A friend of mine told me not long ago, “One day, you’ll be sick and tired of hearing yourself whine about the same thing and that’s when you’ll have the courage to move on.” Yes, I know, but go ahead tell me again if that makes you feel better, you meanie! That’s probably her way of telling me that SHE is sick and tired of hearing me whine. But I can’t help but think that maybe she’s got a point!
Maybe one day I WILL get sick and tired of my own whining.
Well, ladies and gentleman….guess what? THAT day is HERE! *Cheers to that!
But instead of moving on, I just stopped whining altogether. Not even to myself. I know I might not be making much sense here but let me try:
I got sick and tired of my whiny self, and stop whining but not feel any better in the process. In an even shorter description, I REPRESSED it and feel repressed in return. Genius, isn’t it?
Phuih!
Maybe I should have taken psychology and use myself as a mouse lab.
Yeah, that might be a good idea. Anyone has any good recommendations for schools? (It’s a joke. Please don’t send me any recommendations. I have enough spam in my inbox as it stands).
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Monday, August 15, 2011
A good reason to respect yourself
Last weekend, I had a long talk with my ten year old about the importance to respect and love yourself in order to allow people to love and respect you in return.
The conversation is a result of a string of accidents and incidents where she left things, broke things, acted like a door mat, etc.
Our five year old who has been hushed out of the room during the conversation hardly wasted a second after I left the room to question his sister on what our talk was about. To which, the answer was a short: "Mommy told me to respect myself so others can respect me as well."
Apparently, he mulls over this statement all day....for that night before bed, he came to his sister with his own conclusion:
"I think mommy is right. We should respect ourselves and not eat our boogers otherwise other people will not respect us and ask us to eat their boogers too. How gross is that?"
The conversation is a result of a string of accidents and incidents where she left things, broke things, acted like a door mat, etc.
Our five year old who has been hushed out of the room during the conversation hardly wasted a second after I left the room to question his sister on what our talk was about. To which, the answer was a short: "Mommy told me to respect myself so others can respect me as well."
Apparently, he mulls over this statement all day....for that night before bed, he came to his sister with his own conclusion:
"I think mommy is right. We should respect ourselves and not eat our boogers otherwise other people will not respect us and ask us to eat their boogers too. How gross is that?"
Friday, July 15, 2011
Until the end of forever
This is not a promotion. Ok, well, maybe...but I'm not getting paid to write this (honest!). But as I'm sitting in one of the plush malls in Jakarta, sipping my latte, working on my iPad while watching the kids playing on the playground, I can't help thinking about the woman who wrote this book. Simply because while I'm feeling like I've been run over by a freight train with the humble multitasking I'm doing right now, Shannon Hart managed to juggle her two children, full time executive job with routine trips to Paris and Singapore, and wherever else she's flying to, and well, wrote this kick ass book in her free time.
If you are juggling nappies and blackberry or if you ever turned green when looking at one of those seemingly together woman who has it all,
Until the end of forever is a book you can definitely relate to.
Sarah, the character in the book seems to have it all. A beautiful family, a romantic husband, a nice job, but yet she is haunted by these reoccurring nightmares of drowning and suffocating. (sounds familiar?)
I would really like to tell you more about the book, but I really want you to buy the book and find out for yourself. Yes, I think you need to BUY it because I believe that Shannon needs to earn some money for the times she has had to multitask.
What? You really wanna know more? Well, it has the romantic guitar-playing hunk in it, it has the Paris temptation, it has the classic "me first or family first" theme, and it is pleasantly written and weaved.
Go ahead, buy it! And if you don't like it, or if you don't think my description is accurate, you can write me a complaint email and I'll buy you a latte. But if you like it, go write to Shannon and tell her that. Why? Because it's always nice to hear someone says something nice about you.
Your hair smells really nice today...
If you are juggling nappies and blackberry or if you ever turned green when looking at one of those seemingly together woman who has it all,
Until the end of forever is a book you can definitely relate to.
Sarah, the character in the book seems to have it all. A beautiful family, a romantic husband, a nice job, but yet she is haunted by these reoccurring nightmares of drowning and suffocating. (sounds familiar?)
I would really like to tell you more about the book, but I really want you to buy the book and find out for yourself. Yes, I think you need to BUY it because I believe that Shannon needs to earn some money for the times she has had to multitask.
What? You really wanna know more? Well, it has the romantic guitar-playing hunk in it, it has the Paris temptation, it has the classic "me first or family first" theme, and it is pleasantly written and weaved.
Go ahead, buy it! And if you don't like it, or if you don't think my description is accurate, you can write me a complaint email and I'll buy you a latte. But if you like it, go write to Shannon and tell her that. Why? Because it's always nice to hear someone says something nice about you.
Your hair smells really nice today...
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
I want to feel FINE
I was reading one of Alice Bradley’s blog posts yesterday about her struggle through depression when I felt strangely…jealous.
No. I don’t think depression is something to be jealous about nor do I think it’s some kind of a great situation. I am jealous for she was able to look for help and talk about her conditions freely.
In a country where mental health discussions are still very much weighted with all sorts of stigma and many with severe mental conditions are shackled by their families (Read about them here), being ‘depressed’ is not an option. (Well, as much as you can help it, that is).
You may not feel fine for no apparent reason. You may have lost your appetite. You may feel like moving your limbs is the biggest chore in your life. But as far as anyone around you is concern, you are just tired and with enough prayers you will be just fine.
But pray as you may, sleep as you may, sometimes.... things just don’t get better.
Someone close to me was so miserable after childbirth that the family organized regular praying sessions for her when what she needed was probably some pills to help her through the severe baby blues. As the praying sessions continued, she jumped off her balcony. She survived the jump and have numerous metal pens installed in her shoulders and hips.
According to Wikipedia, depression is a state of low mood and aversion to activity that can affect a person’s thoughts, behavior, feelings, and physical wellbeing. It may include feelings of sadness, anxiety, emptiness, hopelessness, worthlessness, guilt, irritability, or restlessness.
When my father left our family in my adolescent years, I went through a bout of self-destructive times. My mom would find me in the room with my head shaved bathed in my own tears. Anger fits. Constantly looking for ways to hurt myself physically. In one of the diaries I kept during these years, I wrote, “I feel the constant need to seek for physical pain as it diverts my attention from the pain I feel inside…”
I was 16 then. My mom is a German-trained doctor. She knew more than most that I needed help. She took me to a psychiatrist. In a mental institution. The white washed walls, the screaming of the ‘really-crazy’ people scared the living daylight out of me. I remember walking into his office. He looked so old to me at the time. He was probably in his fifties but he might as well be one of the pre-historic characters to me. He asked me to do endless tests. Drew endless meaningless drawings. I wanted to get better. I wanted to be listened to. But that was one thing he never seemed to be interested in.
After a few weeks of these, he then called my mom in, delivered his analysis: “extreme heart breaks, anger and disillusionment, inability to control conflicting desires” and prescribed a long list of meds.
When it was obvious that this would be our last session, I asked him what was wrong with me. His answer was simply: “Your brain is working too fast for your own good.” (what the hell does that mean?) and the meds was going to “slow it down”.
I took the meds for a few days and realized how it made me apathetical. It puts me in a bubble where not even the sounds I made myself can even penetrate. It was unreal.
I promised my mom I won’t try to hurt myself again. Told her I’m feeling much better. Told her lively stories. Forced a smile in the morning. Kissed her goodnight. Behave. And I was allowed to be off the meds.
But did I really feel better?
No. I don’t think I have ever REALLY felt better.
Fast forward.
A decade later.
After 16 hours of labor, I miraculously just gave birth to a baby girl through an emergency C section.
“She looks like an alien” I remember thinking to myself at the time.
And boy, did she cry.
She cried and she cried. Nothing I nor anybody did seem to soothe her. I carried her all day and all night for as long as my limbs allowed me to. I offered her my breasts which she chomped on until it bleeds and lost its shape. I sang to her until my voice is course. I yelled at her in despair. But she just kept on crying.
I cried whenever she cried. I cried in the shower, I cried as I carried her around the house. I cried with every sharp pang of pain that ran through my body as she sucked on my breast.
I was miserable.
If I were somewhere else, they might call it “post-partum depression”. Instead I felt guilty for not feeling the overwhelming love towards this crying blob. Instead I was made to believe that it was something I did. That somehow if I were a better mother, she would not have been crying as much.
