Yes, I now have a toddler with Zac Efron hair. My super-on hub learnt to cut hair on Youtube, but forgot to check what the finished product would look like after he followed the instructions.
This is my “blackmail pic” for when he brings his first girlfriend home. Rockstar, not Kings.
Been meaning to write this for some time. For all the times she was there when I came back from a bad day at work, when I slink off for a quiet cry, then when I open the door/ look up/ turn around – there is a dog napping discreetly as close as she can get to me.
JD had been my best friend for 4 years before Rockstar was born. We were inseparable. We participated (and sometimes won) Hong Kong Canine Agility Championships events. We had our pictures published in Pet Pet magazine. In Hong Kong dog owner circles people know her, not me. Then I got pregnant and we started getting “well-meaning” remarks from family/ friends of family about the “dangers” of a “large” (she’s actually a very average-built Border Collie) dog around a new baby. My gynea Dr Liang Shuk Tak, a big dog person herself, was a comforting source of reassurance. “Sometimes animals understand. They know what to do.” She’d of course seen mums give up their dogs before. She’d even adopted one of them.
For being my long-suffering best friend, JD, this one’s for you. Thank you for putting up with the constant assault of noise, weird smells, various strange visitors trooping in and out, the removal of the spotlight as the only child in this family. I hope all the baby food handouts make up for this a bit.
JD and I during our Agility days… both of us were much erm, leaner then…
How To Get Your Dog To Accept Your Baby:
Begin moving your dog out of baby areas asap. We started when I was about 4 months pregnant. What would be the baby room became an off-limits-to-JD guest room so she was used to strange smells coming from there all the time. I even saved a spot on the sofa for where I wanted to put the baby stuff. We did it early so it would never occur to JD she lost territory because of the weird smell coming from the guest/baby room.
Someone told me about this dog psychology thing whereby Mum shouldn’t be the one to carry the baby into the house for the first time the dog is around. We went one step further:
While I was at Hong Kong Sanatorium, JD boarded at the “Five Star Dog Hotel” (sounds cuter in Cantonese) in Tuen Mun. It has playgrounds, air-conditioning, a big-dog pool and a little paddle pool for the smaller pooches. Also walks and socializing among other similarly spoilt dogs several times a day.
Before Rockstar and I left the hospital, Kingston dropped JD home first. She has a home-coming ritual that includes inspecting her basket and all her toys.
When we got home, Kingston stayed downstairs with Rockstar while I went in and threw the ball around for JD for about 20 mins. Then when she was settled, my hub casually walked thru the door with the baby basket and put it in the baby room. JD didn’t even blink. About an hour later, when she realized there was a strange smell coming from the guest room, we deadpanned “but it’s in the guest room, nothing to do with you.” JD gamely agreed.
That first week, JD got all her favorite foods – smoked salmon, roast chicken, pizza – so she would associate the new smells with “good things”.
(Yes, we know she can swim.) The jacket is for pulling her back in the boat after she sneaks the occasional dip in between wakeboarding practice runs. We hope to bring Rockstar along for the first time this summer. More stuff for him to be impressed with JD about.
Interestingly JD was always the first to know when Rockstar was about to start crying – she would run and tell us, hoping to preempt the crisis, then when the storm hit, she would prod us to “make it stop, make it stop” before hiding.
Today, dog and toddler are partners in crime. You steal my toy, I steal your toy. (Yes mum, I have baby sanitizer foam all over the house.) Rockstar likes veggies and carbs, doesn’t like meat, you do the math. Rockstar’s childhood is so much better for having JD in his life. He crawled / walked early because he was desperate to play with JD and practiced constantly. Other mummies borrow JD for their kids. Rockstar and JD have worked out a neat arrangement – he’ll share his cheese and cookies, she’ll let him hold her leash and walk her, thereby upping his “cool” factor among the bigger kids.
