Place On Earth

Truth be told, I would much rather be lying down to the sound of the falling rain next to my sleeping baby, but I have wanted to write about some things for some time now, so here I am, caffeine-free (for now) and dishevelled (not that you can see me), hoping that said baby will not wake up because I have just turned off Ravel so that I can hear myself think. 

***

Andrew's birth was, for the most part, uneventful. Jon and I dropped Daniel off at childcare (yes, how cruel) in the morning, and I vaguely recall one of the teachers telling my tearful firstborn that mummy would be back to get him in the evening (we weren't, obviously. We were going to have another baby and cause unasked for trauma to our firstborn). I felt bad, but only momentarily - after I got the Progestin pill inserted at the clinic at 10.40am or so, Jon and I hopped on the TMC shuttle bus and made our way to Novena. Given our experience with Daniel, I was a bit worried that I would start dilating too quickly, i.e. experience a sudden onset of strong and Very Painful contractions, but I needn't have worried - Jon and I were able to go on a nice long date, our first in many months, at the Novena malls. The shops were mostly closed, we ate brunch at Cedele, I was tempted to have some sashimi but didn't, and we bickered amiably about who would have reading rights to my Kindle in the hours to come. The contractions did get more painful after about 3 hours, so we took the shuttle bus back to TMC, I was admitted, and I had an enema for the first time in my life. 

After we were settled in the delivery suite, Jon and I bickered some more about Kindle reading rights (I won!), I got an epidural, and then we decided to watch TV around - 4pm? 5pm? 6pm? The time eludes me, but I know we eventually caught Wheel of Fortune which is on Channel 5 at 7pm on weekdays. I read Prep by Curtis Sittenfield, which I had saved to read on this very occasion (although I later realised, as I made my way painfully through the book, that I had once borrowed it from the library and flipped to the end after the first few chapters because it was a rather crappy piece of literature). Jon also bought hor fun from the coffeeshop opposite TMC for dinner, leaving me marvelling at the normalcy of things this time round. In fact, if you are my friend on Facebook, you will see that just before I started pushing, Jon and I were bored and channel surfing. The only option which was semi-acceptable to the both of us was Tanglin, and although I don't know what's going on on the show now, the night Andrew was born was right smack in the middle of the Ben-Vanessa-Grace (Grace, I am NOT your father) story arc. The delivery suite nurses, unable to go anywhere, were forced to listen to me go into the salacious background details. 

There were some hairy moments when Andrew's heart rate fell once or twice during some strong contractions, but my gynae, whom I have said before has a cheerful if slightly FOS outlook on things, went home for dinner - so it couldn't have been that bad, though I was praying like anything that I wouldn't need an emergency c-section (because vain re: regaining flat tummy as soon as possible after birth, not because I have anything against c-sections or the resulting scar). All too soon, he was back from dinner, pleased that I was 9cm dilated and it was almost time to start pushing. 

Before I started pushing, one of the nurses kept reiterating that it was just like "passing motion", and thereafter proceeded to yell "PASS MOTION PASS MOTION PASS MOTION" every time I was pushing, to encourage me to "keep that feeling". All she succeeded in making me do was want to laugh, thereby losing focus on pushing. I tried very hard to be polite, but in the end I was laughing so hard and no one knew why (except maybe Jon), so I had to tell her that her entreaties, while appreciated, were rather unhelpful. 

Andrew was born almost exactly 12 hours after labour was induced. I took a good look at the placenta this time, because I really don't know if we will have another child, and made small talk with my gynae about the minutiae of life as he stitched me up. I consumed and threw up part of the horrible sandwich and hospital grade Milo awaiting me at the ward, read some more of Prep because I was buzzing, and finally fell asleep.

Very uneventful, right. The only other exciting thing which happened was that the next day, I managed to @foodpanda in some decent sashimi. 