So I spiraled down. I didn’t shower for days. I loathed the very sight of me. I forgot why I wanted to have a baby to begin with or how she gets to be in my life.
All this when she was only seven days old. I just didn't know how I would be able to survive a life time of this.
But things do get better.
We took long walks together. My breast grew calloused and the pain subsided. I hid everything that resembles my pre-baby life. And I stopped looking at the mirror.
As I became calmer, so was she. The little blob found solace and peace in the nook of my shoulder. I gave up trying to put her down and allowed her to become an extended part of me. I exchanged all the fancy strollers with simple baby carriers that put her on her favorite place on my chest. I learned to breastfeed as I walk. To eat, cook, clean, and work with her on my chest. I gave up the thought of being ‘me’. The new ‘me’ is a package of me and this bundle I now call my daughter.
The ‘Super’ attachment parenting came with its benefits, no doubt. We become so close and most of the time I can anticipate her needs before she needed to cry about it. The less crying she does, the more we have time to enjoy each other’s company.
She is now almost eight. An independent bright young lady who still comes for a cuddle in my bed at least once a month.
Did I feel fine then?
Yes, perhaps. But I had forgotten what feeling ‘fine’ really feels like.
I would have days where I plunge into the deep darkness, flailing for help, screaming with no one to listen, wishing to be six feet under.
But as fate has it, my job as a journalist puts me in close contact to death. And being so up, close, and personal to it, makes it feel silly to actually wish it.
This is the time where we’re supposed to fast forward again.
A nice quaint house surrounded with young families. Financially, we’re finally living comfortably. Kids are happily in school.
And I was miserable.
My soul is empty and restless.
I couldn’t sleep.
I spent my sleepless nights crying for reasons I can’t describe.
I found yoga. I did it everyday, two sessions a day, immersed myself in it so deeply waiting for that enlightening moment.
It never really came but it tires me out enough to put me to sleep.
I scrutinized every pose and kept a journal on how each pose made me feel. Cross-referenced it with the ancient history of that particular pose. Trying to find some correlations to justify my feelings.
In between my practice, I cried. I cried, throw myself regular self-pity parties, then bounced into a state of euphoria that would last anywhere from a day to a few months before the cycle repeats itself.
I took online tests to measure my own mental state. Not happy with the result, I would lie on the test. (Yes, not very noble indeed).
I went counseling and spent a fortune to have someone listens to me. When I feel a growing attachment towards my counselor, I stopped.
So when I read the blog post yesterday, I cried for I feel how Alice is feeling and I cried for I wish I too could one day feel “Fine”.
No. I don’t think depression is something to be jealous about nor do I think it’s some kind of a great situation. I am jealous for she was able to look for help and talk about her conditions freely.
In a country where mental health discussions are still very much weighted with all sorts of stigma and many with severe mental conditions are shackled by their families (Read about them here), being ‘depressed’ is not an option. (Well, as much as you can help it, that is).
You may not feel fine for no apparent reason. You may have lost your appetite. You may feel like moving your limbs is the biggest chore in your life. But as far as anyone around you is concern, you are just tired and with enough prayers you will be just fine.
But pray as you may, sleep as you may, sometimes.... things just don’t get better.
Someone close to me was so miserable after childbirth that the family organized regular praying sessions for her when what she needed was probably some pills to help her through the severe baby blues. As the praying sessions continued, she jumped off her balcony. She survived the jump and have numerous metal pens installed in her shoulders and hips.
According to Wikipedia, depression is a state of low mood and aversion to activity that can affect a person’s thoughts, behavior, feelings, and physical wellbeing. It may include feelings of sadness, anxiety, emptiness, hopelessness, worthlessness, guilt, irritability, or restlessness.
When my father left our family in my adolescent years, I went through a bout of self-destructive times. My mom would find me in the room with my head shaved bathed in my own tears. Anger fits. Constantly looking for ways to hurt myself physically. In one of the diaries I kept during these years, I wrote, “I feel the constant need to seek for physical pain as it diverts my attention from the pain I feel inside…”
I was 16 then. My mom is a German-trained doctor. She knew more than most that I needed help. She took me to a psychiatrist. In a mental institution. The white washed walls, the screaming of the ‘really-crazy’ people scared the living daylight out of me. I remember walking into his office. He looked so old to me at the time. He was probably in his fifties but he might as well be one of the pre-historic characters to me. He asked me to do endless tests. Drew endless meaningless drawings. I wanted to get better. I wanted to be listened to. But that was one thing he never seemed to be interested in.
After a few weeks of these, he then called my mom in, delivered his analysis: “extreme heart breaks, anger and disillusionment, inability to control conflicting desires” and prescribed a long list of meds.
When it was obvious that this would be our last session, I asked him what was wrong with me. His answer was simply: “Your brain is working too fast for your own good.” (what the hell does that mean?) and the meds was going to “slow it down”.
I took the meds for a few days and realized how it made me apathetical. It puts me in a bubble where not even the sounds I made myself can even penetrate. It was unreal.
I promised my mom I won’t try to hurt myself again. Told her I’m feeling much better. Told her lively stories. Forced a smile in the morning. Kissed her goodnight. Behave. And I was allowed to be off the meds.
But did I really feel better?
No. I don’t think I have ever REALLY felt better.
Fast forward.
A decade later.
After 16 hours of labor, I miraculously just gave birth to a baby girl through an emergency C section.
“She looks like an alien” I remember thinking to myself at the time.
And boy, did she cry.
She cried and she cried. Nothing I nor anybody did seem to soothe her. I carried her all day and all night for as long as my limbs allowed me to. I offered her my breasts which she chomped on until it bleeds and lost its shape. I sang to her until my voice is course. I yelled at her in despair. But she just kept on crying.
I cried whenever she cried. I cried in the shower, I cried as I carried her around the house. I cried with every sharp pang of pain that ran through my body as she sucked on my breast.
I was miserable.
If I were somewhere else, they might call it “post-partum depression”. Instead I felt guilty for not feeling the overwhelming love towards this crying blob. Instead I was made to believe that it was something I did. That somehow if I were a better mother, she would not have been crying as much.
So I spiraled down. I didn’t shower for days. I loathed the very sight of me. I forgot why I wanted to have a baby to begin with or how she gets to be in my life.
All this when she was only seven days old. I just didn't know how I would be able to survive a life time of this.
But things do get better.
We took long walks together. My breast grew calloused and the pain subsided. I hid everything that resembles my pre-baby life. And I stopped looking at the mirror.
As I became calmer, so was she. The little blob found solace and peace in the nook of my shoulder. I gave up trying to put her down and allowed her to become an extended part of me. I exchanged all the fancy strollers with simple baby carriers that put her on her favorite place on my chest. I learned to breastfeed as I walk. To eat, cook, clean, and work with her on my chest. I gave up the thought of being ‘me’. The new ‘me’ is a package of me and this bundle I now call my daughter.
The ‘Super’ attachment parenting came with its benefits, no doubt. We become so close and most of the time I can anticipate her needs before she needed to cry about it. The less crying she does, the more we have time to enjoy each other’s company.
She is now almost eight. An independent bright young lady who still comes for a cuddle in my bed at least once a month.
Did I feel fine then?
Yes, perhaps. But I had forgotten what feeling ‘fine’ really feels like.
I would have days where I plunge into the deep darkness, flailing for help, screaming with no one to listen, wishing to be six feet under.
But as fate has it, my job as a journalist puts me in close contact to death. And being so up, close, and personal to it, makes it feel silly to actually wish it.
This is the time where we’re supposed to fast forward again.
A nice quaint house surrounded with young families. Financially, we’re finally living comfortably. Kids are happily in school.
And I was miserable.
My soul is empty and restless.
I couldn’t sleep.
I spent my sleepless nights crying for reasons I can’t describe.
I found yoga. I did it everyday, two sessions a day, immersed myself in it so deeply waiting for that enlightening moment.
It never really came but it tires me out enough to put me to sleep.
I scrutinized every pose and kept a journal on how each pose made me feel. Cross-referenced it with the ancient history of that particular pose. Trying to find some correlations to justify my feelings.
In between my practice, I cried. I cried, throw myself regular self-pity parties, then bounced into a state of euphoria that would last anywhere from a day to a few months before the cycle repeats itself.
I took online tests to measure my own mental state. Not happy with the result, I would lie on the test. (Yes, not very noble indeed).
I went counseling and spent a fortune to have someone listens to me. When I feel a growing attachment towards my counselor, I stopped.
