The Hole In My Jeans

Posted on June 20, 2010 by admin

My eagerly-awaited online purchase of a pair of J Brand jeans from revolveclothing.com has arrived in the mail. They cost more than a hundred US bucks even after a heavy sale markdown. They have been carefully paint-splattered, distressed and there is a hole in the knee I’m very proud of.  WHY, you ask, didn’t I simply rip up an old pair of jeans? Because I don’t own any. (I have extremely work-appropriate very dark jeans for “casual” Fridays and nuthin’ else.)

What marvel of marketing leads you to pay for “artfully” torn, stained jeans?

So here I am, aged 33-and-a-half, with a very expensive hole in my jeans. Am I just another version of those paunchy, balding 40-ish men we see on the streets of Hong Kong revving the engine of some super-souped up Ferrari at the traffic lights in the city? Maybe they spent their youth slogging and can now finally afford the car they sit so incongruously in. Maybe they only look middle-aged, the product of an office “tan and spa”. Maybe they are exactly what us jealous others think they are – older men with something to prove of their libido.

So then how sad am I?

Not a wit, actually – I’m ecstatic. All those years dressing my 20s-self in suits. Work shirts and pencil skirts. Chunky, I-mean-business jewelry. Glasses. And at least I’m not Sarah Jessica Parker doing Sex and the City II.

JD still doesn’t get it.

People judge books by their covers. We can’t help ourselves. It’s why you see all these bus ads around Hong Kong of people in yuppie suits with hairstyles that don’t match. Do high school tuition teachers really need to wear suits every day? They do not. They borrowed a suit for the bus ad. That’s why their spikey, dyed, bed-head texturised hair doesn’t match the suit.

Alan Chan bus ad

Banishing Bad English In Suit And Spikey Hair Even As Teenaged Hong Kong Girls Swoon

Appeasing High Schoolers And Their Parents Alike

The bus ads speak to me. They scream, “HAVE SUIT, THEREFORE, AM CAPABLE!” And Brutus is an honorable man. I understand. I chopped my almost waist-length hair off into a pixie so short it looked like I had done National Service in the Singapore army one day when I hoped to redeem the Tony and Guy birthday coupon from my mum for some banking cred.

Errornomics – why we make mistakes and what we can do to avoid them quotes a study of National Football and National Hockey League games. Two teams switched to black uniforms during the study’s 16 year observation period – and their penalty minutes increased significantly. Referees, it would seem, also judge books by their covers.

Sooo whenever Rockstar starts a class or activity with a new teacher who doesn’t know him yet, I dress him in light colors (Yes, I can barely believe I do it myself. But it doesn’t hurt to simply not put him in a black or navy shirt for a few days, does it?)

In my defense, it wasn’t just Joseph T. Hallinan’s influence. In Yakuza Moon – memoirs of a gangster’s daughter Shoko Tendo talks about growing up a gangster’s daughter. What affected me most was the bullying she faced from the children whose parents had more “respectable” professions – bankers, lawyers – and the discrimination the teachers practiced against her in school. (My mother gave free English tuition to kids in notoriously tough neighborhoods in Penang, Malaysia when I was growing up, which may account a little for my “reverse-bias”.)

That hole in my jeans means a lot to me. It means that after more than a decade of dressing to build my credibility, finally I get to dress like I have none. Oh, and I’ll showcase my fabulous paint splatters and hole in the knee with the diamond studs I bought myself while slogging away at previous jobs.

Splatters and hole however, will never meet Rockstar’s teachers.

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Dear Rockstar, This One’s About Career Choices

Posted on June 13, 2010 by admin

Dear Rockstar,

Mummy writes this so when you grow up and are faced with career choices, you will have something to read. If you ever consider investment banking despite, or perhaps because of your father’s reservations, realize that even if you reach the pinnacle of the industry and get hired by Goldman Sachs, that cream of the banking crop, Mummy remembers staying up very late one night watching some of their top executives get skewered live on CNN. It was right before US Senators poured lighter fluid on them and set them on fire.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VVfGB_jvz2s]

A long time ago, different people were burned at the stake – they were called witches. Not all the people who were burned really were witches, and they said so. But people would burn them anyway because people were looking for someone to burn.