***

What I have really wanted to write about is my post-natal experience with Daniel, because it was so different from my experience with Andrew. This time round we had a confinement nanny, and of course, they always say the second time's easier (and third time's a charm?). Although I had some pretty down days, they were never as bad as they got with Daniel. I don't think I had post-natal depression after I had him, at least not clinically diagnosed, and even if I did I don't think it was particularly serious; but I remember waking up in the middle of the night and lying in the dark with my heart racing, feeling a baby-shaped weight pressing down on my chest, straining my ears for and dreading the next cry. Too soon, always too soon. I still remember the feelings of utter worthlessness and insecurity - it was evident that breastfeeding wasn't working out, and on top of that I didn't feel any love for Daniel, and didn't feel that I was particularly maternal. Jon and I fought a lot, I was afraid Daniel would know I didn't love him and would become attached to other caregivers and not me because they were so excited over his arrival - I felt life would be better for everyone if I was removed from it. After all, if he was formula fed and was able to be in the care of people who were enthusiastic about caring for him, what was the point in having a mother who didn't love him around? 

Then there was the incident involving one of the very few full feeds of breast milk I was able to pump - I'd left a bottle with 3oz of breast milk in the fridge (it'd taken 2 pumping sessions), instructing the caregiver for the one short hour and a half I would be having the jamu massage that it was unlikely Daniel would need the milk given his pattern of the previous days, so please make sure that he was truly hungry before feeding it to him (if not Jon could do the feed when he got home). The said caregiver fed it to Daniel barely half and hour after his last feed, which had taken place just before I went into the room for the massage, because he "looked" hungry. And sure enough, he skipped his next feed. I was told later that he had drunk that bottle very slowly, looking surprised. 

I've forgiven, but it's difficult to forget - even now, the memory stings. It took so much to get that 3oz, in those early days when I thought breastfeeding might work out. I also haven't forgotten the panic attack when we brought Daniel to Jon's grandmother's for the first time, and he was taken out of my arms and carried off by cooing, doting elders. I truly believed, for those fifteen minutes or so, that my role as his mother was totally unnecessary and everything swam before my eyes and I couldn't breathe and had to sit down on the pavement by the side of the road.  

It all seems so silly and self-indulgent now, what I felt, but hormones are funny things, aren't they? Well, it appears that we got through that dark period, and I remember the first meal I cooked at around 3 months post-partum, when the fog finally lifted somewhat. It was just two chicken legs baked with some carrot and onion, and an old potato and even older Cripps apple which became wonderfully soft and sweet after some time in the oven. But the feelings of self-worth which flooded my being as I realised that I could cook again! (putting food in the oven counts, right?) were wonderful. 

***

The day after I got home from the hospital with Andrew, I told the confinement nanny that I would do some breastfeeding if I was awake, but if I was passed out she could go ahead and give Andrew formula. 

I slept the entire day (morning to night), waking only for meals, and I think I only breastfed for a total of two hours or so, throughout the day. Despite feeling a tad insecure about my choice to mixed feed, then switch to formula totally between Andrew's fifth to sixth week of life, I'm glad I made that choice. And say what you will about the bother of washing bottles - I'd rather be washing those darned bottles any day. 

I also read copiously whilst the nanny was here - I finished the three books in Ovidia Yu's Aunty Lee series, along with Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan's Tiger in the Kitchen and Sarong Party Girls (well-written, both books, but smacking just a bit of pretension), Snobs by Julian Fellowes (Past Imperfect wasn't as enjoyable), How to Party With An Infant by Kaui Hart Hemmings, Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng, and some other forgettable potboilers. (Okay, that's a lot of books.) In addition to that, I watched TV, spent time with Daniel, changed some of Andrew's diapers, was raring to get back into the kitchen by my third or so week post-partum, and at times mooched about feeling guilty that I wasn't as involved in the care of Andrew as I was with Daniel (got nanny, right? Some more what if she really knows better than me because she is so much older? But as it turned out, she was wrong about the yu yee yu yee yu yee you.)