So when I read the blog post yesterday, I cried for I feel how Alice is feeling and I cried for I wish I too could one day feel “Fine”.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Out of the mouths of babes
My kids wrote their dad some poems for father's day... Below are some of them.
I found them very honest and funny! :)
Poem1:
Papa is so nice
Not like a mice
He is mighty strong
And his arms are very long
You're a great photographer
We love ur pictures, yes we do
You have a big tummy,
And u're not a dummy
Papa, we love u.
Yes, it's true
----------------------
Poem 2: papa, u're the best!
Papa, we love you
Yes we do
When you aren't with us,
we're very blue
You tell us stuff we don't know
And when u do, we know it so
You have shaggy hair,
Though it looks silly, we don't care
Thank you papa
You're the best!
--------------------------
End of school year
Done are the days of shuttling kids back and forth, baking multiple brownies for multiple school events, arranging playdates, extra classes...and that should be something to smile about, yes?
You would think so...but the truth is, I always face the end of every school year with a highly emotional note.
My kids have always gone to very transient schools where every year they have to face losing their best friends or their teachers or both.
And nothing breaks me more than to see these little hearts broken...
I sometimes wonder how these experiences are going to affect them long term...will they fear relationship? Will they grow calloused to goodbyes?
As we are moving school this year, we found ourselves in the goodbye-end and I find myself still suck at saying goodbyes.
I busied myself with all sorts of things. Anything really that can save me from having to say goodbye.
But at the end of the day, I guess life goes on and the days of sleeping in and not baking brownies is something to look forward to after all.
You would think so...but the truth is, I always face the end of every school year with a highly emotional note.
My kids have always gone to very transient schools where every year they have to face losing their best friends or their teachers or both.
And nothing breaks me more than to see these little hearts broken...
I sometimes wonder how these experiences are going to affect them long term...will they fear relationship? Will they grow calloused to goodbyes?
As we are moving school this year, we found ourselves in the goodbye-end and I find myself still suck at saying goodbyes.
I busied myself with all sorts of things. Anything really that can save me from having to say goodbye.
But at the end of the day, I guess life goes on and the days of sleeping in and not baking brownies is something to look forward to after all.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Fear of Failure
Am I the only one who always find myself nervous the night before a parents-teacher's conference?
Sitting in the classroom setting on a chair that is obviously way to small for me with knees knocking the table every time I try to move is one of my most dreaded moments in any given school year.
Not that I ever had to listen to anything particularly out of the ordinary or scary (THANK YOU, O, Dear God!) But whatever the teacher tells me seems to always feel like a direct judgment of my parental skill.
"Your daughter has so many friends and it's sometimes hard to stop her from talking in class."
This seemingly innocent sentence can easily be translated in my mind as, "You probably are not giving your daughter enough room to speak at home that she just finds the few hours she's in school as a perfect getaway to speak her mind."
"Your son is in a phase of finding his identity as a 'big boy'"
Translation: You're spoiling him and thus hindering his natural hindering process.
With three children, this means that I usually have to sit through THREE of these dreadful sessions and spend the rest of the day beating my self up. "Maybe if I had been a better mom, they would be better children" "She doesn't like math. Is it something I did?" "What should I have done differently?"
I have to admit that one of my biggest hang ups in life is my fear of failure. And parenting, being as important as it is, naturally poses the biggest fear as well.
Last night as I was sitting in the kids' room ready to tuggle (tuck and snuggle) them in, my four year old son whispered with half-closed eyes, "I love you mommy. You're the best..."
I smiled and mumbled under my breath, "Thanks Nic. But maybe that's because you're only 4..."
My seven year old heard my mumbling and said, "I'm seven and yes I'm upset at you some of the time and I know you're not perfect but I still love you because I know you're trying your best."
OK, maybe I haven't done such a bad job after all..
You think?
Sitting in the classroom setting on a chair that is obviously way to small for me with knees knocking the table every time I try to move is one of my most dreaded moments in any given school year.
Not that I ever had to listen to anything particularly out of the ordinary or scary (THANK YOU, O, Dear God!) But whatever the teacher tells me seems to always feel like a direct judgment of my parental skill.
"Your daughter has so many friends and it's sometimes hard to stop her from talking in class."
This seemingly innocent sentence can easily be translated in my mind as, "You probably are not giving your daughter enough room to speak at home that she just finds the few hours she's in school as a perfect getaway to speak her mind."
"Your son is in a phase of finding his identity as a 'big boy'"
Translation: You're spoiling him and thus hindering his natural hindering process.
With three children, this means that I usually have to sit through THREE of these dreadful sessions and spend the rest of the day beating my self up. "Maybe if I had been a better mom, they would be better children" "She doesn't like math. Is it something I did?" "What should I have done differently?"
I have to admit that one of my biggest hang ups in life is my fear of failure. And parenting, being as important as it is, naturally poses the biggest fear as well.
Last night as I was sitting in the kids' room ready to tuggle (tuck and snuggle) them in, my four year old son whispered with half-closed eyes, "I love you mommy. You're the best..."
I smiled and mumbled under my breath, "Thanks Nic. But maybe that's because you're only 4..."
My seven year old heard my mumbling and said, "I'm seven and yes I'm upset at you some of the time and I know you're not perfect but I still love you because I know you're trying your best."
OK, maybe I haven't done such a bad job after all..
You think?
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Breaking News!
I'm still ME!
After almost ten years of life post children, I have seriously forgotten that I was once my own person. Maybe not forgotten, more like ERASED out of my head.
For the first time in...well, the past ten years, we went on our first holiday WITHOUT kids. And when I said, HOLIDAY, I really meant HOLIDAY. Not some desperate measures to "talk about things", not some crazy circumstances that brought us out of town or out of the country together. But a true to goodness holiday that was planned as such and turned out as such.
It was amazing.
We came back this weekend and the kids were fine.
I wish we have done this more often before.
After almost ten years of life post children, I have seriously forgotten that I was once my own person. Maybe not forgotten, more like ERASED out of my head.
For the first time in...well, the past ten years, we went on our first holiday WITHOUT kids. And when I said, HOLIDAY, I really meant HOLIDAY. Not some desperate measures to "talk about things", not some crazy circumstances that brought us out of town or out of the country together. But a true to goodness holiday that was planned as such and turned out as such.
It was amazing.
We came back this weekend and the kids were fine.
I wish we have done this more often before.
Monday, February 14, 2011
I'm A Bad Sister, A Bad Friend, A Bad Daughter!!
As the words came out jumbled in between tears and the little shoulders shaking uncontrollably, I felt a sharp pang on my chest.
I took my seven year old in my arms and hugged her tightly wishing that somehow I have that magic power to glue her broken heart together.
But the more I hug her, the more it feels like besides crushing her little bones, my hugs aren't doing much more.
Only a year ago, I remember the super-confident six year old. The world is in her hands and she danced her way through and around it gracefully. She was one of those kids who just had this natural pull for people in the playground and everyone naturally gravitates around her. She was one of those kids who are often lost in her own world with her friends eager to hear the latest news from the world she created. She was in love with the world and the world loved her too.
So where did this come from?
Playground politics became too much for her to handle. In between school, homework, playground politics and sibling rivalry, she seems to have lost the time to hang out in her imaginary world.
Her sister had bought her a chocolate for Valentine's. A chocolate that she gave to her teacher. Her sister's heart was broken. She was broken hearted too.
"I'm a bad sister, mommy...." she said sulking. "I am soooo sorry.....I didn't want to hurt my sister. I just didn't understand....." sobbing now.
She had received an 'unsigned' card from her dad. She spent the whole day wondering who it was from. When she finally figured it out, the crying continues..."I'm a bad daughter.....I don't even know my dad's handwriting...."
I'll save you from the complication of the playground politics that had resulted in the, "I'm a bad friend" episode. (You'll thank me for this as it involves, so and so didn't invite me in this game and the other one then said to me that so and so no longer thinks of me as her bestfriend as so and so is much better on the swing than me and ....---yes, you got the drift).
Her little chest shriveled in pain as she was crying her heart out. I can feel her shrinking in my arms.
So I told her, "Babe, you're NOT a bad person. Your heart hurts because you're not a bad person. Your a GREAT person that makes some mistakes. WHich is fine. Everyone makes mistakes. But you're a beautiful person and we love every inch of you."
I wish she would still let me hug her all night. But that's not what seven year old does. "Good night, mommy. Thank you for the offer to sleep with me but I'll just see you in the morning, ok?"