The Partners in Crime
Two years down the road the “well-meaning” anti-dog remarks look so completely off the mark. Thank God I stood my ground with the manic planning because no one else even remembers now. I would have been the one who had to live with betraying my best friend, long after all the “well-meaning friends” went back to their own lives. Now, if I could just keep JD from getting fat from all those cookies and cheese…
Rockstar’s on a good day. I think. When Sam, 19 months, was upset she’d taken a bad fall, Rockstar presented her with a toy fish to distract her from crying. Sam’s mum was satisfyingly impressed – “Oh, he’s nice. He’s a really nice kid.” One would have thought bullies are natural products of such a driven personality. (If he decides he wants something woe betide any parent who tells him differently – when trying to breastfeed I could not distract him (not even with quite a few nurses’ help at the Sanatorium) from a bottle long enough for my milk to come in after my hurriedly scheduled C-section so I had to use a big old hospital pump we rented for the entire almost-year I breastfed. I continue to be peeved at the loss of bonding time while I was hooked up to the pump but at least he got my milk.) But one would be wrong. Then at music and singing time, Rockstar gets his musical instrument stolen by an older toddler (infuriatingly, her mother does NOTHING. She sits on the outskirts of the group, not even near her toy-stealing child, a smile frozen on her face.) When he offers to exchange another one to get his own back (he wants the blue), he gets the new toy taken from him as well. Rockstar looks at me with a shrug as I attempt to get one of the two toys back but the other child refuses. Then he whispers “Starbucks?” We leave the music ring mid-song. I praise him for sharing and tell him he can order anything he wants (his worse vice is the occasional orange juice which he goes to town on this morning.)
Rockstar gives things away. All the time. I try to rationalize it but truth is he’s forever sharing until I wish he would stop because at this age other kids almost never, ever share back. When another child actually shows appreciation (Rockstar on the other hand, says thank you and no thank you almost automatically like a robot), I feel like waving pom-poms or doing cartwheels. Immediately I want to hook up playdates, except I worry about coming on too strong – “not sure you should play with Rockstar darling. Nice kid, he shares, but his Mummy is a Fruitcake.” I constantly wonder if I should be doing/saying something to prepare him for Real Life:
“Rockstar, in Real Life, there is Give and there is Take.”
“Rockstar Real Life isn’t fair – in some restaurants you can get two balloons.”
At some point in the journey between baby and toddler-hood, Rockstar has morphed into this magnanimous, I-can-give-anything-away-because-my-own-needs-don’t-matter Sharing…. Monster. He’s still got the tough personality in him, we fight passionately and constantly about mealtimes, bedtimes, tooth-brushings, dog-head-butt-ings, so I’m baffled – how is it possible he can be both Sharing Monster and Diva Rockstar?
Placing a bet on a roulette table; haha no he’s not – it’s a gemstone for his Egyptian bib at Island ECC’s Vacation Bible Study: Joseph’s Amazing Journey.
Last night Rockstar and I had a fight. It was his fault. It is extremely inconsiderate of a 27-month old to have a meltdown simply because his father is not around to put lotion on him after his bath. (Early on, as a guilt-ridden working mum terrified her son would bond with our helper, I sought advice at water cooler small-talk sessions in the office. “Always have a ritual with him that your maid (ie helper – this is not an uppity thing, the vast majority of middle-classed families in Hong Kong employ “helpers”) is never allowed to handle” was one of the best pieces of advice I ever got. It’s Right Up There with “Always put on a little makeup / a bracelet / nice top even when you are at home and think no one will see you.” Because you’ll see you.
“I want Jie-Jie” (Chinese for big sister – it’s what he calls our helper). I freeze. Jie-jie who has never bathed him once in his 28 months. Jie-jie who never touched him once I came home from work – I can’t begin to describe the wranglings and deal-makings I’d done at work just so I’d be back for his nightly bath and story time. I would rather come in Sundays while Rockstar was napping, than (God forbid) miss a night-time ritual. My ex-colleagues knew this. Some milked it.
“I want (insert care-giver’s name)” should be a phrase we brainwash our children never to use. They should have weekly therapy sessions at playgroup. A child psychiatrist should swing the proverbial pendulum before their eyes with a “You……. Will NOT, repeat after me NOT, demand…. Your caregiver over your mummy…..” While they’re at it, they should throw in “You will not insist your mummy wears the baby pink top again. You will only insist on outfits your mummy looks supremely hot in, if they are not in season.” “You will hate candy.” “You will not head-butt the dog.”
“I WANT JIE-JIEEEEE!” reverberates around our apartment, snapping me out of it. I know he’s lying, so I call jie-jie over. The tantrum dissolves into a subduedand sulky “no” when jie-jie comes to take over the nightly ritual.