So what is the point of my sharing all this? I don't really know, actually, except that I would like to remember how dreadful it all was with Daniel so I will be able to empathise and sympathise with other first-time mothers, including, God-willing, my future daughters-in-law (getting too far ahead of myself here, perhaps, but I've always been one for forward-thinking, otherwise known as Worrying About The Future and Things I Cannot Control). And to tell you that no matter how much you feel like strangling the next person who tells you to hang in there because things will get better, they really will. 

Just a while back, almost 2 months after Andrew was born, we took him to Jon's grandmother's for the first time. We left Daniel playing with toy cars in the living room, and I went for a walk with Jon to get Andrew to sleep in the Manduca, along the very same roads where I'd had that panic attack a little more than two years before. I enjoyed being out in the cool(ish) evening air, finally free of the four walls of my home and the confinement nanny, and when we saw Thomson Three rising in the distance, where some of our friends will be setting up home in the very near future, I stood in the middle of the road and smiled for a picture.

曾经年少爱追梦

In the days of my not-so-distant youth, before I met Jon but after I realised that 80% (more?) of Singapore's population lived in HDB flats and not, as I used to think, primarily in houses (i.e. landed property) of varying sizes (small, medium, large and super duper I don't want to know what my parents do large), I had a vague idea that I would one day like to live in a smallish-medium sized house, have three kids, an SUV, and a Golden Retriever. If not, then a large, airy unit in an apartment complex (think walk-ups, or Pandan Valley) would do. All this, despite the fact that my maternal grandparents lived in a four-room HDB flat in Marine Parade and we visited them every single Sunday after church. The floor was tiled in light grey marble which my mother told me my grandparents had purchased and laid themselves, hence the rather haphazard pattern formed by the grain. 

I know this makes me sound like a snob and perpetuates the Methodist school stereotype, but I hope I will be forgiven, simply because I never gave much thought, in my immaturity, to what the rest of Singapore was like. I lived near enough to MGS to walk to school, and up until I entered junior college (ACJC, which was only about a 10-15 minute bus ride from my parents' house, depending on traffic), there was no real need for me to think outside a radius of 3km or so. My parents are two of the least snobby people I know, and are thrifty to a fault, so it's funny that I grew up with what I now recognise are rather appalling ideas about what I wanted from life. 

Over time, I lost the desire to study overseas - I'd had some ideas about doing a liberal arts degree in New York - and wanted nothing more than to get into law school at NUS and be with my family in Singapore in my university years. My thinking towards marriage and starting a family changed, along with increasing inflation and property prices. I didn't think about having children any more, nor about having a dog (all that fur and drool! And I'm a cat person anyway, it's just that a dog would have gone with the house) or living in a house or condominium after I got married. I just wanted to get married and have a nice HDB flat (atas-ly decorated, hopefully) to call home. 

I turned 30 just over two weeks ago, and I think I can say, truthfully, that I've more or less achieved what I wanted to in life, and then some. Of course, there are now other things to "achieve", like growing old with Jon and bringing up the children (plural!!!), and I think it is apt at this juncture to quote Damian in Past Imperfect:

"But I do approve of these people. I admire their ordinariness. When I was young I couldn't deal with anyone who lacked ambition. I couldn't see the point of a life that just accepted and had no wish to change. . . I sympathised with any vaulting goal, no matter how ludicrous. But those with no desire beyond a decent life, a nice house, a pleasant holiday were quite alien to me. They made me uncomfortable. . . Now, I see the ability simply to embrace life and live it as noble. Not always to drive yourself like an ox through a ploughed field, which is what I used to admire. I suppose, hundreds of years ago, it was the same when people entered convents and monasteries to give their lives to God. I feel these men and women, in just getting on with it, are also in their way giving their lives to God..."

There are days when I wonder what the point of it all is. You get through life, one day at a time, and then you die at some point. By all accounts, the world is dreadful and depressing. When will Jesus come again, when will good finally triumph over evil once and for all? What's the point of having children, if we are in the last days? Despite being quite sweet and entertaining, Daniel is going through the Tiresome Twos, and of course you can't fault a baby for simply being a baby (cry, sleep, eat, not show you any appreciation for cleaning his multiple and very smelly poos). I'm constantly annoyed and irritable because I can't do what I want, whenever I want, and even when I finally get out on my own, I'm thinking about how Jon, Daniel and Andrew are doing. 