More hugs, more kisses, and I spent a few hours after she was asleep just staring at her pretty face.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Happy Valentine's Day
If you are worried about reading yet another one of those celebration of love note, don't. I am much too concerned about other things that the thoughts on that issue has yet crystalized. And it's the 14th now. And I'm late. And I'm...ah, too much of a story of my life.
No. This posting is more about how I had spent the past three days in the house with a sick chid on one day, a mountain of laundry another day, and a disability to decide where to go and which errand sounds less painful day.
The problem is now that it's Monday, I have no choice but to get my behind into gear and somehow plough through the day in a somewhat reasonably grown-up way.
It is Monday and I just realized late last night that I have promised my kids' school to come and shoot one of their camp activities. No. Not one. But two. I think they have something to do with making shadow puppets and offerings. Wait...maybe it was clay-making. I seriously think that kids are better off to be trained in making THEMSELVES motivated than making any of these things. Sigh.
What can I say. I'm one of those that once you let me lay low, it is gonna take an elephant to pick me up. And I don't have any coffee left in the house. And I've been up since 4 am this morning. And I have been spending the past hour trying to NOT miss my coffee. Telling myself that I can survive without it.
I'm rambling. No points are being made here. I am trying. But maybe I need to find my coffee first!
Phuih. Now that the coffee maker is on, I find the whizzing sound soothing. It promises a better morning.
SO, thank you for your patience waiting for my brain to kick start. What I was trying to tell you is what the past three days of immobility is making me think about.
Someone has asked me how much I love myself. Maybe the way is was asked that made it so offensive. But I growled at the question. Of course, I love myself! Or do I really?
I've witnessed women who would tell stories in tears of their husbands asking them to put on make-up before leaving the house. How offensive. What is he trying to say? Is he saying that he is embarrassed of you?
The thing is, YOU may want to put on make up too, right? But now that he's said it, every time you stand in front of that mirror to put on anything on your bare face, it felt like an effort to be accepted. And we, women of the 20th century don't do that, right? Not when we know someone else is watching, that is.
Shouldn't we be loved for who we are the way we came? The answer is yes. But would it be possible that maybe when we feel good about ourselves, it would be to our advantage too?
I'm still debating the answers. But what I had to come to realize these past few days is when the kids were born, I felt such tremendous pressure. I have no faith in my ability to raise any living being. The image of the dead plants on the window sill haunted me. The competitive motherhood sport also soon took control. And in the process, while I'm getting more confident that my kids are growing beautifully and as I'm also getting better at playing the "competitive-motherhood-sport", I realized that the "Self" was lost in the process. Not completely perhaps, but it is more than fair to say that it'd been forgotten.
I forgot what it feels like to take a super long shower, a day in the salon, or a day of self pampering feels like. I forgot what it feels like to be twitter-patted about an event and spending months thinking about what to wear and or what look to sport. (remember the highschool ball? your wedding?) yeah...the wedding was the last one.
And it also doesn't help that the years is starting to leave marks and traces of where I've been and what I've gone through.
And the spiral continues....downward...The only way there is....
So, I am dreading this Monday as it reminds me of my own promise to myself to love myself. While the sentence might sound silly and simple, it is one of the biggest block that had kept me in bed lying in denials fighting my every limbs to get up. (That and the fact that those comforter is soooo huggable in the early hours of the morning!)
Wish me luck!
No. This posting is more about how I had spent the past three days in the house with a sick chid on one day, a mountain of laundry another day, and a disability to decide where to go and which errand sounds less painful day.
The problem is now that it's Monday, I have no choice but to get my behind into gear and somehow plough through the day in a somewhat reasonably grown-up way.
It is Monday and I just realized late last night that I have promised my kids' school to come and shoot one of their camp activities. No. Not one. But two. I think they have something to do with making shadow puppets and offerings. Wait...maybe it was clay-making. I seriously think that kids are better off to be trained in making THEMSELVES motivated than making any of these things. Sigh.
What can I say. I'm one of those that once you let me lay low, it is gonna take an elephant to pick me up. And I don't have any coffee left in the house. And I've been up since 4 am this morning. And I have been spending the past hour trying to NOT miss my coffee. Telling myself that I can survive without it.
I'm rambling. No points are being made here. I am trying. But maybe I need to find my coffee first!
Phuih. Now that the coffee maker is on, I find the whizzing sound soothing. It promises a better morning.
SO, thank you for your patience waiting for my brain to kick start. What I was trying to tell you is what the past three days of immobility is making me think about.
Someone has asked me how much I love myself. Maybe the way is was asked that made it so offensive. But I growled at the question. Of course, I love myself! Or do I really?
I've witnessed women who would tell stories in tears of their husbands asking them to put on make-up before leaving the house. How offensive. What is he trying to say? Is he saying that he is embarrassed of you?
The thing is, YOU may want to put on make up too, right? But now that he's said it, every time you stand in front of that mirror to put on anything on your bare face, it felt like an effort to be accepted. And we, women of the 20th century don't do that, right? Not when we know someone else is watching, that is.
Shouldn't we be loved for who we are the way we came? The answer is yes. But would it be possible that maybe when we feel good about ourselves, it would be to our advantage too?
I'm still debating the answers. But what I had to come to realize these past few days is when the kids were born, I felt such tremendous pressure. I have no faith in my ability to raise any living being. The image of the dead plants on the window sill haunted me. The competitive motherhood sport also soon took control. And in the process, while I'm getting more confident that my kids are growing beautifully and as I'm also getting better at playing the "competitive-motherhood-sport", I realized that the "Self" was lost in the process. Not completely perhaps, but it is more than fair to say that it'd been forgotten.
I forgot what it feels like to take a super long shower, a day in the salon, or a day of self pampering feels like. I forgot what it feels like to be twitter-patted about an event and spending months thinking about what to wear and or what look to sport. (remember the highschool ball? your wedding?) yeah...the wedding was the last one.
And it also doesn't help that the years is starting to leave marks and traces of where I've been and what I've gone through.
And the spiral continues....downward...The only way there is....
So, I am dreading this Monday as it reminds me of my own promise to myself to love myself. While the sentence might sound silly and simple, it is one of the biggest block that had kept me in bed lying in denials fighting my every limbs to get up. (That and the fact that those comforter is soooo huggable in the early hours of the morning!)
Wish me luck!
Little guys
And I'm a proud and smiling observer. :)
Easy Shrimp Pasta
What you need:
Some pasta
Olive oil
Butter
Heavy cream
Lemon
Shrimp
Garlic
Oregano
Some pasta
Olive oil
Butter
Heavy cream
Lemon
Shrimp
Garlic
Oregano
1. Boil pasta with salt and olive oil. Drain.
2. Melt some butter and cream in a sauce pan, put the garlic, lemon, lemon zest, and season to taste with salt, pepper and oregano.
3. Pour the sauce onto pasta.
4. Using the same saucepan (unless the number of dishes is of no concern to you), melt a dollop of butter. Wait until it turns brown and seared the shrimp on high heat until it turns pink and all curled up.
5. Pour the shrimp onto the pasta
And...voila!
Dinner in less than 30 mins.
A Secret Matter
The saying, 'out of the mouth of babes' was definitely invented by someone with children who has experienced the impact of these blunt 'honesty' in our sugar-coated society.
I have resigned long ago to the fact that everyone at school would know the following facts within a week of contact with any of my children:
1. My mommy drinks looootttssss of coffee.
2. My mommy says the 'bad word' while driving
3. Mommy said we are all nice little munchkins that she is growing to one day eat us.
4. My mom cries when she's happy, sad, and angry.
5. Mommy's favorite place is the toilet.
The list goes on.
And while all the above statements sure are true, they are really not as bad as they sound. (Seriously, please...I'm begging you to believe me!)
This blog wouldn't be called a compilation of thoughts between coffee cups if I don't drink coffee...but hearing how my kids describe me never failed making me consider the coffee-anonymous. 'Hi, I'm Dian and I'm a coffeeholic'. I drink in average 3 cups of coffee a day. Except, when I have a looming deadline. Or except when I have just been up all night nursing a sick child...OK, now I'm starting to sound like a REAL addict busy making up excuses!
The bad word. Uhmmm...the extend of the bad word usually stops at the question of my fellow drivers' level of intelligence. And if you have never driven in Indonesia, I don't wanna hear your comments.