Even in a non-election year, you will get blamed not just for the financial crisis in particular, but the failings of the world in general. Job losses in farming states. Somehow, people will find a way to make global warming your fault. Long ago, this happened to witches too. Only, back then they got burned for bad weather. Then again today, it’s almost fashionable to be a witch. Except now people call them Wiccans. Maybe Banking will go by another name by the time you are old enough to read this. Maybe one day it will all be called Barings.

As you work on “ABC”, remember that when you reach “CDO”, run. Not because these three letters are bad. Run because if you are standing anywhere near them, people will think you are bad.

The knives Jie-jie uses to prepare dinner are not bad. A knife used to rob another person is not bad (the person who used it for this purpose is). If you give a monkey a knife, well, don’t expect it to whip up breakfast in bed. The problem is, it has not been that easy to tell monkeys from men. They both wear suits and can be trained to use Bloomberg. Because of the naughty things monkeys have done, people who invest are too afraid of the monkeys to give the men a chance. This means even if you are a good man (and Mummy will be so proud if you grow to be one of the few), you will have to work extra hard to convince investors you are not a monkey. And some people will never believe you.

Sorry, darling. Mummy did not want a relevant picture for this post badly enough to give you a knife. Knives are not for little children. Or monkeys.

Mummy does not know much about lawyers, but it seems they have a future. This is because many investment bankers will need them.

Sincerely,

Mummy

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Dinner at Dot Cod

Posted on June 10, 2010 by admin

It is drizzling at 3pm and this is the number of things I have to get done before heading out the door in 3 hours,  impeccably dressed for Dot Cod, the fishy dinner place in Prince Building where GlaMum could possibly bump into someone she knows from her previous work life:

Walk JD in the rain. Eat something to make up for passing a slice of pizza off as lunch. Bathe and dress Rockstar. Set up something entertaining so he will let me go for dinner. Throw on something fabulous.

So here goes – there should be proverbial swooshes as JD capers out the door, into the service lift and out into the field with me. If we lived in a cartoon. Definitely swooshes. It’s sticky-wet out; warm enough that you’ll break a sweat, but still drizzling rain.

Frizzy-furred, drizzled-upon dog

An hour later my hair is wet, plastered to my face with sweat and frizzed from humidity and my natural disdain for umbrellas. JD plops down in a satisfied damp tangle of wet fur for a nap. I spray sanitizer on her paws.

2 hours to go.

Put a cake of Maggie noodles (like many Malaysians I grew up eating “Maggie mee” and will have no other if I have a choice) and hot water in the microwave. Eat banana. Decide on my outfit: black Prada knee-length dress with a strong shoulder and chunky necklace. But I can’t decide which necklace and shoes – the gold snakeskin Pradas or the Louboutin look-alikes with peep-toe I had tailor-made at Lippo Center (at less than half the price of the Real Thing) in glossy dark green snakeskin with Louboutin-esque red sole (the whole reason I made them). The bib necklace with lime-green plastic “jewels” or the Kenneth Jay Lane giant white plastic “tusk” pendant. I want the bib but Harper’s Bazaar US edition says bibs are out.  Turn on tv and eat noodles on floor while watching E! highlights of Demi Moore’s red carpet styleShower, blow-dry hair, put on bit of makeup. Begin running bath for Rockstar.

Decisions

1 hour to go.

Rockstar comes home from pre-school. Says “no, thank you” to bath. Together we stick two magnetic notice boards to the fridge (because I bought two large tubs of alphabet magnets only to find they don’t stick to our fridge door) Casually change Rockstar’s diaper and – what’s this? A tub full of water! What fun, let’s get in! Finish makeup while Rockstar splashes about in tubDry Rockstar off, dress him, introduce him to the tubs of alphabet magnets. Throw on dress, put on and take off both necklaces several times before settling on the lime green bib one (sorry Harper’s). Put on gold Pradas at the door, solely because I’m now five minutes late and can walk faster in those. Rockstar gives a half-hearted “want to come with mummy” before turning back to his alphabet magnets.