But there are other days where I am seized with a sudden awareness that there is intrinsic value in having children (shades of Finnis), days where the air is cool and fresh and I manage to have an hour or two outdoors, all to myself. These are the days where I realise that true contentment and satisfaction with life are not actually that easy to come by, and I am thankful that I am. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I am "noble", because I believe contentment is one of God's blessings - but whatever it is, I highly recommend simply embracing life and living it, if you haven't already.

***

So! My baby is almost 9 weeks old, and I expect you ploughed through all that navel-gazing in the hope that I would write about having two children with my usual wit and candour (SELF-PRAISE IS NO PRAISE). I think it's a bit early to say anything definitive about what life with two is like because, as I have mentioned, Andrew is only 9 weeks old and does little more than eat, sleep, cry and poo - and pee. Daniel seems to like him so far, but I'm convinced that that's because Andrew can't really do anything yet. Of course, I hope and pray that they will come to like each other and be friends in the weeks to come, but for now, I'm happy with Daniel's "See Baybee!!" 's, not so thrilled with his over-enthusiastic pats and not very sure how to feel about his slobbering over Andrew's forehead in a show of affection. 

We had a confinement nanny for 6 weeks, and while it seems ungrateful to say this, I am glad she's gone. She was kind and good-hearted and a huge help after Andrew caught Daniel's cold, but oh, she was so auntie*. And funnily enough, her being with us made me quite certain I don't want live-in help, though I suppose I should wait and see how I cope after I go back to work. 

*As you know, there are different types of auntie. I am auntie, but not the same kind. And just so you know I am not running down one of my own, she was not of the annoying auntie ilk. 

The week after she left, Jon came up with a song showcasing her pet phrases. It's nothing more than a deranged, repetitive chant, but for what it's worth, I reproduce the lyrics below in hanyu pinyin and phonetics. It more or less sums up the first six weeks of Andrew's life, and do note that it is also more entertaining to perform for your family in your living room if you have a toddler who likes repeating things. Malaysian Chinese accent optional. 

Yu yee yu yee yu yee you (如意油; this is Daniel's favourite line. Think: imitate ambulance)

Yi4 zhi2 da4 bian4 (echo: pi4 gu3 lan4)

Hen3 jing1 shen2 (you must say heeeeeeen3)

Bi2 zi3 hen3 sai1 (Sterimar proved quite useful. Unfortunately, this also led to -)

Yi4 zhi2 bu4 yao4 shui4 (yiiiiiiii4)

Repeat each line as many times as desired. For non-Chinese speakers, here is a rough translation of the song, along with my thoughts where they matter:

1. Medicated oil which nannies and parents swear by for getting rid of bloatedness and gas. All I know is, the day the nanny left, we stopped using it, and Andrew's sleep, mood and feeding improved drastically. Until his intestines got stuck now and then when he coughed, resulting in the right inguinal hernia, but that's fixed now. 

2. There was a period of time where Andrew kept pooping despite being mostly formula-fed. Contrary to what the nanny said, his buttocks did not "rot". 

3. Very lively. Veeeerrrrrryyyy lively (this, usually at 11pm or so).  

4. Very blocked nose. It was difficult not to feel frustrated with Daniel for sneezing on him within an hour of his arrival at home, but that's life. 

5. Keep on not wanting to sleep. Keeeeeeeep oooooonnnnnn not wanting to sleep (because, see above). 

I recommend PEM Confinement Nanny Agency. They did a good job of matching us with a nanny according to my written specifications of "Nanny must not make me breastfeed and must allow me to bathe. Without herbs."

Yu yee yu yee yu yee you. Birth story to come.