Appetite for little munchkins. What can I say? Their chubby little arms and legs seem to be just sooo yummy!
Cry baby. I.am.a.cry.baby.
Toilet-afficionado. Let me just say that I am never a toilet-person until I have children. My affection for the toilet can easily be replaced with closets, parked car, or anyplace that is quiet and affords me some alone-time.
Phuih...now I'm feeling so much better. You all now have the other side of the story and I don't have to fear your weird glances when I invite you over for dinner... What? No...no!!! Of course munchkin is not on the menu!
I have resigned long ago to the fact that everyone at school would know the following facts within a week of contact with any of my children:
1. My mommy drinks looootttssss of coffee.
2. My mommy says the 'bad word' while driving
3. Mommy said we are all nice little munchkins that she is growing to one day eat us.
4. My mom cries when she's happy, sad, and angry.
5. Mommy's favorite place is the toilet.
The list goes on.
And while all the above statements sure are true, they are really not as bad as they sound. (Seriously, please...I'm begging you to believe me!)
This blog wouldn't be called a compilation of thoughts between coffee cups if I don't drink coffee...but hearing how my kids describe me never failed making me consider the coffee-anonymous. 'Hi, I'm Dian and I'm a coffeeholic'. I drink in average 3 cups of coffee a day. Except, when I have a looming deadline. Or except when I have just been up all night nursing a sick child...OK, now I'm starting to sound like a REAL addict busy making up excuses!
The bad word. Uhmmm...the extend of the bad word usually stops at the question of my fellow drivers' level of intelligence. And if you have never driven in Indonesia, I don't wanna hear your comments.
Appetite for little munchkins. What can I say? Their chubby little arms and legs seem to be just sooo yummy!
Cry baby. I.am.a.cry.baby.
Toilet-afficionado. Let me just say that I am never a toilet-person until I have children. My affection for the toilet can easily be replaced with closets, parked car, or anyplace that is quiet and affords me some alone-time.
Phuih...now I'm feeling so much better. You all now have the other side of the story and I don't have to fear your weird glances when I invite you over for dinner... What? No...no!!! Of course munchkin is not on the menu!
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Oh, The Things I Would Do, The Places I'll go, The Things I'll Write....
If I only had time.
How many times have I told myself about the greatness I am destined for IF only I had time...I will be cleaning up that bulging closet in my room, I will be shooting and editing all those video I had planned for, I will be writing that novel I had started three years ago, I will be finishing up all the proposal ideas....
Last Friday, I finally DID have time.
I have a good eight hours sans kids nor obligations. Quality time of just me and my computer.
I sent the kids off to school with big hugs and special extra hugs for my little one which he said he's gonna keep in his heart for when he needs them, I blew kisses to the little faces on the car window, close the door and welcome the quietness of the house with a BIG grin on my face.
I positioned myself with my computer at my favorite spot in the house. Hmm, Maybe I need some coffee...Well, since I have the time, why don't I make myself a PROPER cuppa instead of my usual instant one?
Maybe I should also make myself a proper breakfast...
An hour later, I am finally stationed in front of my computer. The Microsoft Word seemed very..bland. Let me check the twitterverse and see what's going on today. Hahahaha, the headlines on the Huffington Post looked so funny! I should go to the site and read it for a bit. I do have the time, right?
One click lead to another, then another, then the familiar voice at the door, "Moooommmmyyyyyy!!!!"
Yep, the eight hours is gone and I'm still in the same clothes I woke up this morning in and the same bland-looking Microsoft Word page.
How many times have I told myself about the greatness I am destined for IF only I had time...I will be cleaning up that bulging closet in my room, I will be shooting and editing all those video I had planned for, I will be writing that novel I had started three years ago, I will be finishing up all the proposal ideas....
Last Friday, I finally DID have time.
I have a good eight hours sans kids nor obligations. Quality time of just me and my computer.
I sent the kids off to school with big hugs and special extra hugs for my little one which he said he's gonna keep in his heart for when he needs them, I blew kisses to the little faces on the car window, close the door and welcome the quietness of the house with a BIG grin on my face.
I positioned myself with my computer at my favorite spot in the house. Hmm, Maybe I need some coffee...Well, since I have the time, why don't I make myself a PROPER cuppa instead of my usual instant one?
Maybe I should also make myself a proper breakfast...
An hour later, I am finally stationed in front of my computer. The Microsoft Word seemed very..bland. Let me check the twitterverse and see what's going on today. Hahahaha, the headlines on the Huffington Post looked so funny! I should go to the site and read it for a bit. I do have the time, right?
One click lead to another, then another, then the familiar voice at the door, "Moooommmmyyyyyy!!!!"
Yep, the eight hours is gone and I'm still in the same clothes I woke up this morning in and the same bland-looking Microsoft Word page.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
What do you mean NO ONE lives FOREVER?
I was in between school-runs and work when my brother called. "Mom's heart hurts and I took her to the hospital." My knees suddenly lost its ability to support me and I was plumped on the floor. "What?" I murmured. "She's fine. She just had a thorough check and the doctor said it's probably just stress. She's back home now." He continued.
Thorough check. What does that mean? How thorough? Can they guarantee that nothing else will happen? What can we do? What can SHE do? What should I do?
The next 10 minutes is a nightmare to my well-intention brother. And it was enough to remind him why he hadn't called me right away when it happened. "I gotta go, sis. Got work to do. I'll call you later. And please! Relax...OK?" He mumbled an "I love you" before he hung up and I was left staring at my phone feeling.... I'm not sure what to feel. I mean, she's fine. She's home. Nothing happened. Nothing serious that is.
I called my mom and she sounded fine. We chatted and she entertained my bossy-lectures on what I think she should do to be healthier. (She's a trained and practicing doctor by the way and my medicinal ability pretty much stops at band-aid application. So I'm sure she finds my lectures humorous). But she was a good sport. She listened, laughed, agreeing to everything I said and in the end said,"Don't worry too much! I'm fine. Seriously! But you're not because you're late picking up the girls now and you have spent your whole lunch time talking to me. Grab something on your way out, OK? You can call me again later"
I stopped.
I packed up my lunch and drove to school.
After all, we are still the same kids that just desperately wanted to please our parents.
When I got home with my own set of troops, I rushed to give my mom another call. My kids all talked to her and shared their own insights and thoughts:
My 9 yo girl: Oma, I think you need to go back to doing yoga everyday again. And please don't eat too much ice cream...
My 7 yo girl: I love you soo much that hearing you're not well makes me really sad. You don't wanna see me sad, do you? So you can't be sick!
My 4 yo son: I think your heart hurts because you're missing me. Just come here and I'll give you a big hug that will make it all better.
I was pretending to be busy making dinner but making sure I'm at a close enough distance to hear what they're saying. Later in my room, I hid my face in the pillow and felt this terrible urge to cry.
My partner in crime came over to give me a hug. "It's ok...she's fine, right? what are you crying about?"
The thing is, when I got the phone call from my brother, I realized that if there is one thing or thought that I have never revisited since I was 5 was the thought that my mom is gonna live FOREVER.
And if she MUST be mortal then she would die AFTER me.
Why? Well, simply because that's what moms do. Right?
Thorough check. What does that mean? How thorough? Can they guarantee that nothing else will happen? What can we do? What can SHE do? What should I do?
The next 10 minutes is a nightmare to my well-intention brother. And it was enough to remind him why he hadn't called me right away when it happened. "I gotta go, sis. Got work to do. I'll call you later. And please! Relax...OK?" He mumbled an "I love you" before he hung up and I was left staring at my phone feeling.... I'm not sure what to feel. I mean, she's fine. She's home. Nothing happened. Nothing serious that is.
I called my mom and she sounded fine. We chatted and she entertained my bossy-lectures on what I think she should do to be healthier. (She's a trained and practicing doctor by the way and my medicinal ability pretty much stops at band-aid application. So I'm sure she finds my lectures humorous). But she was a good sport. She listened, laughed, agreeing to everything I said and in the end said,"Don't worry too much! I'm fine. Seriously! But you're not because you're late picking up the girls now and you have spent your whole lunch time talking to me. Grab something on your way out, OK? You can call me again later"
I stopped.
I packed up my lunch and drove to school.
After all, we are still the same kids that just desperately wanted to please our parents.
When I got home with my own set of troops, I rushed to give my mom another call. My kids all talked to her and shared their own insights and thoughts:
My 9 yo girl: Oma, I think you need to go back to doing yoga everyday again. And please don't eat too much ice cream...
