately swarms up my side. You would’ve thought his teacher brought over a python.

“Uh… I’m not taking care of Z?”

Teacher frowns and explains something I can’t hear above the cacophony of kids’ voices that rises to the low ceiling, bounces off, and starts ricocheting around my ears.

Rockstar is NOT. HAPPY.
Tough. It’s not like I can say “Excuse me, can we get a boy instead? Because my son hates all the girls in his class.”

C takes my hand, and eagerly declares she has “many friends” at school. Is Rockstar one of them? She looks away.

Rockstar is scowling. He was all ready for a bout of male bonding over the theatre. Now his plans have been soundly thwarted. We got a – GIRL!? What kind of cockamamie screw up is that?

“Are you in the afternoon session with Rockstar, C?”

C goes quiet. Rockstar answers icily, “She is.”

Oh, so they know each other already. “Yes.” Feel the frost in my son’s voice. It’s like a meatlocker in here. C looks away like she’s deep in thought.

“He’s much smaller than me,” she turns back. It’s a question.

I take another look at C. She’s 3 or 4 inches taller. But more significantly, she’s speaking to me in perfectly grammatical, wordy, full sentences. I’m almost sure her mother whom I saw minutes ago is local Hongkie – which I take to mean C is at least as fluent in Cantonese.

“When do you celebrate your birthday?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel a sharp pang of guilt – it’s like Competitive Mummy Code for How Advanced Is Your Child? But I ask to confirm my guess, as she chatters on – she’s almost a whole year older than Rockstar. And they’re classmates.

Oh no. Am I putting too much pressure on my son? Am I setting him up for self-esteem issues, with all the much older, more advanced kids in his class? It’s why, at the back of my mind, I’ve been looking for playgroups with younger children as well… He’s surprisingly gentle with younger toddlers, to the point he gets his hair pulled and face scratched at on occasion.

“You’re bigger because you’re older,” I say, for the benefit of both children. When you’re older, that means you’ve had more time to grow and learn things. C considers this, “Oh, right,” she chirps. “I have a sister who’s six. She’s much bigger!” I allow my hopes to rise slightly, that these 2 might get along better when they’re back in the classroom. Maybe Rockstar won’t hate all the girls in his class.

Rockstar, me and C enjoy the play, though around us two squirming “I want to go home,” incidents break out.

Rockstar watches raptly, and I remember he’s even enjoyed Cantonese plays where we can’t understand what they’re saying. Still, he can’t resist confiding, “They not really flying,” when Santa Claus brings Stick Man home on his sleigh.

Then we’re waiting our turn to leave the theatre.

“You know, Rockstar rides his bike a lot – he even wears a proper helmet,” listen to me talking my son up to the girl. I’ve become one of those mums.

“Oo – pretty girl – my son lives in that dorm!” I’m just saying. Saw that on Transformers.

“I have a little pink scooter.” Sooo maybe you guys can ride together sometime?
Both children look away.

I try again. “Look, Rockstar has a big dog named JD,” I pull out my cellphone and show her pictures. “She’s like his sister, they play ball together and go on walks, and she swims in the sea.”

“Why would you say a dog is like his sister?” Sigh. But she looks mildly impressed.

Then as we leave, I catch the hostile look that passes between the 2 children. Rockstar threw the first look by a split second, I think. Fine, make your own bed, I think. They might not be friends back in school but at least she won’t treat him like a total loser, right?

Then as we’re herded up the stairs, Rockstar complains, “These kids are pushing.”
C throws him another look that he doesn’t see.

But I do.

It’s true, they were pushing quite rowdily, but as far back into my early childhood as I can remember, no one liked the kids with the thin skin. My son and I are going to talk… We start on the cab ride back.

Note everyone maintaining a tight grip on their children’s hands as they wind through the busy streets of Wan Chai after leaving the theatre…

“Rockstar, those kids are pushing because they’re older and faster, and they think you are too. Because you made it into the big boy class, people will expect you to behave like a bigger boy – just remember they might not realize you’re younger. You should be pleased.”……..

And the Rockstar is.

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Lunch at Café Gray

Posted on October 8, 2010 by admin

LUNCH SUMMONS! At newish Café Gray in trendy boutique hotel Upper House, G’s and my first choice for a recent birthday lunch, except they were fully booked and so we “settled” on Nicholini’s. But now L has made a booking for us. She also rang 2 days ago to confirm our attendance because of the booking.