Lifesaver

Ta-daa..! And GlaMum is off for another charming evening as lady-who-dinners-at-dot cod. I get out of the cab at the swanky Mandarin Oriental and cut thru the lobby. And bump into my former boss at HSBC. We haven’t seen each other in years. He would remember me as the eager-beaver he hired in Singapore. Who always wore suits. And a Tony and Guy pixie cut (to date, my hair hasn’t been cut in 3 months).  He was a real stickler for dress code. He also gave me my first real break in the banking world. He kisses me on both cheeks, we chat awhile, he says “Well, you look like a movie star.”

GlaMum almost reveals her true identity. But with an enigmatic smile, she turns and climbs the curved stairs of the Mandarin. She’s walking taller and there’s a spring in her step as she briskly passes elegantly dressed guests who look fabulous in the glow of chandelier light. People dressed impeccably in suits, headed for the cigar bar downstairs to close some high-powered deal. But inside, she’s jumping up and down screaming “Yippeee!”

“YIPPEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE……………….!”

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Dear Aileen,

Posted on June 8, 2010 by admin

Dear Aileen,

This is a note to yourself to remember to thank God for all your blessings. Here they are:

1) You are healthy. Your family is healthy. Your beautiful son is strong enough to scream for hours if you awaken The Evil Twin.

Your beautiful son jumping on your bed.

2) After 6 years, you have managed to stay in love and married to the same person (though sometimes just barely).

This is despite the fact both of you met in Bar None, Singapore, went steady (after almost working together) 10 days later, and got engaged barely 6 months after. (You married him inVegas! Who does that except the Hollywood fruitcakes?)

3) You have a dog who is not a vicious killer.

This is very important because you also have a small child (see item 1). In fact, she is a very nice dog, even when your son head butts her.

4) You live in a nice, relatively spacious apartment in a nice neighborhood.

Every day, this is your view while you walk your son and dog.

(Though sometimes this is your view because your dog is ball-mad.)

You may not own your home, but this just means you have a chance at spending time looking for your dream home in future.

5) You have friends. Who get creative with your son’s name

6) You were blessed with a child when you never knew how much you wanted one.

This is especially important because you were on the pill for five years prior and were so sure you weren’t pregnant you were drinking wine and seriously wakeboarding. It was the summer you would learn to jump on the wake, you see.

7) You have an extremely deviated septum, yet on the outside, your face is only slightly crooked.

8) Despite being forced to do a degree you hated (Accountancy), you were blessed with a career switch opportunity after just 7 months in a very bad job market.

9) You then had a 10 year often adrenaline-charged (just the way you like it) career in derivatives. Despite all the pitfalls, you led a charmed life. All those trades that went your way. Far more than those that didn’t. And remember when you joined a newly set-up private bank, only to discover it had no platform for Accumulators, the hot equity derivative product of the moment, and you thought you missed the boat? The slow start allowed your Relationship Managers to escape the market carnage that then afflicted so many other banks. Praise the Lord!

10) Your husband let you skydive. Even though he was terrified.

Sincerely,

Yourself

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Affirmation

Posted on June 7, 2010 by admin

At last! Phoebe Philo’s first sunglasses collection for Celine features one simple classic shape this season, as highlighted in yesterday’s Sunday edition of South China Morning Post’s Post Magazine. Yours truly bought the long-lost twin version by Oakley two, two months ago. What vision! What fashion savvy! GlaMum’s pair features polarized lenses that cut out glare and let you see much better with them on while driving, ski-ing or golfing. Not that she does any of those but that is hardly the point. Rest assured she will find some way of making this a confirmation of superior parenting skills. (Well, if she doesn’t trumpet her triumphs, even the itsy bitsy teeny tiny ones, who will?)

Separated at birth?