My 7 yo girl: I love you soo much that hearing you're not well makes me really sad. You don't wanna see me sad, do you? So you can't be sick!
My 4 yo son: I think your heart hurts because you're missing me. Just come here and I'll give you a big hug that will make it all better.
I was pretending to be busy making dinner but making sure I'm at a close enough distance to hear what they're saying. Later in my room, I hid my face in the pillow and felt this terrible urge to cry.
My partner in crime came over to give me a hug. "It's ok...she's fine, right? what are you crying about?"
The thing is, when I got the phone call from my brother, I realized that if there is one thing or thought that I have never revisited since I was 5 was the thought that my mom is gonna live FOREVER.
And if she MUST be mortal then she would die AFTER me.
Why? Well, simply because that's what moms do. Right?
Behind the Brown-wooden fence, Beyond the white-picket-fences.
What is your "age-to-remember"?
A simple question with an endless variety of answer. Mine would be when I was 4 years old. The last year before my little brother arrived. This is not to say that his arrival changed things in a bad way, it's just an easier mark of time.
I remember the routines and special moments I shared with my parents. Especially my mom. I remember my German Nanny and the rose bed sheet she would put me to nap on. I remember the cold chilly mornings being all bundled up walking to school with my mom. I remember the basement with a cash-register toy and a pretend post-office stall. I remember the spring barbecues in the backyard and decorating trees with snow balls during the winter. The daily dose of sesame street with my head on my mom's lap, and the list continues....
As years go by, things didn't stay all that rosy. The memories often serve as a refuge for my mind that gives me new strength and fresh smile.
When parenthood became something real, so did the pressure to create the "Perfect" childhood for my kids.
With a baby dancing inside of me, I imagined a crisp white room and our special quiet moments of the two of us looking into each other's eyes. Big smiles on my face and a happy coo from the baby.
Alas, the days after the baby is out, I was hardly ever awake enough to enjoy the crisp white room and the special quiet moments? The scene was more like the two of us cuddling with tears in our eyes. And that was as far as you can get from being peaceful or in a state of bliss.
I can swear that every time my baby cried with the full extension of her lung, I literally could see my picture perfect dream fell apart like a broken puzzle. I felt like a failure and was haunted by horror pictures of what this would mean for her future.
Desperate situations call for desperate measures!
I wrote a diary full of apologies with a vision of my daughter as a young adult reading it and hopefully understanding my failure.
I read a bookstore full of books about child developments and fill my head with even more scary things that resulted from failed parenthood.
I glanced in the mirror and scared myself. My eyes are bulging out from lack of sleep. My hair is a huge frizz ball. My skin was dull and I can hardly even keep myself awake long enough to examine the rest of me. But down on my chest, a little girl is on my breast with a totally content look.
I smiled.
She looked very peaceful. My skin might be dull but hers is pink and rosy and flawless. my eyes might be bulging out, but hers is closed in peace. My hair might be a huge frizz ball but hers is a beautiful tangled mess of soft brown curls.
For the first time, I didn't think I was such a failure after all.
But I know this moment of content is a fleeting one and so the need for ‘desperate measures’ are still as urgent as before.
I looked around the crisp white room and its content and tried to make an assessment:
- The $600 stroller: We never had any SINGLE moment that slightly resembles the pictures it came with. (You know, the one with the mother in outdoor clothes on her morning jog with the baby smiling in the stroller).
- The cute teddy bear sitting next to her bed.
- The baby cot with cute bumpers around it
All had never lived up to the promises they have in their tags. So, they will have to go.
I did a mental stock-take on what makes us happy. She likes to be carried. I love carrying her. But I have the need to also do other things. I decided on a sling as a compromise.
She likes to feel me next to her when she sleeps. I need my space on the bed (and some sleep, thank you!) So the co-sleeper cot seemed like a nice compromise.
She hates car seats. Simple and straight forward. She would cry bloody murder at any attempt to put her on her car seat. I think this is pretty reasonable considering that it defies everything she wants or needs in life. The touches, the sight of her mom, and the readily available breasts and constant entertainment. So, I decided to go to most places by foot and have her on the sling.
These little compromises don’t seem much but it worked for us. I realized that this little blob wanted to please me almost as much as I wanted to please her. The more I understand her, the more she seemed to understand me as well.
The crying aside, we managed to develop really strong bonds and have a great time together. All the walking and the carrying had helped me lose the baby weight faster. The abundance of hug and touch dosage had helped ease her anxiety when I do need to leave her on the bed for a few minutes. The constant companion and chatters had helped me vent out my thoughts to some willing ears and in return, her chatter and coos turned into words very soon.
When she was 7 days old, my husband announced that he doesn't think he could handle a lifetime of the crying fits and sleepless nights. I nodded in agreement with tears in my eyes.
But now that she is 7 years old, we can look back and smile.
Her baby brother was very different. Unlike her, he found the constant cuddles suffocating. Not that he didn’t enjoy them but he just liked having his own ‘space’. He loved the car seat as it gave him exactly this. He loved the stroller and responded well to the baby cot idea.
All in all, I guess this taught me how different each kids can be and they each come with their own needs and wants.
When my daughter was 2 years old, my husband and her got me this beautiful ring I have enjoyed looking at for some time. The gift came as a nice surprise but the note it came with meant more than they could have imagined. It says: Thank you mommy for making me a happy 2 year old.
My 9 year old, recently wrote in her note to me:
“Seriously mommy? You think I’d like the book with dogs that have wings better than the one that just have normal dogs? I’m 9. My sister is 7. Don’t you think you should have given HER the dogs with wings? “
See?
In the world of white picket fences, the ideal mom would CERTAINLY know all this. The ideal mom would smile and pick the right books with the right dogs for the right kids. The ideal mom would also be an ideal wife accompanied by an ideal husband who amongst the splattered kids’ vomit on the ground and the messy kitchen can look at each other with a loving smile.
Well, what can I say…I don’t have a white picket fence and dream as I may that bloody brown wooden-fence wouldn’t change to white. (well, at least not without some paint and effort). And my husband and I? Our relationship was never one like that.
The realization that the only thing my life seems to have in common with the life behind the white-picket-fence is the level of messiness in the kitchen used to frustrate me. And the idea of picking up my kids at school and meet the impeccably gorgeous mothers used to make me want to hide in the toilet.
I still do now. But instead of running away or indulging in the self-pity party, I’d feel the ring on my finger. Somebody is happy to have me as their mommy. Maybe not for much longer before they embark on their rebellious teenage years. But by then, I hope I’d be over my white-picket-fence obsessions.
A simple question with an endless variety of answer. Mine would be when I was 4 years old. The last year before my little brother arrived. This is not to say that his arrival changed things in a bad way, it's just an easier mark of time.
I remember the routines and special moments I shared with my parents. Especially my mom. I remember my German Nanny and the rose bed sheet she would put me to nap on. I remember the cold chilly mornings being all bundled up walking to school with my mom. I remember the basement with a cash-register toy and a pretend post-office stall. I remember the spring barbecues in the backyard and decorating trees with snow balls during the winter. The daily dose of sesame street with my head on my mom's lap, and the list continues....
As years go by, things didn't stay all that rosy. The memories often serve as a refuge for my mind that gives me new strength and fresh smile.
When parenthood became something real, so did the pressure to create the "Perfect" childhood for my kids.
With a baby dancing inside of me, I imagined a crisp white room and our special quiet moments of the two of us looking into each other's eyes. Big smiles on my face and a happy coo from the baby.
Alas, the days after the baby is out, I was hardly ever awake enough to enjoy the crisp white room and the special quiet moments? The scene was more like the two of us cuddling with tears in our eyes. And that was as far as you can get from being peaceful or in a state of bliss.
I can swear that every time my baby cried with the full extension of her lung, I literally could see my picture perfect dream fell apart like a broken puzzle. I felt like a failure and was haunted by horror pictures of what this would mean for her future.
Desperate situations call for desperate measures!
I wrote a diary full of apologies with a vision of my daughter as a young adult reading it and hopefully understanding my failure.
I read a bookstore full of books about child developments and fill my head with even more scary things that resulted from failed parenthood.
I glanced in the mirror and scared myself. My eyes are bulging out from lack of sleep. My hair is a huge frizz ball. My skin was dull and I can hardly even keep myself awake long enough to examine the rest of me. But down on my chest, a little girl is on my breast with a totally content look.
