The organised chaos

A letter to my younger self

yannisms

Dear 12-year-old me,

Life is pretty confusing for you now, isn’t it? I would know, because I lived though it. Hell, I mean, I am you. I know.

But I am here to tell you that you will be okay. It will be okay.

Right now, living feels miserable. You are being bullied by a teacher in school. A teacher, a figure of authority who is supposed to be supporting you as you make your way through life. She constantly puts you down in class, and she makes it a habit to pull you out from the classroom to berate you.

How could you be so lazy/inattentive/stupid, she would say. Especially you, with those family circumstances, you are really disappointing.

But what is your crime? You wonder. What did you do to deserve these harsh words? Maybe you are really that stupid or lazy or useless.

And so this continues, day after day, for a year. Or is it two? I don’t know, to be honest I have tried my hardest to wipe this out from my memory but it cannot be scrubbed clean.

The constant gaslighting – yes, we have a word to describe this type of abhorrent behaviour now – erodes your confidence and the last vestiges of your childhood. For that year, you live in fear and anxiety. You hide in the library when you can – the cool, dark, quiet environment a sanctuary for you. You seek refuge among books because fiction takes you out of this dreadful world and into universes where there is snow falling gently on your eyelashes, tea to be had in delicate china, where there are tears but growth and love as well. Where the teacher-in-charge was your saviour.

Once outside of the library, however, you are lost. You hide under a cover of chattiness, of loud laughter to mask your confusion and misery. You tried telling your mother but she dismissed you with one damning sentence: Why would a teacher do that?

Why, indeed.

And then one day, you will stand at the window of the bedroom in your three-room flat. You will stare at the ground outside of the window and you will wonder how it would be like if you were to open the grilles and throw yourself down.

This time, a complete stranger saved you. Or maybe it was a figment of your imagination, a sliver of self-preservation that manifested in real life? I don’t know, but you saw someone standing at the opposite block gesturing to you to come down from the window. You stared at her for a moment and then jumped down to the safety of the floor.

I am here to tell you that it does end. You will do relatively well in your exams and move on from the school, and you will never see her again.

Unfortunately, the damage is done. Between the gaslighting and the fact that you will never feel like there is an adult whom you can rely on, you will be scarred and it will have an impact on who you are and what you do. You will always feel lonely even if you are in a crowd. You will always have difficulties making and keeping friends. You will always feel out of place, and different from everybody else.

That is the truth.

But there is another part of the truth, which is that you are really strong and resilient. What doesn’t kill you will only make you stronger? Absolutely.

You will live through all of this – the complexities of life, the confusion, the anxiety, the loneliness – and you will have done it on your own. You parented yourself when no adult was there to guide you.

So take heart, the me that is on the cusp of transition. Be comforted that you are strong and you will find your way out of the messiness. It may take time but eventually, you will be at peace.

And remember, it is not your fault. You did nothing wrong, it was the adults who failed you. You were a child and nobody did anything to help you so this is on them, not you.

It was never your fault.

Continue living for yourself. Continue doing your best and charting your own way in life. Continue reflecting and growing, aiming to be the best version of yourself. And you will find yourself some thirty years later, looking back at the 12-year-old version of yourself and feeling extremely proud and gratified.

You made it. We made it.

Love,

43-year-old me

Uncategorized

Set your life on fire: a birthday reflection

yannisms

This morning, I looked at myself in the mirror and I realised that I have become, quite decidedly, middle-aged. There is no denying it, looking at the lines and the saggy cheeks on my face. It’s like I fell asleep as a young adult – with a book on my lap – had a very epic dream and woke up 20 years later.

How did the time fly so quickly?

So January: the start of new year and another revolution around the sun (exactly one week ago). Happy birthday, me! 2023 was a rollercoaster ride, without a doubt. So much has happened: some good, some bad and some downright fucking amazing.

The one mantra that got me through last year was this:

Let’s see what I lived through. Fasten your seat belts cos it’s giving wtf.

Chores, chores, chores

We sent our helper home in June, not realising that it was permanent. In a nutshell, the unlicensed moneylender called and asked for the money that she had borrowed to be returned pronto, and we said CIAO.

NGL, that was a pretty traumatic experience. It happened at a time when the husband was working on a client project and practically living 24/7 at the client’s office, and I was mostly solo parenting. I handled all the threats communication, collected the evidence, made the police reports and got rid of all her belongings, while juggling work and having the offspring at home for the school holidays. I spent the subsequent weekends cleaning out the kitchen and the house, realising belatedly how HORRIFIC it was behind the cupboard doors. (Will spare you the gory details of what I dug out, my armpits deep into the cupboards.)

I made the decision to stay helper-less, partly because of my PTSD. And while I appreciated having help when the boys were younger, I was also tired of having to manage yet another person. I also wanted the boys to have a sense of ownership when it comes to maintaining the home, and wanted them to learn to step up (and not become a useless hindrance to their future partners, you’re welcome, future daughters-in-law).