L’s husband and I share several mutual acquaintances from Secondary School days in Penang, and L met G (and later me) thru G’s ex boyfriend. (Heck, I just realized everyone in this story just happens to be Malaysian.) L has 2 boys – the most even-tempered 4-year old I’ve ever met, and a one year old she brings along for lunch because her second helper has left.

– Paul and Joe dress from Way Back When – one of my more well-worn maternity dresses during the good old days when Rockstar quietly went wherever I did

– Marni necklace that I immediately decide on when I hear L is bringing along her baby, in case we need something else to distract him with

– Donna Karan Messenger Bag I got half off during the last Net-a-porter.com sale

– all kinds of alang-alang I need to pass to my girlfriends

L to me is a font of Hong Kong parenting knowledge, she is my go-to gal I have helper problems, or I’m trying to understand the Hong Kong school debenture system. This time however, I’m still nursing wounds from Rockstar’s recent experience at her 4-year old’s birthday party.

Up the escalator to the lift lobby and on to the 49th floor… Space is tight and expensive in Hong Kong, G tells me the Upper House rooms don’t even start until 30-something floors up or something, because the rest are owned by another hotel…

 

This terrace is theirs tho..

As Rockstar and I pulled up at the Ladies’ Recreation Club where L plays tennis, does pilates and generally hangs out a lot, it occurred to me: L’s Most Well-mannered Even-tempered 4-year old might have friends who are not. But it’s too late, Rockstar is psyched to be attending an Older Boy Birthday Party and I’ve RSVPed.

I watched Rockstar watch his pile of building bricks steadily diminish as older kids pulled bricks off his pile to build their own tower. When the last brick in his hand was roughly snatched away, he burst into tears and my heart broke.

My normally stoic son who doesn’t even cry when he’s getting his jabs at the doctor’s bawls in frustration at being flicked off the older kids’ sleeves as he attempts to make friends. (Frankly that happened to me with their mums too.) At one point I try to get us some food and he’s handed to me at the buffet table, bawling again, by the mum whose kids are the eldest and roughest. She gives a theatrically bewildered shrug and “I don’t know” at my wide-eyed “What happened?”  !0 minutes later I watch them bowl over another child.

That night, Rockstar declares “I don’t like Birthday Parties, Mum. People are so rude.”

I vowed not to bring him to another older child’s birthday for a long, long time. Not because he couldn’t take it, but because I’m not sure I can.

G excuses herself, moving her nearly 6-months pregnant frame easily through the packed dining area into the bathroom.

L apologizes for “not talking to (me) more” at the party, but we both know she means my son’s experience. I’m very appreciative of the effort, but not surprised (L otherwise has a preference for the Ladies’ Recreation Club when her sons are around so her efforts in booking the elusive table at Café Gray gave it away – especially when she’s G’s friend.)

But again, I really appreciate the sincere effort on her part, especially now she is balancing her 1-yr old in one arm and an expensive steak on a fork in the other hand. He is conspicuously the only child in the restaurant.

Then G is back, and the only child in the restaurant is off to look at the awe-inspiring (and very expensive, based on location) view while we catch up. And check out the view from the toilet, she adds:

 

 

 

L returns to the table to explain a “loophole” I’m not sure I get, about getting into one of the most exclusive and expensive schools, Chinese International School, in Hong Kong: there is a pre-school and kindergarten being run by a Chinese society, originally started up for their own kids. Enrolling your child here for pre-school apparently has 2 benefits:

1) if your child wigs out in the CIS interview, you get a second chance

2) it also increases your chances of getting in even if you’re Malaysian (because apparently Malaysians don’t have that much chance of getting in)

I previously blogged that CIS debentures cost HKD 2.5mio, and then was trying to reconcile this figure with the HKD 900,000 number Kings later found on some of their forms. Apparently the debentures are now trading in the secondary market at HKD 3.5mio thereabouts (when I mentioned the HKD 2.5mio number I was trying to reconcile, both G and L went “Oh, that was some time ago, it’s traded up now.”)

Then I’m advised to check whether the HKD 900,000 figure is a debenture (you get the money back without interest when your child leaves the school and it’s trade-able in the secondary market), or a donation.

I’ll blog more about this when I can think of something to say after that…

And this has nothing to do with this story except I walked past this car on the way to the cab stand… You have to live under a rock to not know McDull in HK…

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