7 months

Dear little one,
you're the reason I have started blogging again. I picture the day you're old enough for me to share this blog with, and hopefully you'll be interested enough in your mother's heyday to read all of this.

You move a lot now, reassuring me that you're fine. You moved particularly a lot after Loki used my belly as a launching pad in his streak across the living room. I was really worried and started googling "mild trauma to pregnant belly"("leads to maternal deaths"--what?) and gave Loki the cold shoulder the rest of the night. But you kept rolling, kicking, and fluttering your feet in every area of my belly. So I knew you were safe.

I wonder if you'll be this active when you're out of me. Will I be one of those hapless mothers running after a gleeful toddler who grabs at everything? Will you be frustrated in the swaddle I plan to get for you, a straitjacket for your flaying limbs? Will you become like one of our tan grow@nooners, spending three days a week at training and throwing around balls for fun?

It's hard to imagine someone who's a part of me, someday being apart from me. A totally different person, with different interests and thoughts. Will I know how to relate to you? Will you forget how to depend on me?

I unintentionally did a mean thing to your father the other day at Simply Bread. I told him how our friends went through a tough delivery, and the father had to choose between saving the mother or the child. They'd discussed it prior to this, so he chose the mother. In the end both were fine. But I know k will not be able to make that kind of decision on his own. So I wanted to talk about it.

"I think you should save the baby,"I said, "because I've already lived 30 years. I've had a very good life. The baby hasn't had a chance to live yet. So save the baby."

He looked at me for a few seconds, and then tears started spilling out of his little plum eyes down out of his round purple spectacles. I patted his hand and ended this horrible discussion.

But I want you to know that even before meeting you, I already love you this much. You don't ever have to be clever enough, or pretty enough, or anything enough to be loved by your mummy and daddy. Right now, while you can't see us or love us back, we love you entirely. We just want you to be healthy and to have your chance at life.

----

Pregnancy update:

Workouts: once or twice a week. Still Bodyfit by Amy's prenatal workouts- strength, pilates, and bodyweight.

Belly size: enough to get me seats on the train, smiles from strangers, and kindness from shopkeepers (to leave me alone)

Appetite: I can squeeze more food in my belly now, but hardly crave snacks. Don't think I'm getting my extra 500 calories in. Tried eating yogurt but it always gives me the runs.

I miss: Cracking my back on the bed, blue cheese and brie, alcoholic ice cream

Baby gear: Hand-me-downs from Joel and Cherlyn, and Sharon's brother. Almost everything's in except the baby carrier and stroller, and small things like baby wipes. We bought a dresser from Ikea that will double up as the changing station. It was too heavy for k to carry by himself to the car, so he unpacked the box and loaded it plank by plank into the car, and then up to our living room. The planks and pieces are all lying in a heap there now, making our home smell woody.

Hormones: Been getting weepy when I watch birth videos / gender reveal videos/ any well-edited video about a stranger's journey with baby

Energy level: Walking is more difficult. If I hit close to 10,000 steps a day, I feel like dying. My butt and hips will hurt and the belly feels strained. But I have enough energy to cook a few times a week this month.

Ideals

Sometime ago,we had our first wedding anniversary.
It passed like any other monthsary. We went to jamie's italian and worked up an anticipation greater than the actual meal. Oh, and we woke up at church camp.

Some of these choices would never have been ideal.
My ideal anniversary would have been over a surprise staycation with the best steak meal. But life happens. And we grow. So there we were, serving at youth camp and playing avalon all day and night with thirteen-year-olds, wishing each other a happy anniversary in a sprawling room in jb.
It couldn't have been better.

My ideal wedding would have had white painted trees lining the stage, performance lights, and other such white props. Instead, ET and Fiver died. We got our house ready. I scrambled through a first semester at Lasalle. Life happens. We grow. So I gave up the white-tree dream, and let it all go so that I could transit into marriage painlessly. My last day as a single woman was spent at Billy Bombers with my parents, recounting our thanksgiving, taking it slow on purpose.
It couldn't have been better.