Also pictured, our Elvis wedding picture in Little White Chapel in Vegas (same place Britney Spears got married once; may our marriage last longer than hers, oh wait, it already has).. Kings was not Christian at the time, but I was – so we couldn’t have gotten married in a church in Singapore where we worked back then – I wanted to be married before God and figured He wouldn’t mind if we did it in Vegas with just 2 people from New York as witnesses we pulled in off the street. (But our parents were another story.)

Elvis is not dead – after he walked me down the aisle he went on to tour in Taiwan… Then there’s the pic of a young JD taken at Marina South in Singapore… Where they don’t allow dogs…  Pre-baby we used to collect pics of JD in places she’s not supposed to be… sometimes bring her to pubs and Chanel stores at 7am just to get the picture… Then there’s the bottle of darling red wine from our wedding dinner at Flutes at Fort Canning with our wedding pic on the label… We took that pic in Central Park after dropping by, realizing it would be lovely to have wedding pics taken there, opening a phonebook and finding the first photog we could dig up – who happened to be in Chinatown.

The hippo in the first pic is of course William, official mascot of The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Love him. He never judges. May have to do with him being a a blue hippo. Kings still wears the HKD 400 ring I gave him, as his wedding ring. It’s a discontinued style from The Met, antiqued with “If you have love, you have all” in old English. The bowl of hunks of turquoise rocks and jewelry is there because our helper broke the original wedding gift that used to sit there – a hand-made ceramic of two old people and an old dog with a blue left eye (guess who our friends were trying to depict?). And the cross is a market bazaar souvenir of our honeymoon trip to NY, LA, Vegas. Almost the only time we ever took a trip, before Rockstar, we were so busy working.

All artifacts of our previous life. A look at what we were like when we were 2 hungry newbies to banking with a crazy dog.

Hello, old life.

Oily mixed mushroom bread and cheese, and carrot juice from Simply Life. One of my morning breakfasts of choice before stepping into the dealing room each day. It’s quite a big meal, so early in the day. All the excitement. The buzz. I would be hungry again by noon latest.

I was passing thru Citibank Tower today and decided to stop for a bite. Merrill Lynch is there. Citibank. Idly, I wonder if I’ll meet any of our trade counterparts who used to count us as clients. Idly, I wonder if they will recognize me. I’m in old rolled J brand jeans and a summer-weight cream-colored Anteprima sweater from donkey’s seasons ago when I used to de-stress by buying some branded item, any branded item, on sale. I stressed out making the money, I should spend some of it – go on, you earned it, I would say. My hair is almost severely pushed away from my face with a thick cream suede band. On a Monday in a sea of suits I’m also wearing that other big banking no-no (besides jeans), espadrilles. Snakeskin, but espadrilles nonetheless.

Do I miss you?

Not a lot, not a wit, not even a little bit.

I used to sit in that corner red chair at Pacific Coffee with Relationship Managers, discussing investment products, people, politics.

I used to love leaving the office when it was dark and quiet, walking down those steps surrounded by the softly lit buildings towering over me as I waited for a cab. I don’t remember many failed deals at all. Almost none. But I remember so many trades going my way. I remember the satisfaction, as I left the building late, in the quiet. That is the one thing I miss. But I had to think about it.

There’s always a cab here. I led such a blessed banking life. Thank you, God.

Goodbye, old life.

I leave Citibank Tower via the nearest exit.  I notice I’m walking a little taller. Rockstar and JD will be waiting for their evening walk and I still have errands to run.

More than 10 years. Why don’t I miss it more?

 

Hello, new life.

This is why.

This is why.

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Three Little Words

Posted on June 5, 2010 by admin

There are three words in the English language that, when uttered by a child, can elicit a whirlwind of mixed emotions. Three words, spoken in utmost innocence, that can make every mummy’s heart skip a beat.

“Mummy, what’s this?”

Rockstar is holding a (supposedly) children’s scissors in one hand, and is staring in fascination at the bright red blood oozing out of the index finger of his other hand. We won’t be doing arts and crafts for the rest of the evening.

I’m one of those mummies who has been trained by her child over the last year or so to have a Pavlovian reaction to these three words. Here’s why:

“Mummy, what’s this?”

He’s standing in the middle of a swarm of angry red ants in the park, having trampled not a few on the pavement.