Has it been all a bed of roses? Hell, NO. Some days, it is not easy balancing work and home at the same time, especially when we have zero help. And seriously, what is up with laundry? It is truly the gift that keeps on giving – THERE IS ALWAYS LAUNDRY. I felt like I was doomed to a lifetime of folding a mountain of tiny boxers at 10pm.

Okay, I also felt like I was doomed to a lifetime of rocking my FOMO non-sleeping baby to sleep, but look at where we are today. GROWTH.

But I have learnt to let go. If I don’t have the energy nor the time to cook dinner, let’s order in. We’ll fold the laundry while watching TV, and leave as many chores – washing the dishes, vacuuming – to the appliances as possible. Nobody is going to die of malnutrition if we eat at the coffeeshop for the nth time this week. My child is not going to need therapy because he had to put on his tiny boxers directly from the laundry rack. My marriage is still surviving even though we side-eye each other sometimes (WHY doesn’t he like using the dishwasher?). I have developed a system of hacks that minimises effort to maximum rewards (that’s another post for another day).

So chill, mother, chill.

Management, schmanagemnt

Let me put it out there: I dislike managing adults.

Human beings are annoying creatures who love to complicate matters and adults, unlike students, cannot be scolded into compliance.

It really does not help that I am a writer at heart and prefer to do my own thing. Stop bothering me, I will do my job and I assume that you are doing yours too.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, it remains yet to be seen), it appears that there are people who don’t agree with my sentiments and put me in charge of other employees.

If I were being brutally honest, I blundered like a clown at the beginning. I made the wrong assumptions that everyone is doing their jobs and that I can continue existing the way I did, before I took on the new role. UTTERLY STUPID.

Firstly, not everyone has the same standards that I have when it comes to teaching. Not everybody gives a shit the way I do. Secondly, everyone has their own agenda (not a bad thing, just is). Not everyone is as dumb as I am, simply happy to teach, get bored, learn new things and live. People have their own ways of achieving their goals, which I have to learn to manoeuvre too. Thirdly, I mistakenly assumed that I was solely responsible for the success of my people, and threw myself out there in different ways, trying to fix their problems.

I learnt all of these the hard way, and endured a few miserable months. But looking back at growth that I had for the past year, I am very proud of myself. It would have been so easy to throw in the towel and say that I am not cut out for this role. I did consider it, but in the end, I realised that it was far too easy to quit when things are tough. It would not be an accurate assessment of my capabilities, especially when the learning curve is so steep. I am not my emotions so while I may feel like a failure, it does not mean that I am a failure.

We are made to endure tough times. And we are often hardest on ourselves.

There are plenty of silver linings though. I have supportive, fantastic mentors, who are always welcoming even when I am being a whiny nuisance. I attended an intra-agency course last year that really opened my eyes up to the shared frustrations and challenges and joys of public service. I gained clarity on growth opportunities. I may have fallen and banged my head up in spectacular fashion, but I also learnt to get up and continue walking.

During the above mentioned course, I realised just how many people were unwilling managers, like me. And then, one of the facilitators said, Those who don’t want to lead often make the best leaders.

Best? Maybe not. Best of intentions? Yes.

Those who can, teach

So, I won a teaching award! That’s another thing I was very proud of last year, having put my blood, sweat, tears and many cuss words into this job.

But more than that flimsy piece of paper that I received (I can’t even remember where I placed it now, hmm), it was all the congratulatory messages that I got from my graduates that melted my heart. There were DMs from those whom I have not spoken to since they left my classroom, so many unexpected ones. Some shared their memories of their interaction with me – which I honestly do not even remember – which made me realise just how much of an impact a good teacher can have on the kids.

I have a lot of gratitude for the management who saw value in my work, but really, it’s nothing compared to kids who tell me, “We know you cared, and we miss you.”

It made the four, five years of hell at work worth it. There were so many times when I wanted to leave but at that point, teaching was all that I wanted to do. The award, the recognition from my colleagues, the well wishes of the kids are really the light at the end of a very long tunnel for me. There were many years when I felt dispirited that I did not “achieve” anything at work, as compared to my peers.

But it all worked out in the end. My “achievements” are not tangible, they are in all the ways that I have touched the lives of the kids in one way or another.

I don’t think I will teach forever, and that’s okay, it’s all a part of growing up. For now, it is what I love and what I am good at so que sera, sera.

So, another year huh. Wow. I don’t know what’s coming but hell, let’s do this. Maybe a doctorate is in the cards? If there’s anything that I have learnt over the past few years, it is that nothing lasts forever. We live through it, we learn, and we grow. And then we move on.

Here’s to many more adventures ahead in this lifetime!

The organised chaos, Werk

The one where I win a teaching award

yannisms

So it’s been a really long time since I actually wrote for myself and it feels odd. Like a dress that you have not worn in a while and now that you have put it on, it feels scratchy and uncomfortable and you wonder how it used to be your favourite garment.

But we gotta start somewhere. And there’s no better start than to write about The Award.