#38weeksemo

For reasons which some of my Very Patient friends (well, if they've felt like giving me a good spanking but were too polite to say so, I don't blame them) and mother (who will probably never be closed to  the possibility of giving me a good spanking I think, despite the fact that I turn 30 this year) have likely had to listen to one too many times in the past few weeks, I'd tentatively made arrangements to induce labour at 38 weeks' gestation, which was last Friday. Since I am sitting on my sofa writing about #38weeksemo, and am still leaking pee in the middle of the night when I cough, it is safe to conclude that I chickened out of the induction, for various reasons which my said Very Patient friends and mother have been very patient and understanding about. One of those reasons was also that it didn't seem like the best decision medically, so I've given it another week. If all goes well, we will meet Andy Lau some time this Thursday or Friday. And if you, like me, think that electing for an induction is desirable because it gives you some control over when things happen and enables you to make arrangements which suit everybody, especially if you are having a second one and have no helper, do not Google "Is electing to have an induction selfish", because Google and your pregnancy hormones will make you feel like the most horrible mother who ever lived. 

***

The chickening out was a last minute decision, made in my gynae's office whilst I grumbled to him Can you believe my husband is going back to work later?!, which meant that I spent a good part of the past two weeks or so planning things around giving birth last Friday. The Friday before, Daniel's school planned a trip to the River Safari, in line with this month's animal theme (and what 23 month olds will learn from a barely 2-hour long excursion to the River Safari, I have no idea). Although my gynae said "Why cannot go zoo?", the unbearable heat and the fact that I was 37 weeks pregnant led me to decide not to go, and to take leave to spend some time with Daniel, because there was a distinct possibility that we might become a family of four in a week's time. 

I'd had ideas about how it would be a lovely, restful morning at home before we went for brunch with Y and Jon picked us up (he had a reservist call-up) and we dropped Daniel at childcare before I went back to the office. At about 8.30am, it dawned on me that I should probably make Daniel some porridge, but we were out of vegetables and protein, so a trip to the mini-market opposite our house, whilst tiresome, was necessary. We made it there and back, Daniel happy to be toddling about, but I had to carry him all the way home, and when I started making the porridge, he grew steadily more whiny and clingy, making it near impossible to get the porridge cooked, and get us both showered and dressed. When I finally managed to get us both presentable, I found that my house keys could not be located. This was particularly irritating because Jon had tried, and failed, to find his house keys earlier that morning (we knew that Daniel had probably hidden them), and if I couldn't find my house keys then we were probably housebound unless I wanted to leave the door and gate unlocked. I'd seen Daniel playing with my house keys barely 20 minutes before that, so I asked him where they were. Where keys?, I said, in what I felt was a winning and cajoling manner.

In that absolutely annoying way of toddlers, he gave me his best wide-eyed stare, then proceeded to follow me around the house repeating "Where key?", as I frantically burrowed into the unopened stack of mail on the study table (please remind Jon that it is his duty to clear it), and upended the sofa, ever conscious that I was getting later and later for brunch. 

And so, even though it was probably my fault for leaving my child unattended with the keys, and also Jon's for not putting his keys in the key drawer, in my frustration, I spanked Daniel and sent him to the naughty corner. 

After which I felt so bad because this was supposed to be one of the last few times it would be just us - for a while at least - and he looked so contrite and hurt, that I burst into tears and gave him a big hug, raining copious tears down the front of his school uniform in the process. I apologised and told him that he had to stop being so naughty because he was going to be a kor kor soon, which made me cry even more, and hug Daniel even harder, because He is so small, how is he going to handle all these changes? What happened to our nice morning together? Why am I letting that stupid Huffington Post article which I poo-pooed as absolute rubbish a few weeks ago mess with my mind?

(Confess your mummy guilt to the world, and you shall be forgiven.)