My ideal man would have been a melancholic poet. But life happens.
So instead, I married a man who has not one shred of melancholy in him, nor poetry. But he is all sunshine.
And I look at him falling asleep every night and think that I have inherited somebody's precious child.

Life happens, and we grow.
We learn to let things go. We learn to stop idealizing, and start appreciating.

Like when I decided that it was more important to play board games with k's family comfortably, than to sit there in my sweaty makeup and contact lenses for three more hours. The letting go of vanity. Or should I say, vanity let me go. But that deserves a whole other chronicle.

4 days after the funeral

My grandmother was healthy all her life, until last week.

I remember sitting with her in the car on the way to the doctor. She looked like she had trouble breathing. All we did was turn up the aircon so it'd be less stuffy. Actually her lungs were being infected, and less than a week later their oxygen intake would drop to 60%, way below what was already fatal.

She had pain in her back. She thought it was from a fall. Her brothers advised her to go to the polyclinic to get a reference letter for an X-ray. Our private doctor made her twist and bend, and certified her fit. He prescribed her Begesic for muscle ache. Actually it was shingles burning her skin, and it was rashless.

She hadn't peed in days. Our doctor checked her medicine intake, and told her to stop taking antihistamines and Chinese medicine. It apparently worked. But actually her kidney was failing because of the shingles. In a few days, her neck would be bloated because no fluid could leave her body.

I remember our last meal together, after the doctor's visit. She had no appetite, and she kept pausing because her nose was running. I thought that I had never seen her nose run before. Suddenly she was frail. We gave her tissues. In a few days, the infection would flare up to be pneumonia.

--

Unpredictable, life is. The grandmother who had never lay sick in bed spent her last days in an induced coma. Blame the doctor. Blame ourselves. There is no one to blame.

We spent the last week and a half in a heightened state of filial piety, clocking in hours by her side in the ICU. We watched her life support monitors with obsession. We cried and said things to her we'd never be able to if she hadn't been asleep. Now, with her ashes tucked away for good beside my grandfather's, it is our turn to have our sleep.

--

We live life with an assurance that death will come with warnings. We monitor our loved ones and don't worry when they develop coughs, fevers, aches. Most of the time it works out well. They go on to recover, and we can go on the holidays we've already booked. But not always.

We may not be doctors. Even doctors may not be astute enough. But we have the responsibility to do what we can while we can. To accompany a sick person to the doctor two, three times. To mend all quarrels, and fulfill all pledges. To come home for dinner. To call home.

All in One Place

When something is done twice, it can be counted as a little family tradition. So lunch buffet at Sheraton has become my birthday tradition. The best value for money at a hotel buffet, because of the oysters I love.

What a blessing to have all the people closest to me here in one place. To have them happy to be together, liking one another.

Of Missionaries and Makeup

A wise man recently asked me what I've learnt from my parents. He was too witty and intimidating, so my answer became incoherent and silly. But walking in the rain today, massive clutch under my aching elbow while grappling umbrella and drink, I suddenly knew what my parents have taught me.

As full time Christian workers, every cent they have had over the last 30 years has been prayed for, and given to them by friends and supporters. My university education was prayed for semester by semester, and just in time the money always came. Our family lives by faith, so money has both been something we've needed, yet never worried about.

The lesson I learnt from this wasn't to be miserly--quite the contrary, we've always had more than enough of everything. We don't just have a car, we give people lifts home. We don't just have nice dinners, we often fill our house with people and feed them. We've been able to give away computers, cameras, money, clothes, makeup--even back-heating pads--to people who have less. No, the lesson I learnt from my parents was not to be penny-pinching or stingy.

What I learnt was that our money is not earned. It is a gift from God to supply all our needs. So while we don't have to worry about having needs met, we don't spend the gift carelessly.