Early in the year, my newly-minted boss told me that she was nominating me for a teaching award. I didn’t think much of it, I said okay and promptly forgot about it. See, when you are an educator, awards are not what you dream of. Most days, we just want to complete our curriculum, grade all the assignments and handle the 1001 administrative tasks that are waving threatening fists at our faces.

In March, I was told that I had been shortlisted for said award. And I had to submit a long-ass form detailing my crowning achievements for a bunch of people to determine if I was worthy of winning. It was a tedious process that had me dredging up teaching evaluation scores, feedback from students, emails from industry partners from the past three years. It was then that I realised how much I had done in three years. There was so much to include in a document that only allowed me to write 2000 characters per section.

The most lovely thing was how my students rallied. I needed testimonials and THEY DELIVERED. Boy, did they deliver. They (or maybe, ChatGPT hahaha) wrote me thoughtful and insightful testimonials within the short timeline that I had to cobble everything together.

The form was duly submitted and a month later, I got the email to say that congrats! I was one of five who would be receiving the Teaching Excellence Award (TEA)! And guess what – I was also being nominated by the polytechnic for the President’s Award for Teachers (PAT), which is organised by the Ministry of Education for all schools every year.

Now THAT was something I had not expected. And while I was pleasantly surprised about the TEA, being nominated for the PAT sparked something in me. Like, I know I am good at my job but this was the first time I was being affirmed by others so openly and publicly. And it felt…like a warm and reassuring hug, like all the work that I had put into this job is being recognised. I felt seen, in a good way.

There were more forms to be filled and then I received the email that I was invited to the Istana for a reception. A couple of months later, a fancy card arrived in my mailbox at work and that was when I knew this was REAL.

I suppose it was serendipity that I got to attend the reception with my Boss Lady, who hired me 12 years ago. We always joked that her hiring success rates are 50/50 and that we helped her to maintain a positive score – and it is so true! Jokes aside, she is truly a mentor who has been with me at every stage of my career in teaching. The mistakes, the frustrations, the anger, the joys – she’s heard it all and I am glad that I got to share that moment with her.

Ultimately, I didn’t win PAT, nor was I shortlisted. Initially, I was disappointed because hey, how often do we get a chance to win a nation-wide award? But I realised upon reflection that it does not matter whether I win or not. Winning does not make me a better educator, and not winning does not mean I am not good enough.

The icing on the cake, of course, was the ceremony for the TEA. I had not realised that it was going to be so formal and I was a complete wreck when my name was called. Do you know that it is extremely awkward to be standing on stage with all eyes on you while someone is announcing your achievements?

IT. WAS. TERRIFYING.

But I clearly lived through it and went on to run a workshop telling people why I deserved to win – no, not really, it was more of sharing about how I structure my lessons and assignments to make learning fun for my kids – and I got to show everyone the amazing work done by the kids.

The whole experience has been nothing short of amazing and it felt like a strange dream. Of course, I had to come back down to earth quite quickly because September and October had been hell – hello, new semester and performance appraisals and budget planning in Excel files with many tiny columns – but the cloud of euphoric fumes sustained me for a bit.

I mean, I get to go to the Istana with my favourite boss. We got to take photos with the former president, and the minister of education himself. I get to receive an award on stage from my PCEO, who made me cackle out loud with his joke. I get to go to work and see my face stare back at me from the billboard. I get to do my job – which I am so damn good at and which I enjoy so damn much – every day.

Forty-two. The answer to life, the universe, and everything else.

And you know what makes this whole experience even crazier?

September 19, 2011: My first day at work at TP. (The HR guy was confused why I decided to join on a Tuesday. I did not have the balls to tell him that it was because I saw the wrong month in the calendar and thought the 19th was a Monday. Yah, I am an award-winning educator.)

September 19, 2023: The Tuesday when I received my Teaching Excellence Award.

Serendipity, I surrender to life and its mysterious ways.

I have been DYING to make a video with this song and it is just PERFECTION. #YOYOK
Motherhood, Zac

Zac is 9! (Or when the baby is almost a decade old)

yannisms

The littlest turned nine yesterday and as we headed out of the house to Forest Adventure – which the birthday boy had requested – at almost 10am, I remarked to the husband that I was trying to push him out at this moment nine years ago. And then we had a bit of a laugh at how eventful the birth was (thanks boys, for making your mother suffer more than she should).

Just like how his birth was organised chaos, so is this little man’s personality. He is like a mini tornado, full of unexpected twists and turns but always, ALWAYS a head turner.

At nine, he is smol and utterly adorable at times. Still a baby, still wants hugs and kisses and cuddles, and still wants to stick with us. While his big brother drifts off into WhatsApp chats with his friends, the littlest hangs with us and holds our hands. He smiles often when he is with us, his entire face crinkling up and those tiny eyes disappearing into the folds of his expression – very much like his papa (unfortunately…).

