I don’t know about you but I think I have had enough of 2016, thank you very much.
Every morning, I wake up to a string of notifications from my NYT app, informing me that sometime in the night, something nasty has happened somewhere in the world. I wake up to an axe-wielding man running amok in a train in Germany. I wake up to a revellers in a gay nightclub getting gunned down by a closet gay man in Orlando. I wake up to shootings here, there and everywhere in the States. I wake up to a toddler being dragged off by a gator. I wake up to a gorilla being shot to death because a child went into its enclosure and suddenly everybody is a parenting/wildlife expert. I wake up to China threatening everyone from the Hague to the Philippines. I wake up to the deaths of Prince/Muhammad Ali/Harper Lee/David Bowie/Alan Rickman/Glenn Frey/Anton Yelchin/you name it, we’ve got it. (Death by one’s own car in one’s own driveway? SERIOUSLY?) I wake up to an attempted coup in Turkey.
I also wake up to the sacking of some random dude who was mouthing off against Singapore for not having Pokemon Go. Are you fucking kidding me? I mean, I get that he is a dumbass but THAT INTERNET MOB THO.
Then there’s Brexit, the appointment of some blonde buffoon to the post of Foreign Minister in the UK and the bizarre meteoric rise of a similar ginger buffoon in the US WHO COULD POSSIBLY BE THE NEXT PRESIDENT OF THE USA.
I am sorry but what the hell is going on?
To say that I am gobsmacked is an understatement. And as a mother, as an educator, I worry and fear. That our children are too insulated and protected from the hard truths. That we are setting them up for failure in life eventually because of the choices that we are making today. That the world we are handing to them is a crazy, cruel, strange one.
The world has indeed gone mad.
Maybe the Dementors are behind it.
Over the weekend, we celebrated Fathers’ Day. And I wrote a note on Instagram to the man:
And you know, I don’t think much about my father these days. It’s been almost 29 years. The past is in the past, the present is right here, right now. We’ve moved on in life.
Plus, I was all of six years old. It is easier to forget when your memories are fluid, constantly replaced by newer, fresher ones. And I think in that sense, God was kind to me.
But it’s not that I don’t remember. Oh, how I remember. I remember the little moments. I remember the moment my mother knew that he was dead, as we walked down the hospital corridor. She wailed, a heart wrenching noise that echoed in my young mind and never left. I remember bursting into inexplicable tears at the funeral, despite not quite grasping what death was.
Back then, my mother didn’t have the mental capacity to sit me down and explain what death meant. We just dealt with it in our way – moving on wordlessly, sweeping everything under the carpet, crying into the pillow late at night.
Time passed. It was a tough, lonely childhood. I grew up too fast. I learnt to survive, by putting up a strong, impenetrable shell to hide the vulnerability, the fragility. When you don’t have a father and other kids are questioning why you don’t have a father, you can’t cry about it. It’s a sign of weakness. You act as if you are doing as well, if not better than them, and then you change the topic even as your heart aches at the fact that you are different from them. You learn about privilege and social class. You learn that your studies and your smarts are the only things you possess that can help you get ahead in life – because you have nothing else in your name.
If I ever do think about my father these days, it’s usually to wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t died.
You see, I am not a very likeable person. I was never the sort of kid who was popular or well-liked by the teacher (and probably not now either!). I never say the right things. I can be harsh and judgmental. I cannot tolerate self-indulgence and weakness. And, especially at this age, I am not afraid of ridding my life of toxic people – so yes, I am heartless.
Maybe I’ll be a little softer. And kinder. And more positive, exuding with sunshine. Sweeter. Loveable. Happier. Gentler.
I don’t know. But to understand and accept me is to know just how much life without my father has shaped me.
It’s taken a while but I think I am finally comfortable in my own skin. I know who I am, what I am and I like me for me. I still have issues with esteem – I never get why my boss thinks I am good at what I do, I don’t know if I am clever enough to finally go on and get my Masters – but I am lucky to be surrounded by encouraging and supportive people.
There is no sense of bitterness or resentment at what I had to go through. I survived. And I am thankful I did so relatively unscathed. As an educator, I think I have seen enough to know that it could have turned out worse. But I also know that this ability to live through these tough times have served me well, allowed me to grit my teeth through anything that life has had to dish up.
And now as I see my littles build their relationship with their father, I sometimes take a step back, deliberately. We fulfil different needs in their lives, I know. And I am also starting to understand just what a father does and means to his children.
By God’s grace, we will indeed be parents to our children for this lifetime.
Happy fathers’ day to my papa, wherever you may be. You were the first man that I knew and loved, the one who still makes my heart ache when I think of you.