I smiled.
She looked very peaceful. My skin might be dull but hers is pink and rosy and flawless. my eyes might be bulging out, but hers is closed in peace. My hair might be a huge frizz ball but hers is a beautiful tangled mess of soft brown curls.
For the first time, I didn't think I was such a failure after all.
But I know this moment of content is a fleeting one and so the need for ‘desperate measures’ are still as urgent as before.
I looked around the crisp white room and its content and tried to make an assessment:
- The $600 stroller: We never had any SINGLE moment that slightly resembles the pictures it came with. (You know, the one with the mother in outdoor clothes on her morning jog with the baby smiling in the stroller).
- The cute teddy bear sitting next to her bed.
- The baby cot with cute bumpers around it
All had never lived up to the promises they have in their tags. So, they will have to go.
I did a mental stock-take on what makes us happy. She likes to be carried. I love carrying her. But I have the need to also do other things. I decided on a sling as a compromise.
She likes to feel me next to her when she sleeps. I need my space on the bed (and some sleep, thank you!) So the co-sleeper cot seemed like a nice compromise.
She hates car seats. Simple and straight forward. She would cry bloody murder at any attempt to put her on her car seat. I think this is pretty reasonable considering that it defies everything she wants or needs in life. The touches, the sight of her mom, and the readily available breasts and constant entertainment. So, I decided to go to most places by foot and have her on the sling.
These little compromises don’t seem much but it worked for us. I realized that this little blob wanted to please me almost as much as I wanted to please her. The more I understand her, the more she seemed to understand me as well.
The crying aside, we managed to develop really strong bonds and have a great time together. All the walking and the carrying had helped me lose the baby weight faster. The abundance of hug and touch dosage had helped ease her anxiety when I do need to leave her on the bed for a few minutes. The constant companion and chatters had helped me vent out my thoughts to some willing ears and in return, her chatter and coos turned into words very soon.
When she was 7 days old, my husband announced that he doesn't think he could handle a lifetime of the crying fits and sleepless nights. I nodded in agreement with tears in my eyes.
But now that she is 7 years old, we can look back and smile.
Her baby brother was very different. Unlike her, he found the constant cuddles suffocating. Not that he didn’t enjoy them but he just liked having his own ‘space’. He loved the car seat as it gave him exactly this. He loved the stroller and responded well to the baby cot idea.
All in all, I guess this taught me how different each kids can be and they each come with their own needs and wants.
When my daughter was 2 years old, my husband and her got me this beautiful ring I have enjoyed looking at for some time. The gift came as a nice surprise but the note it came with meant more than they could have imagined. It says: Thank you mommy for making me a happy 2 year old.
My 9 year old, recently wrote in her note to me:
“Seriously mommy? You think I’d like the book with dogs that have wings better than the one that just have normal dogs? I’m 9. My sister is 7. Don’t you think you should have given HER the dogs with wings? “
See?
In the world of white picket fences, the ideal mom would CERTAINLY know all this. The ideal mom would smile and pick the right books with the right dogs for the right kids. The ideal mom would also be an ideal wife accompanied by an ideal husband who amongst the splattered kids’ vomit on the ground and the messy kitchen can look at each other with a loving smile.
Well, what can I say…I don’t have a white picket fence and dream as I may that bloody brown wooden-fence wouldn’t change to white. (well, at least not without some paint and effort). And my husband and I? Our relationship was never one like that.
The realization that the only thing my life seems to have in common with the life behind the white-picket-fence is the level of messiness in the kitchen used to frustrate me. And the idea of picking up my kids at school and meet the impeccably gorgeous mothers used to make me want to hide in the toilet.
I still do now. But instead of running away or indulging in the self-pity party, I’d feel the ring on my finger. Somebody is happy to have me as their mommy. Maybe not for much longer before they embark on their rebellious teenage years. But by then, I hope I’d be over my white-picket-fence obsessions.
Friday, February 4, 2011
9 Ways To Look Ridiculous While Using Your Cell Phone (PHOTOS)
I don't know how mothers pre-cellphones did it because I sure will not be able to survive the juggling without my phone...or the smart phone.
But if you think you've topped the silly look trying to juggle a baby and a phone, or baby, phone, and groceries, check out these photos the Huffington Post has put together!
I hope none of us will be caught dead wearing any of these! Yay to mommies and mobile devices!
Rain..Rain...go away...
But is there really a perfect day to have rain? Yes, maybe...Maybe when you're in some romantic movie set with a kissing-under-the-rain scene. Even then I think the feeling of soaking wet clothes on your skin wouldn't feel that romantic after a while. Unless of course...hmm...OK, a quick snap back to reality.
It has been raining everyday for over a month now. Not a whole day but enough times to make it hard to keep the porch clean or the shoes free of mud.
And now that it's the weekend, waking up to a rainy morning poses the ever present problem: WHAT AM I GONNA DO TO ENTERTAIN THE KIDS?
I can easily come up with a list of things that needs to be CROSSED OUT because of the rain:
- Swim
- Beach
- Picnic
- Trekking
- Soccer
yet when having to come up with the opposite list, unfortunately my braincells seem to have withered with the rain.
And then the inevitable. One by one the kids woke up.
I tried my best to bribe them with some quality cuddle time and tried to prolong it for as long as possible. 10 minutes. "Mommy, I need to go to the toilet". 12 minutes: "Mommy, what's our plan today?" 15 minutes: "Mommy, can we just watch a movie?"
Still with no plans, I lured them all to the breakfast table of some pretzels and bagels with cream cheese. Ogre-ina shake is next. Now, what?
Out of impulse, I pulled out some graham crackers and asked them to crush it on a big plastic bowl. This idea seemed like fun to them and soon all three are busy crushing the crackers. Half goes to their mouths and the other half stayed in the bowl. Good enough ratio.
I then whipped up some cream cheese (Darn, not enough cream cheese in the fridge! Maybe some sour cream as substitute?), pour it in and shove it in the oven.
The graham-crackers' decorated kids are now all bathed and standing around the oven waiting for the cheesecake.
I'm here typing with yet another pressing thought: WHAT'S NEXT?
Ready for some mud fun?
Now doesn't this look like FUN?
Let's forget for a moment all that cleaning the kid sufficiently enough to make her car-worthy or the washing the clothes, but seriously, what kid wouldn't enjoy spending some good ol' quality time with friends in the mud?
My kids have recently signed up for what they call, the "Mepantigan" class. The website explains the sport as, " a form of Balinese martial arts that involves similar physical techniques to those found in self-defense traditions around the world. But Mepantigan extends the form by also drawing upon Balinese drama, contemporary dance, and gamelan music, fusing fighting with the performing arts to create an entirely new cultural phenomenon. Participants wear uniforms consisting of traditional Balinese clothing, and can compete on the beach, in the mud of rice fields, or in any open space."
For more information on this form of sport, check out: www.mepantiganbali.com
In the mean time, let me try to get these mud residue off my washing machine tube!
Healthy Quick Meals on a Budget -- Will add more as we go along! So check back for more ideas :)
Roast Chicken with potatoes
1 whole organic chicken (sometimes also called "Probio chicken")
Balsamic Vinegar
Olive Oil
Salt and Pepper to taste
Potatoes
Lemon
Generously rub chicken with salt and olive oil. set aside.
In a separate pot, bring water to a boil and put in the cut out potatoes along with the lemon in. Boil potatoes to the consistency you want it (really soft, medium soft, anyway you want them). Drain potatoes and lemon.
Lay the potatoes on a square or rectangle glass oven safe dish ware. Stab the lemon with a fork and stuff it inside the chicken. Put the chicken in the middle of the potatoes. Pour some balsamic vinegar on the chicken. Cover loosely with a tin foil and roast it in the oven on 4 for 45 minutes, remove the tin foil and continue to roast on 6 for another 15 minutes.
In the last ten minutes, steam some vegetables (carrots and/or broccoli) or make a side-dish of salad.
(Plan for some roast chicken sandwiches or chicken fried rice for lunch the next day using the left over chicken)
_________________________________________
Steamed fish
1 whole salt water fish (or fillet if your kids are yet ready to navigate the bones)
Spring onions
garlic
fish sauce
sesame oil
sweet soy sauce
Steamer
Rinse the fish and put it on a plate. pour some of the fish sauce, pinch of salt, some sesame oil, some sweet soy sauce and chopped garlic. Put it in the steamer for 20 minutes. Put the roughly cut spring onions on top and steam for another 10 minutes.