At the same time, that boy has a tongue as sharp as a knife – very much like his mummy (unfortunately…). His rebuttals are attorney-worthy, and he can spot loopholes in your statements from a mile away. We were advised by the fortune teller, who gave him his Chinese name, to get him a godfather in his life for guidance, and we chose the husband’s eldest brother, who is a similarly sharp-tongued lawyer. Coincidence or fate? I marvel at his astuteness in those moments when I am not fuming at him!

For a nine-year-old, this kid has got some hard corners in his personality. He is stubborn and hates being in the wrong with a passion (cough papa’s genes cough). Bombastic side eye? Probably invented by this kid. To his credit, though, he is still growing and we are also working gently to blunt these sharp edges without dulling his spirit.

This boy is not as easy to pinpoint as his big brother. While Aidan’s strengths and characteristics are more visible, Zac has yet to come into his own. While I am not a Tiger mum, I would be lying if I say that I am not worried about him and his future. He is very much like me in many ways – not a natural leader, not explicitly excellent in any area, not comfortable to draw any attention to himself.

But as the husband says, wisely, he is only nine. There’s still time for him to determine what he is good at, and what he will work hard for. Currently, his teachers lament that he is articulate but only chooses to speak up when he wants to. Story of his life, really. Because, like big brother, he finds school a gigantic chore and would rather stay at home to read and play Roblox.

There’s still time. He is only nine. And yet, how is it that he is already nine? Where did those years go? As Ed Sheeran sings, the days are long but they pass within an instant/it is the strangest thing. It feels like only yesterday that we were rushing to the hospital as the sun was rising, to deliver this baby. He came out looking all pink and pouty, like a little Mongolian baby, we said at that time.

Minutes after Zac was born

To my dearest bubba,

I am so glad that you came along when you did. I love cuddling you and calling you my squishy pie, I love how you love us back so joyfully and wholeheartedly. I love how you crawl into our bed in the middle of the night and, when asked why you were there the next morning, you’d say nonchalantly, “why cannot” like you belong there. I love how you pat my head gently, kiss my cheek and whisper “I love you mummy” when I am half asleep in the morning. I love how you recharge my love tank when I tell you how exhausted I am from work. I love how you think that my cooking is the best thing in the world, when it really isn’t.

You are really a true amalgamation of your papa and me – I see so much of the two of us in you, and yet you are also uniquely you. Continue to grow, my little darling, and always be the best version of yourself.

Love you forever and more!

Aidan, Letters to, Motherhood

11 years of Aidan and motherhood

yannisms

Over the weekend, my firstborn turned 11. And with every birthday, we often reminisce about the past. How hard it had been when we were trying all ways and means to have a baby, the cautious joy that we experienced when we were finally successful, the fear during the labour process, the disbelief when we finally held him in our arms, and – oh god – the lack of sleep thereafter.

But we don’t just look back at the past, we also celebrate this child as he is, today. Parenting an almost-teenager is an interesting experience. It’s like warm, comfortable water mixing with a cold draught: the cosy, known factor of him being still a child and his rebellious, independent self emerging.

The Aidan at 11 is a beautiful child. He is a (mostly) kind and loving brother to his sibling, and he is very much a beacon of rightness to Zac. According to his teachers, he is a helpful kid and that’s why he was selected to be a class monitor for the second time. Heaven forbid that you ask him why he isn’t a prefect though, he gets really offended, haha. He thinks that being a prefect is boring because it requires him to be perfect and good. Can’t argue against that, honestly!

Unlike most kids I know on Instagram, he is not academically-driven. Oh, he is getting better at making sure that his homework is completed. But good luck to you if you have to get him to study – it is a complete waste of time, in his opinion. School, to this boy, is a social activity – it’s only great because he can spend time with his friends. It would be much, much better if he could play Roblox all day, everyday!

And so, as his parents, we crack our brains trying to figure out what would motivate him. We think we have a winning formula on hand but if parenting has taught us anything, it is that winning formulas are never permanent. But it’s fine – we just want to make sure that he gets the opportunities and exposure that we never had, in case he isn’t cut out for academic life.

This would likely shock most Singaporean parents because, hey, getting into the top schools is like the ultimate goal. The truth is, we simply don’t care. Our mandate to them is to firstly, put in effort. I always tell the boys that if they put in effort and don’t do well, I have no complaints. They tried, period. But if they don’t put in effort and the results are crap, then they have a lot to answer for.

Secondly, we only need them to do well enough to have options. As someone who grew up poor and with little financial options, my grades were the only things that prevented me from remaining in that stratum. At every step of the way, I did well enough to have choices and I made sure those choices count. I want them to create these choices in life by themselves, as much as possible.

Lastly, we want them to always be learning. There is nothing more dreadful, in my opinion, than to be someone with zero curiosity. When there is curiosity, there will always be learning. And to be honest, we have their teachers in school to thank. Despite their misgivings about spending so much time in school (and NOT PLAYING!), they often come home raring to tell us about the new things that they have learnt.