Feeling a little under the weather today.
Okay, it’s more like today is one of those days when I want to snuggle into my duvet, read a book and then wallow in self-pity. Hah! I keep smacking head-on into the roadblocks at work and instead of being all zen (“it’s not me, it’s them) about it, I am feeling ragey. And binge-eating on Crabtree & Evelyn cookies (birthday gift from a thoughtful colleague).
Meesa needs to cultivate inner peace. Breathe, I shall. Off, they must fuck. (I can’t claim credit for this ingenious line, stole it off a brilliant meme!)
I paid a visit to my physiotherapist yesterday and she gave a sigh. Apparently, I’ve hurt my sacrum/spinal thingamajit. It’s a “pregnancy” ailment, due to the body having to carry that extra weight and my insides being moved to accommodate the baby. The joints are injured. Or something like that. Which is why no amount of foam rolling can alleviate the pain. Right now, all I can do is to apply heat, swim, do yoga. No running. And then go back to see her regularly for her to poke at me long enough to loosen the tightness.
Which really sucks.
So yup, wallowing in self-pity. Shall log off now to pick up my littles. In the meantime, I dream of colours and warmth and going on holiday and becoming a HDB tai-tai.
I sit typing this as the day draws to a close. 11:15pm, that’s when I started. I have to complete this post by 11:30pm because one of my goals for this year is to get more sleep. With Zac waking us up at 5/530am every morning, the only way I can get a nice stretch of sleep is by, well, sleeping earlier than usual. Somehow, my children are allergic to sleep AND I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHY.
35 years and almost 12 hours ago, on this day, I was born. It’s been such a ride, so many highs and so many lows. The lows were horrible, difficult to live through – so many deaths and illnesses and poverty and emotional scars. But the highs? Oh, so many beautiful memories. No matter how bad it gets now, I know and remember that it could have been worse.
And so I am very glad to be here today.
In my youth, I dreaded growing older. When I was 18, I shuddered at turning 25. And look at me today, 35 and proud of it. I think it has something to do with being so much more comfortable in my own (ageing) skin. I know who I am and what I am and you can take it or leave it. I am no longer in the business of trying to make everyone happy – I do not give a shit to what you think.
A few weeks ago, I had a bit of an existential angst. Or moment of realisation. One of those things. I was thinking of something else and randomly, it dawned upon me that my birthday was coming up and HOLY SHIT I AM TURNING 35. That’s like one foot into the door of middle-agedhood. And I had a sudden panic attack. 35 and what have I done with my life?
And that’s really me in a nutshell, always wanting to do this and be that and getting frustrated that my situation does not permit me to do so. That’s why I decided that this year will be the year that I am patient with myself, that I do not ask too much of myself.
Knowing that there is so much that I seek to achieve, and also knowing that I am hopeless at organising my life (see what I mean by knowing myself well), I downloaded two apps on my phones. They are habit trackers: I set habits like “Go to bed at 11:30pm”, “Practise yoga” and “Write/Create” on certain (or all) days of the week and then when I attain these habits on a daily basis, I mark it off with a tick. It makes me accountable to myself and also, hey, it’s pretty cool to see the boxes checked. Let’s hope that by the time I turned 36, I am still going to bed at 11:30pm, practising yoga everyday and writing.
Usually, I would spend my birthday with my favourite boys. This year, however, husband took on a new job and he started yesterday. Which meant that it was impossible for him to take the day off and spend it with me. No biggie. I decided that since it was my birthday, it would be a day for me and took the day off.
I dropped Aidan off at his childcare centre, all sobbing and clinging on to my leg. I half wanted to grab him and bring him home with me but steeled my heart and walked away. Left the littlest at home with my mother and I went for an hour’s yoga session. Stretched out the kinks, pushed my body a little further than it has been used to for the past four years and it made me feel so good.
BONUS: the gym’s hairdryer is DOPE and it made my hair all perfect and nice, in a matter of minutes. MINUTES.
I then met my favourite girlfriend – she whom I have known since we were 13, spotty and really awkward – and we had lunch and tea together. We hardly meet, what with our brood of five between us, but it’s always a joyous thing when we do. It’s a most wonderful, funny and heartwarming and honest and giving friendship.
In the evening, I sent my mother home and went to pick up the man at his new far-flung office. We drove home in happy conversation, had dinner and then had cake again. Aidan sang me a line of the birthday song after I threatened to withhold cake from him, Zac ate so much he farted twice and then we put them to bed.
And now they are happily snoring in their beds and I am writing.
It’s a simple day. No gifts, no flowers, no big gestures.