“Mummy, what’s this?”

He’s staring with his face barely two inches away from a giant bumblebee in a friend’s garden.

“Mummy, what’s this?”

He’s about to pick up a big fat caterpillar so hairy it looks like a toiletbrush.

(I have no idea what kind of rash those bristly white hairs may or may not cause, but the way they’re sticking up all over the completely unconcerned jet black caterpillar as it inches along its merry way with my fascinated son in tow, I don’t want to find out.)

“Mummy, what’s this?”

It’s the putrid remnants of a crushed up snail.

“Mummy, what’s this?”

A dead bird. No one touches dead birds in Hong Kong because of bird flu. During the flu season we saw someone in those white bio-hazard-type suits liberally spraying the thing with disinfectant before lifting away with tongs (in which case what’s the suit for?) outside the McDonald’s in Sai Kung.

“Mummy, what’s this?”

I have no idea. But it looks like some kind of slug with horns that has died and met Keith Haring who then gave it various appendage-looking waving limb things before painting it all red / orange/ white against bold black and sending it back to this world where it now haunts little children who have tendencies to molest slugs. The darn thing has twitchy little things like snail horns sticking up everywhere (tho the ones on what I suppose is its head are a little longer than the rest of em.) It might have said “I come in peace. Take me to your leader” if I let my first born, my only child within earshot of it. Maybe those horn things shoot venom. Or have some hypnotic effect if you stare at them waving about long enough.

Note to self: Look out for any rumor on the nature trail at the Peak that involves weapons-grade Plutonium storage. Someone in the HK Government might hate rich people. “Take that, you rich people who clamor to live up here and pay lots of taxes.” Diabolical.

“Mummy, what’s this?”

His dinner. When he doesn’t want to eat it.

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Swim class

Posted on June 4, 2010 by admin

At 6.45am Rockstar abruptly sits up in bed. “Mummy wake up. Go outside.” He’s 90 minutes earlier than usual. “Watch news. Eat cereal.” My son has morphed into a drill sergeant over night. I could almost respond “Sir, yes Sir!” It’s our first parent-toddler swim class today.

His father begins a stern talking-to, after his emotional-blackmail stunt the previous day. We brandish the ultimate stick: No classes as punishment for future bad behavior. We are rewarded with a winning smile. Who, me, naughty?

You can even clip my toenails.

We set off for his class location a good 45 minutes before time, on what is at most a 15 minute leisurely walk to our destination. 3 small playgrounds stand between swim school and our apartment and Rockstar has never been to this indoor pool so I budgeted for lots of settling time. This morning Rockstar doesn’t even glance at the playgrounds, with their tantalizing slides (normally he loves slides) and climbing frames (ditto). We pass children driving little red cars and paddling about on bikes, another particularly insidious temptation for my car-crazy son, on any other day except today.

Inspecting butterflies… noticing huge slugs on the floor…

Arriving early, we have time to roam the whole indoor pool facility and are in the Jacuzzi when the teacher and his classmates arrive.

“Mummy. (He wants to) Go home.”  My heart skips a beat but I manage to cajole him along as the class starts. He clings to me like a leech. Most activities are punctuated by “no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.” “That’s good”, his swim instructor says. “He’s not screaming.” I look longingly at some of the other participants – the youngest 2 haven’t quite started speaking yet.

Time crawls by. Every time I think class has got to be over, it’s been just 5 minutes since the last time I glanced at the clock. Rockstar is stiff as a board and my rash guard has fingernail marks in it. Though he does manage a few exercises quite well after a lot of warming up.

May the force be with you

Suddenly all his classmates are leaving. I glance at the clock. Class has been over for 5 minutes. Rockstar won’t leave. “I thought you wanted to go home?”

“No.” His teeth are chattering and he has goose bumps all over. But he won’t leave. We stay awhile more, but ultimately the only way I get him out willingly (still chattering away) is by telling him he must rest because he’s coming back with Daddy tomorrow. Then he purposefully gets out of the water.

