After a full morning at the playground, Rockstar climbs exhausted on the sofa for his lunch (rice, green veggies, homemade fishballs). Our helper (who often hints I don’t give her enough time with him) rushes to feed him while I shower and check my inbox. When I emerge maybe 15 minutes later, she’s already carried him into his room for a nap.
An hour later, Rockstar wakes and runs to me and I start. There is a humongous lump in his cheek. Rice and fishballs from his lunch before his nap.
My son looks like a hamster.
I’m so amazed I can’t even be angry, “You put him down for a nap with that HUGE mouthful???”
Our helper doesn’t even blink, “Yeah. He was taking so long to eat it.”
The hamster is staring at me curiously – wow, Mummy turns green fast. It looks like his eyes have to work their way around his distended cheeks, his mouth is so full.
“Aren’t you going to eat that?” I know. I know I know I know I know. There were simply no words.
Slowly, he starts chewing. You can see it in his eyes as he reacquaints himself with his lunch: Ah, fish. Rice. Maybe a little veg in there.
“Olla,” I say. I tell her never to do it again, he could have choked… But there is no heat in my voice. I’ve already decided she will never get the chance to do that again. And thank you God, for that guardian angel who does overtime.
Then there’s the freebie soybean drinks we got last week from redeeming supermarket coupons. They’re basically soy-flavored sugar water with little nutritional value – almost as bad as soft drinks. No one in our house is thirsty.
“Give Rockstar, yes?” she’s already filled his mug with the stuff. No one wants it, she explains. After all, she doesn’t want to drink it either, so give Rockstar.
First she turns my firstborn, my only child, into a rodent. And now she thinks he’s a dustbin.
We’re throwing out all the soy-flavored sugar water like we should’ve done in the first place.
I wrote, “Does the help help?” sometime back. Why do I still have a helper?
When my son looks up at me anxiously after dropping the glass of milk he was so painstakingly trying to pour himself, GlaMum can smile reassuringly. Never mind. It was a splendid effort. Let’s mop up together/ thank Jie-jie for helping us clean up. GlaMum does not snap, “I’ve been cleaning that floor all morning!” or “Why can’t you get it right?”
Coming home to a gleaming apartment after a morning of pure joy at the playground/ supermarket/ pool with my son makes me feel incredibly privileged – I had better thank God/ smile more/ help little old ladies cross the street more – all things I want my son to see me doing.
If we don’t have our head screwed on right, how do we expect to take care of another human being who depends on us to make all the right decisions and yes, smile at them along the way? I’m a headcase if I have to clean my own floor. Just the floors, you understand. It’s so easy to fix – get someone else to clean the floors and I become a wonderful human being. The kind whom I want to raise rockstar. The kind who won’t be giving the helper a chance to make a mistake with him.
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