But I am happy.
This year is not looking like it will be easy, what with the man’s new job/long working hours/traveling/office location and my steadily increasing workload. Some days I think about it and I despair. Just a little. But I know I will get through it.
I always do. I’m a survivor. I’m strong.
Happy birthday to me.
As I sit here, on the penultimate day of 2015, typing this, I find myself hard pressed to find the right words to describe the year. Not sure if it’s my faulty mummy memory, or the fact that the year has seemingly zoomed by, there is a sense that I don’t have much feeling for 2015.
Was it a good year? Well, yes and no. It certainly has its challenges. The husband was still navigating his way around some changes that cropped up on the work front. On my work front, I was given more and more responsibilities to handle, tasks that mostly worked my weaker muscles (and hence frustrating me to no end). The jump from parenting one child to two was also intensely apparent to me and there were times when I felt like I was constantly stretching myself, trying to be the best at everything I did.
Somewhere in the middle of the year, I thought I was swimming against the currents – I was perpetually chasing deadlines at the seat of my pants at work and then I had to drop everything at work to put on my mothering hat at the end of the day. It didn’t help that my two were constantly falling sick, picking up virus after virus. I’d be lying if I said that I was not resentful of the husband for his long hours at work – but that’s mostly my tired self rearing its ugly side.
So it wasn’t like I was shitting unicorns and rainbows, if you know what I mean.
And YET. I can’t say that it was a bad year. It was challenging, yes. But it was not bad. Because I have seen bad happening to the people around me and I know what bad is. Ours isn’t bad, no, not by a mile. At the end of the day, we still have it better than most.
But that still doesn’t sum up 2015 in any way. How does one sum up a year that seems so…grey? Oh speaking of grey, maybe I will always remember 2015 to be the year that Dr Shepherd died. Hah! Okay, lame joke. Although I will admit that I was really, really gutted. Still am, actually. BOO HOO HATES SHONDA RHIMES.
So, 2015. I’m not particularly sad to see it end. It was not a great year, nay, it was a strange year. Terrorist attacks, downed planes, Orchard Road in flames, abused cats, social media lynching, deaths, illnesses…all horribly confounding.
What am I looking forward to in 2016? Slowing down my pace, enjoying watching my children grow up. Gritting my teeth and getting work done. Squeezing in more yoga and gym sessions. Cooking more. Being less emotional and having greater clarity of mind. Figuring out what I want to do with my life. Sleep earlier. Stop stretching myself in all directions. Accepting me for who I am and understanding that the mum me is still me, with some variances in priorities.
Wherever you are, I hope you will have a wonderful 2016. May it bring you bags of blessings and may we all stay safe, healthy and happy.
Thank you for reading me.
(From the other side…okay, lame joke.)
I don’t know if anyone is still around reading this, or if anyone even cares. But evidently, I will continue to write even if nobody else is reading…because that’s who I am and what I do. Just ask my husband. I can talk and talk to him even if he is obviously in shutdown mode and not bothering to process what I am saying. By George, I will talk!
Anyway, same old story of my life. Work gets in the way of pleasure, unfortunately. There is so much that I want to do and so much that I want to write about but I haven’t got the time nor energy to do so. When I am home, my two tiny tyrants take up my remaining battery life. By the time they are asleep, I am stoning on the sofa, a mini Cornetto in hand.
This year has been quite a sombre one for us. Many changes in the household, many uncertain realities. We are still trying to navigate our way, trying to see through the fog. It has not been easy, it has not been smooth-sailing. There were times when we raised our voices, when tempers flared, when we didn’t like each other (or our kids). It wasn’t pretty.
But life – and marriage – isn’t about prettiness. It’s about grit and getting through the tough times together, and emerging better and tougher than before. If we can live through those two years of crazy, heartbreaking infertility, we can live through anything.
Plus, there’ve been so many terrible things happening to good people around us. My heart aches for them, but I am also heartened and inspired by their strength.
Needless to say, Christmas this year has been a little quieter. We took time out from work to be with Aidan and Zac, and it’s been both extremely satisfying and tiring. We’ve laughed and we’ve shouted (yikes) and we’ve rolled our eyes countless times.
But that’s family for you.
So we are off to celebrate Christmas with both sides of the family. We are very, very lucky that we are loved, and that our boys are so adored. No matter what happens, no matter how tough the times may seem, we know that it’s really not that bad. It’ll all pass. We are still luckier than most and we must remember it.
Whoever you are, wherever you are: I hope that you are loved and that you are able to savour peace and joy.
Have a blessed Christmas. May 2016 be a better year for all of us.