At home, he demands I fill the tub instead of our usual after-swim shower. Then he sits in it quietly for a good half hour, occasionally muttering thoughtfully to himself. Thing is, I thought he was a toddler.

Didn’t move for 2 1/2 hours. Not even a twitch.

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Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc

Posted on June 3, 2010 by admin

Someday Rockstar will read this and learn his mother is an accessories whore. So maybe for Mother’s Day I’ll get a robot keychain from the Prada warehouse in Ap Lei Chau. I don’t have that dangerously expensive obsession with handbags (though I have a few.) But I love the chunky necklaces, bracelets, rings and things to wear with. And because I am now GlaMum where I used to just be Gla, I take quick inventory of which jewelry I can wear with a bouncing toddler and which of my jewelry can kill someone (note to self: wear sans toddler). Of course if I have a child with me, I don’t need that much more accessorizing – the Asian child is always the accessory in season. The people at Grazia and Today and Us Weekly obviously agree with me. Baby stories sell magazines. Asian/ other race baby stories sell more magazines (unless you’re talking Octomum.)

Today’s installment is a tribute to my latest purchase, snapped up just days after a final 70% mark down at Joyce Warehouse. Dsquared believes their cuffs should be shiny black leather, at least 3 inches wide with a bling bling gold-toned clasp. No corners sharp enough to scratch. Tough, heavy duty clasp that can stand the rigors of hauling a toddler up and down the slide, that stays reassuringly manacled around my wrist as I scramble thru the latest toddler bootcamp obstacle course after my own little wild animal. And I think it looks good with a white Catcher In The Rye t-shirt from Outofprintclothing.com.

Or maybe the 1984 tee. Every tee bought is a book donation to a community in need. Now you can run after your toddler in style, and also give back for the blessing of your little bundle of erm, joy.

http://www.outofprintclothing.com/Default.asp

Tee

Bundle of erm, joy

Toddler Bootcamp

Toddler Parent Bootcamp. I used to have hamsters. Lotsa hamsters. When we want to get em out of all the plastic tubes we just unscrew all the tunnels and take out the piece with a hamster in it. You can tell what we’re thinking right now…

I wear bling. The real stuff, the fake stuff, the stuff that makes me feel good. Most importantly, the stuff that makes me feel good. When I feel good, I lose it less readily when Rockstar does something “wrong”. He does something “wrong” pretty often. I need to wear bling pretty often. Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc – after this, therefore because of this. <Whatever the latin is for> I wear bling because I need to feel good often.

When I feel good I have patience enough for one more swing at getting him to eat/ bathe/ go to bed. It’s cheaper than therapy. Probably. Usually. Maybe.

Flexing “muscles”. This is him striking a pose after refusing to put on a clean shirt at the end of the play session. (He was actually fine leaving. He was not fine changing. Go figure.)

Now I have to wear everything around a little Christie Martin gold disc necklace with “Rockstar” hand-stamped on it. My husband bought it for me. My son checks periodically to make sure I’m still wearing it. If I’m not, I get an accusatory “What that?” at anything else I’m wearing. And it has to say Rockstar because I have smarty pants friends who go “Rockstar, yes he do. Rockstar like it, how bout you?” I thought it was relatives you couldn’t pick. Just my luck the people who see humor in my son’s name are the same people who’ve had my back over the years.

Buh-ling.

OK. Truth is, I’m typing with a lump in my throat that’s been getting bigger. Rockstar was so mad at me for near-ignoring him because I got caught up trying to finish his art project he’s been sticking to his dad and demanding his dad take over all our rituals – bedtime story, bedtime youtube educational videos, bedtime cuddle. I’ve been benched. It hurts. Because he knows what he’s doing, is why it hurts. He also dumped my clean underwear in the dog’s basket. Is he going to grow up into some crazed possessive stalker-type boyfriend of the kind mummy dearest nearly dated in her worse early-20s nightmare years? This is why I was always a dog person, not a baby person. Dogs don’t do that to you. It’s terrifying to love a person so much.

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It’s my Mummy and I’ll cry if I want to

Posted on June 1, 2010 by admin

We always hurt the one we love. Rockstar is a cliché of sappy cruel love songs.