But back to my child. I have loved him unconditionally since the day I knew of his existence in my womb but I am also cognisant of his flaws. Between the husband and I, we are working hard to help him with these flaws but we realise that sometimes, he just has to learn the hard way. Sometimes, he reacts too quickly and emotionally (my genes, sorry). Sometimes he gives up too easily (papa’s genes, for sure). Sometimes he is impatient and loses sight of empathy (a mix of his parents, for sure).

He is also kind and generous. His teachers once got him to sit next to a boy who was likely to have special needs. They asked him to “help” the boy, who did not submit his homework, was messy with filing and could not pay attention in class. Aidan took it so seriously, he got upset when the boy did not listen to him, and shared his frustrations with us. We counselled him, told him to be patient with his classmate, and explained what being neurodivergent meant. Shortly after, I reached out to his form teacher, who explained that Aidan was selected because they felt he would be a good influence over the boy. And once they took the time to explain that to Aidan, he was more confident of lending a helping hand.

As an educator, I know the importance of doing well. At the same time, I also see that the kids who succeed in life may not necessarily be those with a perfect GPA. The ones who do well are empathetic, kind, considerate, resilient with a dash of good humour. And there are those who bloom later in life, when they finally shake themselves free from the shackles of mainstream education and find a vocation that suits their personality and skills. I may be biased but I know my kid – and I know he’s on his way to fulfilling these important life qualities.

So to my dearest Boo, continue to be brave and kind and good-hearted. These qualities make you the best version of yourself, and I am always proud of you, because I know that you are not defined by results. You were the gift that took me out of the miserable state that I was in more than 11 years ago, and I know that you will continue to be a gift to the world.

I love you to the moon and back, never, ever doubt that.

Love, Mummy

The organised chaos

The answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything

yannisms

Happy birthday to me! That’s one more revolution around the sun, one more year earth side, and wading deeper into the 40s zone. Back in my 20s, I had this notion that the best age to die would be 40 because, silly me, I thought I would have accomplished everything that life has to offer by then.

(Twenty-somethings can be so silly sometimes.)

If I were to have one word that encapsulates my hope for this year, it would be “Bloom”. I used to hate being a January baby because nobody knows or remembers your birthday, after the hullabaloo of Christmas and the holidays and being in a new class at school. When you are a lonely kid whose family doesn’t celebrate your birthday, it can make you feel even lonelier.

As an adult, I see its beauty. At this time of the year, we are at the tail end of winter – the cold is thawing and spring is approaching. In our Chinese culture, there is a sense of hope and optimism for the lunar new year. It’s cold but we are slowly getting warm.

And so, bloom. Like the gorgeous flowers just waiting for the right time to burst forth into their own, so am I.

To be perfectly honest, the past four or five years have been rather un-pretty in many aspects. My career stalled, bosses who added little value to my professional journey came and went, and the work culture was toxic. I was miserable and wanted to resign so, so many times. Somehow, I held on. I can probably thank my students for this – without them making me laugh, cry and roll my eyes, work would have been absolutely dreary.

The pandemic came and stayed. It was also when it suddenly hit me how awful and dysfunctional my childhood had been. I started reclaiming boundaries and parts of my life for myself.

My trajectory started changing rapidly late last year – so fast that I barely had time to breathe. Change after change happened and suddenly, I found myself with a new boss whom I actually respect and trust. More importantly, I was given the opportunity to work on projects that I enjoyed and was good at.

And just like that, I am at where I should be.

For the first time in a long, long while, I feel…complete. Like I know exactly where to go. Like I am doing what I know I am good at, and people recognise my effort.

I have been suffering from imposter syndrome all my life, and I know that this is a result of my childhood trauma. When there is nobody to offer you words of affirmation, to encourage you to try new things despite your fears, to believe you…it can be hard to believe that you actually are good at something.

Here, now, today. I am where I am meant to be.

Does life end at 40? Absolutely not! I am still seeking growth, fulfilling dreams and notching personal achievements. I may not have many friends but the people whom I have surrounded myself with are good for me. They encourage me, tell me hard truths and help me to be a better person – and I know how lucky and blessed I am.

Some days, I muse that my sons are suffering from FOMO. But now, I see where they get it from. It’s me – it’s me and my fear that I will regret not trying something that I have always wanted to try, on my deathbed. It’s my fear – that I have lived a life that did not explore fully what living should be – that keeps me going.

And so, here we are. Completely at ease with who I am and where I am. Work is exciting again and hey, not everyone can boast of having a billboard of their face welcoming all visitors to the campus. (I was embarrassed at first – hi, imposter syndrome – but screw it, I ought to be proud of it and myself).

What is in store for the next year? I don’t know but I am going in with the best version of myself that I have ever been.

Happy birthday me! May my smile remain joyful, come what may.
Aidan, Motherhood

His tiny hand in mine

yannisms

I sat in my usual spot, in the middle of the queen bed. This is where they want me to be at, every single night, as they fall asleep with some form of physical contact with my body. Sometimes it’s a leg strewn artfully over mine, sometimes it’s them tucking their heads under the curve where my arm meets my shoulder.