Battle won, but not the war – I wonder how long it’ll be before he discovers mummy would jump thru of hoops, scale tall buildings, sing like a canary on any otherwise taboo subject for a toddler, rather than hand him over to jie-jie.
(Some flashbacks; reminded myself to write some of these when I got the blog up and running)
Rockstar at the playground on a happier (bully-less) day
“NO! He’s not my friend so he can’t get on the slide. Only my friends can play here.”
She has long, luxurious, cascading golden curls and an angelic face. My hackles rise. She can’t be younger than 4. Rockstar is 27 months and stands at a mighty 85cm/30lbs. He’s small for his age – physically he barely has the height of your average 2yr old; but he climbs, runs and jumps like a 3yr old, leading to more than a few mums of 2yr olds asking a slightly freaked out “Umm, how old is he?”. Rockstar has earnestly moved back down the 2 steps of the slide he’s started up, to let her go first (he thinks he’s older, and sometimes (1) is desperate to befriend older kids (2) behaves like a big brother to kids his own age (which can be rather funny because they tower over him yet he pulls it off with grave expression) – but the moment Mean Girl gets on the slide, she’ll only let “friends” up. I’m about to learn that 30 years after my own childhood bullying began, nothing has changed. Except maybe the hairdos. Ok, definitely the hairdos and probably what alpha mums wear to playgrounds.
I’m keenly aware my son has heard Mean Girl. I’m also keenly aware he is mildly interested in how I will respond, though mostly he’s still trying to get past Mean Girl for his turn on the slide. As I cast about for reinforcements, GlaMum feels her imaginary cape start to wilt a little – even as Mean Girl’s friends – all tall, handsome, Caucasian children – push past us happily on the slide, impervious to a younger child’s feelings or his GlaMum’s misery. My heart breaks as I see Rockstar watching them hungrily. There’s a group of well-groomed, appropriately-yet-tastefully-dressed-for-the-playground women deep in conversation, completely oblivious to the drama playing out 10 feet away.
No help for it, mustering up my flagging GlaMum abilities, I say theatrically directly to Rockstar “She doesn’t deserve any attention. She’s being very naughty – if her mummy knew, her mummy would be so disappointed in her.” Mean Girl glowers but stands her ground. She meets my reproachful look head-on with a glare I didn’t even know young children could muster. If looks could kill Hong Kong might well have their first homicide by a 4yr old on their hands. I wonder what the Cantonese DJs would say. In that instant I don’t think I have ever seen an uglier child. The mums are still talking but Rockstar seems to decide my remark is suitably satisfying affirmation. He breaks the impasse, getting distracted by a nearby bug and wandering off. His obvious disinterest in Mean Girl and her slide is far more effective as we leave her glowering at nothing and move on to More Fascinating (And Pretty) Things Like Ladybirds. Mean Girl runs off to the chatting alpha mums to tell on us but her mum swats her away like an annoying fly – her mum is the tall, very slim blonde in the baby pink Juicy Couture tracksuit. Why hadn’t I hazarded a guess?
Some of what Rockstar does that freaks mums of the 2yr olds at our playground…
(Honestly my heart stopped here too)
Come to think of it, here’s a pic of Rockstar at 11 months (note the long suffering, stressed-out expression on Kingston’s face as he frantically tries to start up the next video and the surroundings – we were in the car park lot of the Perth airport, waiting for a late night flight back to Hong Kong.) Rockstar used to only eat when we played a particular few baby videos. Let him go hungry? He can outlast the most steadfastly determined mum by eating almost nothing for days. And he’s tiny, btw. 2 teaspoons of ice cream here, handful of fries there – there’s not much I don’t deny him because he really isn’t a foodie. Deny him, however, and he will make <insert food here> an obsession. I should do that with vegetables, except he already likes veggies and fruits.
Don’t let that look fool you – this was taken minutes after the mealtime drama above. Love the shot of Perth airport tower against their (perpetually) blue skies though.
Rockstar’s pediatrician always advises syringing liquid medications into babies’ or toddlers’ mouths on an empty stomach. (Because if you put it in milk and they don’t finish it you have no idea how much medication your child has taken. Ditto when babies bring up milk and medication when you burp them). But what happens when medication so offends your toddler he can’t stop throwing it up? (Rockstar’s motto is where there’s a will, there’s a way. Now, if he just applies that to his Harvard application, I’ll be one happy mummy.)