“Mummy,” He says conversationally. “Mummy, mummy, mummy, mummy.”

I steel myself. “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

He woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

“Ice cream please!” with all the wide-eyed innocence and enthusiasm of a doe-eyed bunny rabbit. It’s 8.30am. I pretend I haven’t heard. Probably after what happened last night, he decides not to pursue it. Until lunchtime. I break out the ice cream. Sometimes when I restrict, it becomes an obsession. He barely touches it. It’s what I’m counting on – the only reason he even likes it is because his father told him all children like ice cream. No, I haven’t quite forgiven his father.

But then he barely touches his lunch either. I pop to the kitchen for some tea and when I get back, the only other spoonful of tomato and tuna macaroni I managed to get into him is on the floor. Usually he either spits on his plate or into a tissue I hold out for him. If I’m too slow, he gets his own tissue. He’s staring purposefully at the tv, even after I flinch at the sight of the food on the floor.

Obstinate Child

I call Jie-jie (our helper) over, point out the mouthful on the floor, place Rockstar in her care and leave the room. The whole time, he’s right there, absorbed in a CNBC reporter’s commentary on Shanghai stocks. The moment I shut the door, the crying is phenomenal. The tragic calling for Mummy. I can hear it thru two closed doors as our helper happily moves him into his own room. (She often hints I don’t give her enough free rein with my son.)

“Your son is crying hard. He just recovered from a high fever and hasn’t eaten a thing since morning,” says the Aileen version with the proverbial annoying angel wings sticking between her shoulder blades. “He’s also lost almost a kg in bodyweight.”

“Whatever, this is total bullshit,” says the other Aileen.

Guess which one wins out.

I’m a huge believer in placebo effect. In the power our mind has over our body. I’m not naturally athletic or fit, I had a semi-permanent medical exemption from having to do phys education in school. But I wanted a black belt and the State Championship so I worked out my own training regiment around my natural sickliness. The tournament wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t as tough as expected. Because I had trained on an all-boys taekwondo team, I had unwittingly set my limits at the boys’ level, rather than that of other girls. So when I fought girls during the actual tournament, it wasn’t as tough. I remember winning the tournament, then wondering what my performance would have been like if I had told myself the limit was lower. It simply hadn’t occurred to me my physical limitations should have been lower because I was a girl. So they weren’t. Rockstar won’t be allowed to believe he’s sicker than he is either.

The moment he wakes from his nap he starts up again with the plaintive crying for mummy. Our helper whisks him out the door to school, sans lunch (she takes his pre-school classes very seriously and he’s overslept and is about 15 mins late). Idly I hope the snack they serve at break time includes cucumber sticks, the one vegetable he doesn’t eat at home (no I’m not being mean, we were amazed to find him gobbling stick after stick in school when we dropped by unexpectedly – since he’s not getting those nutrients at home I always hope he gets them in school. Apparently when he’s not mad about some inexplicable thing, he is also the most charitable child, sharing everything, giving up toys to other kids. How old do they have to be before shrinks can diagnose split personality?)

Obstinate Dog

I take JD for a walk. I’m annoyed to find my normally well-behaved, mild-mannered dog has decided it’s her turn to act up. I leave her tennis ball in the field (because she refuses to bring it back – she is after all a fully trained, one-time Hong Kong Team Agility Champion – and it’s started raining). I picked up another one from the same field recently anyways.

When we get back, Rockstar is solicitous and polite. He also follows me everywhere. GlaMum is not sure where her real child is, but she thinks she’ll keep this one.

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Heart

Posted on May 31, 2010 by admin

Last night I hit my limit. Kings did the bedtime ritual, not me. Rockstar and I are grappling with each other. He’s getting better and he’s fighting to keep all his sickie privileges. I know, I’m supposed to be the parent, but really, I’m struggling for control. And I need a break. We both do. This could be the toughest break since Ross and Rachel. Lucky for him he’s my flesh and blood or I would’ve locked him in a cupboard.