Tonight, they did not take too long to fall asleep for it was later than their usual bedtime. The exams are over and we are getting lax when it comes to routines. After a while, when there was no movement or sound, save for their breathing, I deduced that they were truly sleeping and started to extricate myself from the tangle of human limbs.

Then a little voice piped up, “Are you leaving?”

I smiled in the darkness at my ten-year-old. “No, I am not,” I whispered.

He took my hand and turned on his side, effectively forcing me to spoon him from the back. And so we laid like this for a while, him still holding on to my hand as he drifted off into dreamland.

“I love you,” I said quietly into his ear. He stirred a teeny tiny bit, before mumbling, “I love you too.”

He didn’t let go of my hand and I marvelled at my son, who is on the cusp of becoming a young man and is still a child in so many ways. Wasn’t it not too long ago that we celebrated his 10th birthday?

Right now, we are still the centre of his universe but it is a world that is slowly expanding. He is starting to become more aware of his self. He is beginning to form connections with others; he moaned about not being able to go to school to spend time with his friends when he was ill earlier in the week. He has his own mind and opinions, and is vocal and confident in articulating them.

He still kisses me, but not too many times. And when we go out, he will still hold my hand, but for 10 seconds. After which, he will subconsciously flow into the direction that he wants to go, leaving me behind.

It’s a good thing, for our job as parents is to raise our kids to have the self-assurance to take on the world by themselves. Eventually, his sense of identity and space will grow and grow, and we will be knocked off our perch from the centre by the torrents of time. And it’s a good thing, it is exactly how it is meant to happen.

It’s also a bittersweet thing.

I suppose that’s why we have more than one child. So that as the older one starts to grow into his own, we learn our lesson well enough to treasure and mentally file away the baby moments that we still get from the younger. The littlest cannot fathom a life without us, and he still wants to hang out with us as often as he can. He holds my hand and asks to sit on my lap. And so I indulge him, knowing that these requests are going to fade away sooner than later.

But I may be premature in declaring that the childlike days of my 10-year-old are over. The other day, I was working from home after being in the office for weeks. He was home too, for he had caught a cold. He came into the study and leaned into my chair to hug me.

“Thank you for making me feel better,” I said. “I guess you are too big to fit into my lap these days.”

He grinned cheekily and spun around, backing into me as he finally sat his bum on my lap.

“See, I can still fit perfectly on your lap.”

We sat like this, my arm around his waist, his hands over mine, for just a moment. I breathed in the scent of this beautiful boy, and felt a sense of gratitude for his presence in my life. It didn’t last very long – he bounced off to play Roblox with his friends – but it was enough.

Aidan

10 years of motherhood and what I’d say to my younger self

yannisms

Earlier this March, my firstborn celebrated his first decade earthside. I know, I know, I am only writing about it now? Unfortunately, COVID happened. Mr 10 first contracted the virus, and then I got it too, as his main caregiver. While he recovered in time to celebrate being 10, I was still rather ill. Getting over COVID has taken a longer time, for me, than expected but that’s another story for another day.

Right now, this is about me being a mother for the past 10 years. If you had asked me to envision this milestone back then, I would have laughed bitterly. There was a time when troubles seemed too much to bear…I jest, I jest. Or not. Because there was a time when I didn’t know if I would ever cradle a child of my own in my arms, let alone imagine crossing this milestone. And then when the baby was born and in my arms, I was exhausted because he would not sleep. I thought I would never get a full night’s sleep, ever again.

And look at where I am today, 10 years on. I survived the lack of sleep, I survived juggling the many hats that I had on, I survived all the naysayers who told me I could not. I not only survived, but I did it DAMN. FUCKING. WELL.

So if I could go back in time to talk to my tired, uncertain, and determined self, this is what I would tell her:

This will not last forever, no matter how never ending it feels.

There are days when you feel frustrated. Because your baby is fighting sleep and you are spending hours pacing up and down the room, trying to get him to just. Fall. Asleep. For. Fuck’s. Sake. You contemplate sleep training him but you can’t. You wonder if you are dooming him (and yourself) to a lifetime of poor sleep.

The truth is, it will end. There will come a time when a switch will go off in his brain and he will sleep for hours at a stretch. And there will come a time when he does not need to be breastfed back to sleep, and so you can rely on your husband to take on the nighttime duties.

And there will come a time when he would be 10 years old, telling you, “Mummy, I want to go to sleep.”

On weekends, you get woken up by him early in the morning. If you are lucky, it’s close to 7am. If you are not, it can be as unearthly as 5am. You crawl out of bed, throw a few toys on the floor and hope that they can buy you some time as you try to catch a few more winks. Inevitably, the toys will outlive their purpose in less than 15 minutes and you begrudgingly command your body to get up. A while later, the three of you – including a similarly wretched looking husband – will bundle out of the home, in search of a cafe that is opened at this crazy hour to get your caffeine fix.

Eventually, you will gift the boy a little brother. And he and little brother will bond over their shared love for Roblox. And on weekends, he and little brother will continue to wake up at unearthly hours – yes, they do not bid 5am mornings farewell – but guess what? They will now conspire to sneak down the stairs, switch on the TV and watch YouTube videos on Roblox with the volume down. By themselves.