Serve with steamed rice and stir fry vegetables.
For a touch of spice for the adults, chopped up some chili with salted soy sauce on the side.
_______________________________________________________
Baked Mac and Cheese
A package of macaroni
1 cup of cheese
1 cup of carrot puree (this is a healthy substitute for the yellow cheddar in traditional mac and cheese and a sneaky way of putting in some vegetables in the family's diet)
mozarella cheese
Bring the macaroni to boil and cook it to the consistency you like. drain.
In a medium saucepan, melt butter, put in the macaroni, carrot puree, cheese, and half a cup of milk. add some salt and pepper to taste. Pour it in a glass dish ware, spread some mozarella cheese on top and bake until the mozarella melts.
_________________________________________________________
Ogre-ina shake
Inspired by Shrek, my kids drink this every morning.
2 bunches of lettuce, or spinach, or broccoli (whatever green vegetables you can find, really)
Plain yoghurt
Honey
Bananas
lemon
Put all ingredients in a blender and voila!
_________________________________________________________
1 whole organic chicken (sometimes also called "Probio chicken")
Balsamic Vinegar
Olive Oil
Salt and Pepper to taste
Potatoes
Lemon
Generously rub chicken with salt and olive oil. set aside.
In a separate pot, bring water to a boil and put in the cut out potatoes along with the lemon in. Boil potatoes to the consistency you want it (really soft, medium soft, anyway you want them). Drain potatoes and lemon.
Lay the potatoes on a square or rectangle glass oven safe dish ware. Stab the lemon with a fork and stuff it inside the chicken. Put the chicken in the middle of the potatoes. Pour some balsamic vinegar on the chicken. Cover loosely with a tin foil and roast it in the oven on 4 for 45 minutes, remove the tin foil and continue to roast on 6 for another 15 minutes.
In the last ten minutes, steam some vegetables (carrots and/or broccoli) or make a side-dish of salad.
(Plan for some roast chicken sandwiches or chicken fried rice for lunch the next day using the left over chicken)
_________________________________________
Steamed fish
1 whole salt water fish (or fillet if your kids are yet ready to navigate the bones)
Spring onions
garlic
fish sauce
sesame oil
sweet soy sauce
Steamer
Rinse the fish and put it on a plate. pour some of the fish sauce, pinch of salt, some sesame oil, some sweet soy sauce and chopped garlic. Put it in the steamer for 20 minutes. Put the roughly cut spring onions on top and steam for another 10 minutes.
Serve with steamed rice and stir fry vegetables.
For a touch of spice for the adults, chopped up some chili with salted soy sauce on the side.
_______________________________________________________
Baked Mac and Cheese
A package of macaroni
1 cup of cheese
1 cup of carrot puree (this is a healthy substitute for the yellow cheddar in traditional mac and cheese and a sneaky way of putting in some vegetables in the family's diet)
mozarella cheese
Bring the macaroni to boil and cook it to the consistency you like. drain.
In a medium saucepan, melt butter, put in the macaroni, carrot puree, cheese, and half a cup of milk. add some salt and pepper to taste. Pour it in a glass dish ware, spread some mozarella cheese on top and bake until the mozarella melts.
_________________________________________________________
Ogre-ina shake
Inspired by Shrek, my kids drink this every morning.
2 bunches of lettuce, or spinach, or broccoli (whatever green vegetables you can find, really)
Plain yoghurt
Honey
Bananas
lemon
Put all ingredients in a blender and voila!
_________________________________________________________
Yummy Mommy
Oh, dear universe god, what does that term mean? If it means anything other than my affections for yummy food, I sure can't relate to it. Days after babies all seemed like a blur to me. In my previous life, I was a news-chasing-journalist so I thought I know a thing or two about multitasking, time management and adrenaline rush but motherhood sure gives it a new twist and introduces me to a whole new level of all those....and More.
Through the years, I have learned to walk straight past the magazine stand without casting a jealous glance at the women featured on the parental magazine. Those women with spotless shirts and big grin on their face, a perfectly arranged dinner table and a clutter-free house. Yeah...remember them? forget them. In real life, it is almost impossible to expect your shirt to stay clean all day when you have kids. And some clutter around the house here and there is perfectly acceptable. The perfectly arranged dinner table? Well, my personal recent studies showed that perfectly arranged or not doesn't seem to affect my kids' ratings on eating behavior.
Here are some of the things that works for me:
- Plan your meals ahead.
This meal planning can take anywhere from an hour to three hours a week, depending on my brain speed and how active my creative side is. But generally speaking, these three hours of investment is much more efficient (both in time and cost saving) than spending hours wondering aimlessly in the supermarket and the amount of money spent on vegetables that goes uncooked into the bin.
- Treasure chest
I absolutely loooovvveee having a treasure chest around! This treasure chest is filled with gift-materials for all ages and gender. This saves me the time and stress in buying last minute gifts when I find birthday invitations in the kids' bag.
- Magic ditty bag
I keep one pink ditty bag in my purse at all times. This is my emergency kit. In it you'll find: band aid, small betadine, tweezer, safety pins, colored lip gloss, hair bands, a small bottle of sanitizer, a few coloring pencils and a couple fruit gum candies. This little investment in space in my purse has proven to be a life-saver in more than one occasion.
- Internet banking
I do all my bills and account needs for my business on line. This saves me from having to stand on the oh-so-long queues in the bank and I can save the receipts all electronically on my computer.
- Evil little book
This little notepad carries the list of things I need to do in a day. Or in a week, or in a month. Well, it's a combination of work-related notes, things to buy, errands to run and what the kids should bring or do for the day. So maybe it's not so evil after all. I take a few minutes every day to glance at it and jot down things on it as they pop out during the day. The pay off? Nothing beats the feeling of crossing each one of those things out!
- Phone book secret
I keep all numbers with disclaimer and notes. Have always done this even since my journalist days. Notes and disclaimer would look something like: "awesome driver but smells" "best to call first thing in the morning, grumpy otherwise".
Through the years, I have learned to walk straight past the magazine stand without casting a jealous glance at the women featured on the parental magazine. Those women with spotless shirts and big grin on their face, a perfectly arranged dinner table and a clutter-free house. Yeah...remember them? forget them. In real life, it is almost impossible to expect your shirt to stay clean all day when you have kids. And some clutter around the house here and there is perfectly acceptable. The perfectly arranged dinner table? Well, my personal recent studies showed that perfectly arranged or not doesn't seem to affect my kids' ratings on eating behavior.
Here are some of the things that works for me:
- Plan your meals ahead.
This meal planning can take anywhere from an hour to three hours a week, depending on my brain speed and how active my creative side is. But generally speaking, these three hours of investment is much more efficient (both in time and cost saving) than spending hours wondering aimlessly in the supermarket and the amount of money spent on vegetables that goes uncooked into the bin.
- Treasure chest
I absolutely loooovvveee having a treasure chest around! This treasure chest is filled with gift-materials for all ages and gender. This saves me the time and stress in buying last minute gifts when I find birthday invitations in the kids' bag.
- Magic ditty bag
I keep one pink ditty bag in my purse at all times. This is my emergency kit. In it you'll find: band aid, small betadine, tweezer, safety pins, colored lip gloss, hair bands, a small bottle of sanitizer, a few coloring pencils and a couple fruit gum candies. This little investment in space in my purse has proven to be a life-saver in more than one occasion.
- Internet banking
I do all my bills and account needs for my business on line. This saves me from having to stand on the oh-so-long queues in the bank and I can save the receipts all electronically on my computer.
- Evil little book
This little notepad carries the list of things I need to do in a day. Or in a week, or in a month. Well, it's a combination of work-related notes, things to buy, errands to run and what the kids should bring or do for the day. So maybe it's not so evil after all. I take a few minutes every day to glance at it and jot down things on it as they pop out during the day. The pay off? Nothing beats the feeling of crossing each one of those things out!
- Phone book secret
I keep all numbers with disclaimer and notes. Have always done this even since my journalist days. Notes and disclaimer would look something like: "awesome driver but smells" "best to call first thing in the morning, grumpy otherwise".
Momverse
I can remember clearly the day when this new universe is created. Though I can't really claim that it came unannounced, the 40 weeks warning was not anywhere near enough to prepare me for the day my world would change forever. Not for worse, just different. Actually, I must have liked it so much that I kept going back for more!
Three kids later and the ride continues.
Three kids later and the ride continues.
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