Learning that money is a gift, I've been able to take an uncommon easy-breezy approach to job-hunting. Because money is not my main consideration, I'm free to do anything I want to.

But learning that money is not earned has its struggles too. It splits me--the me that grew up in my missionary family, and the me that is growing up and making money in this alien world.

The me in the world is a beauty addict, unstoppable in my quest for new and better products to buy. 
The me in the world begins to believe that expensive things are more beautiful--even if it's a Dior lipstick case. The me in the world listens to her friends growing up with expanding paychecks, splurging on things that transit them into womanhood, and wants them too. The me in the world buys expensive presents and meals for loved ones and doesn't regret them.

But the Family me feels the stab every time, because money would never be spent in such a careless way if it was given, not earned. The Family me knows that a brand name means nothing. But the me in the world wins every time.

The people who earn their thousands or ten thousands every month--they've worked for it, and so they will feel that they can spend it any way they please. So can I, technically. But always there will be that inward dissonance when I do, because of family. So much so that I know I wouldn't buy a designer bag even if I earned enough someday. I would feel my parents' eyes on me. The price of a bag is what we prayed to receive in the mail in uncertain times.

A gift. And so when I receive an expensive gift, my heart aches for what it would cost to my family.


So there I was today in the rain, massive clutch under my elbow. Too caught up in what would look nice to carry something more practical. Too caught up in appearances to remember how to spend money the way I was taught, until now. 

With this, I go on another shopping ban--no new products until I've run out of everything. Another thing: no makeupalley, no youtube gurus, not the slightest temptation to feel like I *need* yet another thing I have so many of. No more. (God help me.) The aim? To step out of the house as myself, not as the things I've bought. To be thankful for the simple things, and wise enough to know what's a good buy and what's not. To give and receive presents that are worth more than their names.

I am the daughter of a blessed family; I cannot live like I am not.

 

How was your valentine's day?

I spent mine in a fever, while k was at his cousin's wedding. It was also my mother's birthday, but we were both too under the weather to go out, so my dad bought us tori-q bentos and we spent the night watching a new (old) taiwanese drama about the ethics of honor and saving lives. 

Here then, to celebrate the great love that is my family, is a photograph of my parents in the Philippines in the 70's. They're on the right, looking as seventies as they could ever look. Happy birthday mummy!

It was a happy chinese new year.

For one, the weather was cold. All the better for wrapping up in.

 

And there was time enough to do some painting,

 

and some puppet-making,

 

and some tidying up of the hurricane happening on my desk.

 Time to laze around and be stretchy.

 Although I must admit I haven't stopped rolling around in bed these mornings either.

 

New year's eve dinner with the family: a tea flower that opened up slowly all night.

 

Cousins who were very excited about yusheng.

 

And visitations to the homes of grandaunties, who don't speak a word of Chinese and make tubs and tubs of cookies and cakes.

And finally, celebrating a klutzy girl's birthday. 

Yesterday my family joined the ranks of Jurong's kite flyers. My father and I were perched on our bicycles looking at the rain sadly, like little kids thinking they can stare it away. Then the sun came out, and you should have seen my dad beam. We gave up the bicycles, and my mother came along in the car. A never-before family park event!

I started flying an eagle, but it wasn't high enough.

Then our kites got high,

and higher!

My mother's a pro. Actually, she got help from a charming stranger.

We met this little boy on the field, about ten years old. My dad said, "How did you get yours so high?" and Kite Boy replied, "You help me hold mine and I'll do for you." 

Kite Boy ran up and down between us, helping us launch kites and untangle strings, and keeping an eye on all our flight statuses with commands: "Forward! Forward! Let go! Backward!"  We couldn't move an errant hand without his swift correction; that boy had us covered. On how to untangle string: "Follow the lines." On the amazing equipment the pro kite-flyers held: "You can buy in Malaysia." On seeing me fumbling with my Spiderman who wouldn't sit upright for his launch, "You'd better go help your daughter." At one point he told me, "You go take photo." while he worked out my hopelessly tangled spool.