Rockstar has a fascination for all things grown up. He’ll drain his milk if it’s served up in my wine glass. So that’s how he gets his meds – a little milk cocktail served to him in his bath or in bed. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Someone taught me that.
One day, coinciding roughly with when he first started preschool, Rockstar began to say “Audrey” whenever a little girl or princess cropped up in conversations. It turns out “Audrey” was a little dark-blonde girl with bangs and large blue-green eyes who often approached him at playgroup. I don’t remember seeing him paying particular attention to Audrey at play, but at night, our bedtime stories were peppered with “Audrey” exclamations for a few weeks. He would ask to see the picture I had taken of them together on my cellphone. When Audrey moved to a different class weeks ago, I seemed to miss the “Audrey” moments more than my son. Like any other male, he had proven the “out of sight, out of mind” saying – or had he?
Yesterday we bumped into Kaya and her mum as we were all walking in Cyberport. Normally Rockstar wrangles at least a few cuddles or even a lift along our several hundred meter walk – but not this day. He marched imperiously ahead, constantly calling for everyone else to “Come on. Walk faster!” Kaya, blessed with very blonde curls, very blue eyes and an outgoing personality repeatedly reached out and took his hand. “Aw Shucks” bashful is interesting to watch in a 28 month old male. Later, he mutters “Cannot hold hand. Too shy.” It’s true what they say – you see so much of a young child’s personality before he learns to hide it.
That night, I asked him who he liked better, Audrey or Kaya? “Audrey and Kaya. Both!” “Also Annie” he grins. Annie was the only Asian girl in his class for some time; they both moved up to a new class together in that preschool before everyone went to different Kindergartens and very different timings. Friends and colleagues have told me the girl-boy ratio in Hong Kong in Rockstar’s year is something like 80-20. And so it begins.
It had to happen. My little germ factory bringing home a cold to mummy dearest. Sharing friendly microbes. I’m down for the count – does a childhood in Sandakan, Malaysia (different bugs than Hong Kong) have anything to do with my lower resistance? Mr Product of Hong Kong seems to have the resistance of a rhino to this one, something admittedly I’m happy about – better me than him, I would rather steam bath him til he gets all pruney than overmedicate. Since SARS and Swine Flu, I have become a germ freak – in my black Prada is an arsenal of toddler disinfectant supplies. The leather and metal makes it significantly heavier to tote around than your average Sportsac but a good bag makes the GlaMum so I am never giving up my bags. To make up for the additional weight, I carry round small versions of everything. In a little black plastic pouch with a pink breast-cancer awareness ribbon print, I am able to fit:
A 2-inch bottle of sanitiser spray (which I refill from an industrial-sized supply in the kitchen)
Similar 2-inch bottle of organic all-natural insect repellent (ditto on refills). Very important in Hong Kong during summer – so many insects carry bugs (sorry)
Travel-sized baby wipes (for Rockstar’s face and hands or diaper changes)
Individually wrapped alcohol wipe (for whatever café table we have decided to set up camp at, usually in Starbucks and in case my little bottle of sanitiser runs out)
Chicco Baby insect bite medication in pen-sized dispenser
Baby hand sanitiser foam (in case Rockstar puts his hands in someone’s drooling Labrador and there is no sink to wash nearby)
SPF 50 toddler sun hat
A diaper and sample-sized Mustella diaper cream tube (when buying in bulk every month, I always ask the salesgirl for samples – who wants to carry around all the big tubes and bottles?)
A little police car with siren, or fire engine truck – Rockstar gets to pick one toy to put in my handbag each morning
I currently have three medium shoulder bags (recycled from my days at the office) to match mummy outfits :
The black Prada saddle-cum-doctor’s bag-looking installment with the gold buckles that I’m currently using
Rusty red Yves Saint Laurent Musebag
Acid yellow/green Escada frame bag
There’s also a flowered Marc Jacobs red and blue beach tote (large enough to fit towels)
All completely close/ zip up so nothing ever falls out on the street when I’m struggling to pick up a fussy toddler.
The price to pay for fashion is remembering to repack frequently; the tradeoff is feeling put together when you catch your reflection in the mirror at some department store, even as you run after your wild animal for the umpteenth time.