And you will get to wake up at glorious 9am, to a lounge with two couch potatoes and breakfast bought by the husband.

You know how that saying goes:

“Making the decision to have a child – it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body. ”

Elizabeth Stone, author

When you first saw the positive pee stick, you were in disbelief. But at the same time, unconsciously, a burning flame had been lit in your heart. He might have just been a mass of cells in your uterus but from that moment on, you will give your unconditional love and protection to him. He is a part of you and you will do whatever it takes to ensure his happiness and growth.

When you first felt him flutter in your womb. When you saw his body take shape in the ultrasound. When that first kick took your breath away. When you first held him in your arms, tears flooding your eyes. When you marveled at the perfection of his little body. When you carried him close to your heart in that baby carrier. When he first giggled in the backseat of the car. When you took him everywhere with you on your first trip to Sydney. When he gurgled and celebrated his first birthday. When he nearly broke your – and the husband’s back – by wanting to walk for months before he was ready. When you heard him say his first word, “mama”. When he cried and cried when he first went to the childcare centre. When he started bringing craft home, dedicated to you. When he graduated from kindergarten. When you took him to primary school on his first day. When he finished reading the Harry Potter series and could talk to you about it. When you heard the familiar voice of Neil Gaiman narrating his audio book and you realised that he had borrowed the book. When he hugged you and forgave you when you were short-tempered with him.

For every moment of his life, your love will not wane. That flame will keep burning and there are times when it grows fiercer. There will be wonder and joy and anger and exhaustion – oh, you will continue to be tired from juggling all those hats – but the love will never waver.

And that is the privilege that you bear as his mother. And what an honourable privilege it is.

It’s been 10 good, eventful years of being a mother. I say this at every age but 10 is really awesome. I love Aidan for the 10-year-old that he is, and I love that he is at the stage where he is independent yet still comfortable enough to be a mama’s boy.

You are the best of papa and me in many ways. You have a forgiving, gracious heart. You have a wild imagination. You tell me to quit my job so that I can be better paid because you truly believe that I deserve better. You speak like a mini philosopher sometimes, and tell me you love history. You are competitive but without malice. Your teachers consistently tell us that you are a helpful and kind boy. You listen to us carefully when we explain your flaws or mistakes, and we can see you trying your best to improve. You love your brother – even though the two of you troll each other relentlessly. You are not someone who envies others, in fact, you are always taking stock of the things that you are grateful for.

You are not a perfect, unicorn child, but I never expected you to be one, especially since we are such flawed parents. But you have brought me so much joy and love since the moment I knew you existed and I am thankful that you chose us to be your earthside family.

I love you to the moon and back!

When Mr 10 and I both had COVID
The organised chaos

Another revolution around the sun

yannisms

In a blink of an eye – oh such a cliche phrase but so true though – it’s been six months since I last sat down with my thoughts. It’s been three days since I celebrated another birthday and while I had so many reflections, alas, the mind is just no match for the ageing body. Our days of waking up at 6am have begun in earnest and most nights find me flat out on my bed.

But no worries, here I am again. It’s a Saturday evening and my dinner plans got cancelled at the last minute. The boys are off to dinner with papa at their grandparents’ and so, unexpectedly, I find myself enjoying the solitude of my own company. How utterly, completely introverted of me.

So, another birthday spent in the 40s. Another year as I observe my eyesight going south, haha! But in spite of me entering my 40s in such turbulent times – hello, COVID19, I see you – I can’t say that it’s been completely crazy. In fact, I do enjoy this phase of my life so very much.

If I had to pick out a keyword for my 20s, it would be search. That was the time when I finally left school behind me and became an adult. All my life, getting a degree had been my goal. I knew that it was my ticket out of poverty and I needed it to get a job so that I can support my single mother. I never thought beyond getting a degree and suddenly, I found myself fresh out of school and trying to establish myself professionally.

I bounced from job to job, trying to find something that felt right. Okay, if I were to be honest with myself, I was also bored after two years at the same job. I always felt like I had learnt enough and wanted to move on to something new. And so that was me in search of the right job – moving from journalism to communications to photo sub-editing to, finally, education. There were days when I wondered why I couldn’t stay put at one place, I struggled so hard to reconcile with myself. But now I see clearly that it all worked out in the end. My need to learn new things, my curiosity- they were perfect for my job as a lecturer.

My 30s, on the other hand, was spent in a haze of exhaustion and motherhood. I tried so hard to get pregnant (this entire blog is full of infertility woes) and then I finally did, twice. The next decade was all about being pregnant, breastfeeding, trying to put little people to bed (our parquet flooring was probably worn out by our pacing), bringing them up while juggling multiple hats. Throw solo parenting into the mix and you can imagine why the days seemed so long but the years are short.