Hence me being handsfree and taking all these photos.

We spent the rest of the time being very impressed by the regular kite-flyers, with their night kites with wingspans larger than a man, and their professional spools that they proudly told us cost hundreds of dollars.

Mr Blue Polo on the right there is the residential kite master, and his kite got so high that he anchored it to the floor and walked around surveilling other flights. He invited us to tug on the kite's string, and tug we did. Our body weights couldn't bring the kite even an inch down. His kite was timed to light up automically at 7:30 pm. Mr Orange Polo on the left is the owner of this massive lighted kite, and he turned on its lights just for this photograph. He said, "With this hobby, I don't need to think about eating, just sit here!" He also pointed out other regular lighted kites aross the field: "Later Fish will come out, and Star is going up now"--like a sage mapping out constellations.

So we, newbies on the kite playing field, got our eyes full of the more charming side of Singaporeans yesterday. Now when the rain stops, we look towards the field and see the triangles pop up almost immediately, and I know. They must have all been waiting with their kites, gazing up at the rain like children, waiting for the first moment to fly.

Things we don't try to remember, that we will miss the most:

 Making handprints on ET.

 Being ignored by her.

 ET's paws. Any cat owner will be able to relate to you how precious a paw is. The first time I touched ET's baby paws, I was shocked at how soft they were.

 Putting a smile on her face.

And as for Christmas, the same rule of memory applies: 

 The things about December that I remember more than anything, that aren't necessarily events: My mother's homemade turkey and all the vegetables that go in, giant wings, a terribly scavenged carcass, and the frozen turkey thawing in the fridge, crowding out jam jars and belachan and rolling around in the car in an icy ball in a Cold Storage plastic bag.

My father playing host and getting drinks iced, putting on dramatic instrumental music and turning on the little lamps in the corners of the house. The few minutes before guests are timed to arrive are exciting. We are all laying tables, perching on sofa arms, and checking our phones for guests' messages. We do this as a family, and it doesn't really matter who the guests are. Our yearly Christmas project is to open our home.

There would be no everyday without the small things.

My dad and I spent the night watching old home videos. He cringed at his kaypoh video narration ("Wow you have a very nice smile! Did you just go to the dentist?") and I cringed at my kaypoh seven-year-old-ness. I wasn't one of those doll-like cute kids. I was too smart to be cute, and full of dramatic lines. "I am Julienne! The famous actress!" My bangs were severely short and I hadn't learnt to frame my round face with wisps of hair. My smiles were gummy with tiny teeth. When I grew older, my potential to look better was hampered by round, colorful glasses that reflected light.

My parents were so proud of me though. In the videos they put me in nice dresses and made me play all my piano examination pieces, though they probably had had to listen to them thousands of times before at home, mistakes and scales and all. My mother was always smiling and affectionate in the videos. She wore darker lipstick and was surprisingly obliging in all my dad's directed shoots. They filmed a couple of my birthday parties, and my friends were all cute in their miniature versions of themselves. But you could tell that the camera looked for me wherever I went.

Sometimes we need to see things from afar, like in old home videos, to see this kind of love clearly. I think we need to make more home videos.

I'm quite a small person. Petite. But when I was at my tiniest, I was the most fearless child ever. I was an only child who grew up among adults. So I never had any concept of how small I was.

When I was three years old, another little girl climbed on my father's back. I stood my ground and shouted, "Get down!"

When parents' friends came to the house, I went up to them and beckoned them with my hand to follow me into my room. When I saw new people, I would ask, "Who is this man?"

I found the kids in kindergarten noisy, prattling, and okay to play with but not essential to sit with all the time. I answered all the teachers' questions and knew more than any of them did. I invited all my teachers home for lunch, to my mother's shock. At church I was repeatedly disturbed by a teenage boy, and I went up to his mother to complain that her son was bullying me. She was highly impressed.