I’ve gone soft. Or it’s birthing hormones. Mother Nature knew there would come a time when mummy dearest would need a little extra help to keep from abandoning her child and hopping a plane to Bali in search of drinks with little umbrellas in them. There is no stop loss on this trade, and I’m in way to deep. This deep:

9 months of lugging him around completely cold turkey on alcohol and flu meds; despite the doc’s reassurance, the moment we discovered I was pregnant, no more nightly glass of red, and I took a cold pill just once during pregnancy.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed every second – almost no morning sickness!

11 months of getting at least 3 hours less sleep; waking 90 mins earlier and sleeping 90 mins later each day while I pumped breast milk around a crushing job in private banking derivatives (no breastfeeding room available at work and I wasn’t preparing my son’s lunch in the toilet). No alcohol and hardly any meds during this period too.

After a good feed.

12 months of not caring what I ate for dinner; hurriedly spooning rice, veg, fish chunks, anything easy to eat from a bowl with a spoon, sitting on my bed. After I bathed Rockstar, I let him crawl/play on our bed next to me so he could see me “reading” something, anything (but I have to eat sometime, I usually came back from work tired and starving). I felt with his Don’t Tell Me What To Do personality I could seriously end up making him hate books while trying to do the opposite, so instead he saw me reading every night and if he decided to join in, well there just happened to be a heap of interesting kiddie books handy and mummy was there to answer any questions he might have – with the most colorful stories about the characters in the books that she could dredge up.

Shaking his bootie on our bed

2 years of my life. No other man has dared treat me this way. I cut loss fast, when it came to bad men in my life. But somehow, insidiously, Rockstar has a terrifyingly strong hold on my heart. The heart is after all a muscle, and Rockstar’s is so buff he’s jerking me back and forth effortlessly for 5 sets of 30 reps each, cruel little man that he is. It may have been a labor of love for me, but he’s still a cruel little man.

At the end of the day, Rockstar’s face is puffy from so many crying tantrums. At least he’s strong enough to cry and scream, I keep telling myself. And telling myself.

We force fed him his meds in the afternoon, after he decided he would not be drinking any more milk for the day (which was how he was taking his meds. Doc Chan would have a fit. This is a huge no-no because if the child doesn’t finish the milk you have no idea how much meds he’s taken. Hence we use very little milk and interesting cocktail glasses and cajole and beg him to finish).  We don’t usually force the meds on him because he fights so hard he often throws up. But today I took a minute bathroom break and when I got back he was elbow deep in his father’s potato chip stash (this is the first time he’s found chips – we were tired and eating anything). After insisting and pleading to not eat any more lunch. Or drink any more fluids. I really didn’t care if he threw up potato chips that time. But we had to wrench him from the chip bag.

Caught in the act on another occasion, this time stealing a raisin bun out of my bedroom stash.

On thru the day, until 10.30pm bedtime when he’s hungry. I’m tired, but I wanted his food done just right so I get up and prepare broccoli, rice, prawns, fish and some noodles in a little bowl with his favorite spoon. He doesn’t take a single bite, putting on the mother of all obstinate faces, which is when I lose it and Kings takes over. In retrospect he was probably canvassing for potato chips.

When it’s time to sleep, Rockstar turns to his father, “Daddy, go outside please.” Which is the signal he’s ready for sleep.  (Daddy likes working late and will only be back in bed way past our bedtime.) He looks at me expectantly. We usually fall asleep together. This time, I want to read quietly. “If you tell Daddy to leave, you’re going to have to fall asleep by yourself because Mummy needs a break tonight.”

Little fingers crawl teasingly up my arm. Then down my side. He’s trying to tickle me to make me smile. I can’t help it, I smile. But I also cry a little. He probably knew exactly what he was doing with the tantrums. “Sorry mummy.” I hug him and give him a kiss, but I’m still drained and upset. “We can call daddy back, or you can sleep by yourself tonight please. Mummy’s not ready yet.” Without another word he turns around a few times, not unlike our Border Collie searching for a comfy spot on the bed, and settles on his side with his back to me.

But then a searching little foot reaches out and rests against my leg.

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