Along the way, I got bored again (a recurrent theme, as you can see), and decided to challenge myself by enrolling in a one-year accelerated Master’s blended learning course. And that was with a full-time job, travelling husband and a three- and five-year-old to boot. Ah, good times. I graduated in one piece and armed with a 3.63 GPA to boot. Am I proud of myself? Damnit – a hundred percent YES.

And so here I am, in my 40s. I crossed into the threshold last year with a full-blown pandemic. It hasn’t all been fun, there were days mired with grief and anxiety and fear. There were days when my kids spent way too much time on their devices and I did nothing to stop them. There were days when I laced up my shoes to go out for a run, to hell with wonky injury-prone legs, because I needed to breathe. Alone.

But it hasn’t all been bad. I have enjoyed working from home tremendously. Being with the husband 24/7 has actually helped our marriage – we weren’t one of those couples who wanted to kill each other. We spent more time with the boys. Going to the gym has been a way for me to let off steam and I am fitter than I have been for the past 10 years. I discovered that I don’t actually have a black thumb and can, in fact, keep plants alive.

More importantly, I have regained my identity as my sons grow up. They no longer depend on me for their most basic needs and I can spend time doing the things I enjoy again. I feel alive, and joyful and uncertain and…well, me.

There are times when I worry about the future. But if there is one big lesson to be learnt from this chaos, it is that we have to let go of the future. A girlfriend suggested that I read Flux Mindset: 8 Superpowers for Thriving in Constant Change by April Rimme, and this was one of the superpowers she espouses. Every time I start to feel anxious about sometime, I would take a deep breathe and remind myself to let go. There is no certain future in this unpredictable world.

And so, 40s. This is where I discover myself all over again. It is when I go in search of more things to learn and try, while learning to let go of any expectations and fear. Wish me luck!

The 40s is Fabulous. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
The organised chaos

The rituals that the pandemic stole from us

yannisms

I have an M.O when it comes to getting my hair done.

It usually takes place during the term break, so once every three months or so. I will take a day off from work, and it is typically a week day, and the earliest appointment the salon can arrange for me. I drop the kids off at school and park the car at home before taking the bus into town for the appointment.

After the usual works – greys get touched up, a trim to keep the shape neat and tidy – I’ll head over to an eatery for my coffee and meal. There, I’ll linger for a while, enjoying the quiet sips of my coffee as music wafts into my ears through my noise cancelling AirPods. There, I am shut off from the world, immersed only in my book and my music. There, I am my own, and I am gentle, and I am silent.

A cup of coffee on a table in a cafe
Always a cup of flat white

Time, however still it seems, doesn’t stop. Before I know it, the cup is empty, the aftertaste of coffee lingers in my mouth and a glance at my watch tells me that it’s time to head home so that I can pick my littles up. A quick check of the app shows me that the bus will arrive in eight minutes – I pay for my meal, pack up and slip out of the place to walk to the bus stop.

This process emerged, initially, because of a lack of time. Weekends are for spending with the kids and husband, and I needed to be home in time so as to pick the boys up from school. As time went by, it became a block of time that I carved out for me.

Over time, it became a ritual that I followed unconsciously. But for the past couple of months, and perhaps even the year, there were times when COVID guidelines meant that I could only zip and out for a haircut. The ritual that I had built so carefully over the past decade had been systematically and ruthlessly dismantled because of the pandemic.

The past two months of living under the shadow of Phase 2 (Heightened Alert) has shown me just how much the pandemic has robbed us of. I never thought I would miss dining in at an eatery so much and so when we weren’t allowed to do so, it felt like something was missing. When the rule was finally lifted, the first thing I did was to book a dinner date with the husband. And our first meal out was a piping hot bowl of bak chor mee, post gym.

Over the past year of working from home and ordering food in, we have had many bowls of noodles, obviously. But somehow nothing beats waiting for the food to be cooked, and then to tuck into the freshly made noodles.

And then it hit me: it was a ritual in itself. The process of us heading to the gym together, deciding what to eat, queueing up to order, and sitting at the table while devouring our food. Having a date night is also a ritual – me deciding what to wear, dolling up, driving down the expressway with the moon roof opened and pretending that we are doing a road trip, holding hands and walking to the restaurant, conversing with no worry or care.

Maybe that’s why there is always something heavy weighing inside of me. (Granted, I tend towards the melancholy more than the usual.) But there’s always a sense of grief – at times teeny tiny, at times an avalanche – of what we have lost and given up, of what our kids have had to let go of. I am grateful that we, as a whole, have emerged relatively unscathed but I also recognise that my anxiety and grief are valid too.

Perhaps the underlying lesson to be learnt is this: to treasure the little moments of what we have, and to never take anything for granted. On some days, truthfully, the lesson can be a bitter pill to swallow. But you know, time does not stop for us. Summer is here, it’s hot and bloody humid, and before you know it, the kids will be out of school and it’s time to celebrate Christmas. We just have to focus on putting one foot in front of us at a time, shed some tears and laugh out loud along the way, and we will be where we are meant to be in due time.

Cocktails at a restaurant
Date night with the man, Spanish food this time (and most of the time!)