In primary one, one of the boys liked to push us tiny ones from behind as we went down the stairs. Looking back, I think he thought it was fun for us. And maybe some tiny boys found it fun. But I wasn't one to be pushed, and I told my mother. She said, "Push him back!"  (I guess this is where I got it from.) So the next day, before he could push me, I told him, "If you push me, my mother will come and push you down the stairs!"


Sometime between then and now, I lost that.

Maybe because I was suddenly surrounded by older children, prefects, who carried me and told me I was small and cute. Maybe because teachers always commented that I was quiet. And small. I learnt these things about myself I had never considered before. I learnt that there were many other kinds of people who wanted me to do things their way. And that making friends meant having to submit to other bigger, or bossier kids. So small is what I became.

Somehow I believe that fearless child is still inside me. That tiny tot to whom no adult or peer is a threat. She's deep inside, still telling people what she knows without self consciousness. Still standing up for rights and justice. She's a dormant volcano, who has come out only when desperately needed. On other days, she hides in a small voice and petite clothes and "you look so young!"s and "are you sure you can carry that?"s, the things people have defined and handicapped her with, that she's come to believe about herself.

My Dad's 60th birthday. Cake-cutting, pretty normal. We had a surprise party for him in a country club ballroom, and that's pretty normal too.

We had group games like Birthday Bingo, 007, a quiz on my dad, and prizes galore. But I've already told you about my Tan clan's group games.

What makes the Tans truly, truly strange is what happened after the games.

We did the hokey pokey and turned ourselves around.

And we had the Elephant Dance, which involved no dancing but a lot of walking around the room while my first auntie sang the Elephant Song. This said auntie is also the one who made us clear away all the tables and chairs so we could dance.

She's in the flowery dress. But I don't think she's the sole culprit for the dances. As you can see, all the siblings were having the time of their lives. It must be a Tan thing. Here we're doing the Hokey Pokey for the second time.

"Ohh...hokey pokey!"

I like to dance too, and when my parents are out of the country, one might find me skipping and jumping to loud music in my living room. Now I know, it must be a Tan thing. Even the gruff uncles pulled their gruff wives into the dance.

Poor K doing the Chicken Dance with me. Our chicken dance is done in pairs. 15 pairs of chickens in a big circle.

I wonder what the waiters thought as they tried to serve punch in a room of people spinning in circles with arms linked.

"This family is mad."

"This family must be from some strange religious sect."

"This family must have been a brood of gypsies in their childhood."

But the waiters weren't Singaporean, so they must have thought we were a really fun family.

Favourite things from Malacca.

toilet sign

elisabeth, who likes to peek at me but never talks, but who told her parents that i am her friend

in an art gallery/cafe

random old stuff

my auntie: "why did you take the sign? what did you find interesting about the sign? Is it the two-toned words?"

Actually it was the faded badly-drawn man.

The mum's side of the family doesn't get much airtime on this blog, being smaller and somewhat less dramatically queer. But there are things to know about the family that I have dinner with once a week, and have always felt more comfortable with.

I have an eccentric seven-year-old cousin who has been intelligent from birth. He was born with a frown, and memorized facts about insects as he learned to read. As we were driving peacefully for a lunch in melaka, ten of us packed into an SUV, he turned to his mother with a sublimely enlightened smile and said, "Sometimes I feel like I have been asleep all my life."

My littlest cousin, Elisabeth, has singled me out as the only young girl around other than herself. And so I get long stares and self-conscious avoidance. She only wears pink, but like the females in this family, is hardly sweet. She frowns too, and makes expressive shrieks and murmurings.

This trip was arranged because the brothers and sisters got together and decided that my grandmother needed to see her first and favorite grandson before she died. So they persuaded him to be flown over from canada for a visit. To get to know him, we drove to Melaka. I don't think we could have gotten to know him any other better way, or he us.