I eventually located Jon's keys in the back of the sofa, at one end, and further digging revealed that my house keys had been hidden at the other end. We left the house, I was only half-an-hour late for brunch (having a child is no excuse, but. BUT.), and Daniel ate most of his porridge, spinach and all. It started to rain, heavily, prompting exclamations of "Rain! Rain!" with much excited pointing and attempts to run out into it, but we got through brunch with only one time-out (following a bout of violent table-kicking for fun, which I had tried in a reasonable tone and manner to put a stop to (see what all this mummy blogging is doing to me, I need to clarify that I tried a reasonable approach first)) and then Jon came to pick us up, and I left my toddler prostrate and throwing a mini-tantrum at the entryway of his childcare centre, yells of "Eyeeeeee waaaaan maaaaa maaaaaaa" ringing in my ears. 

Moved as I was that he still wanted to be with me despite our frazzling morning together, I thankfully made my way back to the car and to the haven of The Office. 

***

I've re-read some of my first few posts about being a parent, and it both astonishes me and makes me cringe, just a little, at how naive I was, and how little I knew. I admit that I still don't know s**t and probably never will, but I do think one thing I was right about (thankfully) was giving me, Jon and Daniel time to get to know each other because we are all our own persons after all. Of course, I was more often than not as impatient as the next parent for Daniel to stop being so mind-numbingly boring (eat, sleep, cry, cry some more, and more) and start showing some signs of being a person, and simultaneously worried to death that I would never feel love for my child because some of my earliest memories after giving birth were of feeling shackled and longing for a lack of responsibility again. 

But finally, I am able to say with conviction that it's been nice getting to know Daniel these past two years, and he has, and continues to bring Jon and me much joy. Plodding through the boring, frustrating days, waiting out tantrums, hiding my tears when I felt overwhelmed and unappreciated - the stuff all relationships are made of, really. And more recently - laughing with Jon at his antics and lack of self-consciousness, trying to keep a straight face when Jon is scolding him, watching him fall asleep and resisting the urge to bite his chubby cheeks. The cuddles, the singing, his solid chunkiness and his resting his head on my shoulder as I ferry him about in my arms despite the discomfort it causes. 

***

The next time I write anything (and I WILL share about the food that was worth throwing up in my first trimester at some point), I will probably be wondering how I ever thought that having another child so close in age to my first would be a good idea and/ or be about to tear my hair out, if it isn't already falling out. Indulge me and my twee sentiments today, I'll see you again soon. 

Stronger

Since we are 30+ weeks in and I'm not sure if I will be able to work up the courage to have another child after we have SBC, I thought it would be nice, for posterity's sake, to write about how it's been, being pregnant  with SBC, whilst I am still pregnant with him.  

***

Many people have asked what we are going to name SBC, and my standard response is "Andy Lau lor". These "many people" then assume that I am joking, and when I tell them "Okay, no, we're going to name him Andrew - so I can shorten it to Andy," they usually try to hide their looks of horror; but too late, being pregnant means my senses are in overdrive, and I also catch the words they have bitten back just in time: why would you be so cruel to your child?! 

For the record, I've always liked the name Andrew. It's also biblical, has a nice meaning (manly, according to Google), and I don't know any Andrews whom I dislike. It just so happens that Jon's surname is Lau. In fact, even before we conceived FBC, I'd broached the idea of naming him Andrew - but given the circumstances surrounding his conception, I eventually gave in to Jon's wish to name him Daniel. 

*** 

Now that the end to this constant need to pee and being forced to sleep on my left side is in sight, I'm actually looking forward to SBC's arrival. I don't think it's that I didn't look forward to FBC's birth - having gone through this pregnancy with one or two friends who are expecting their first, I've looked back on my own first pregnancy and realised that it was just a rather emotionally trying time, and whatever anticipation or excitement I felt was clouded by a whole lot of other emotions. I think I was mostly concerned with getting through the days after Jon's second operation, and the nights he was working despite undergoing RT. It's not like each of his RT sessions was particularly long, or that they took place over a particularly long period of time - he didn't expect me to accompany him when he went for them either - but medical treatment, and being there for someone whilst they're undergoing it, isn't the most fun thing in the world, you know? Especially when it's your spouse. In sickness and in health. 

And it being my first pregnancy, I was always thinking and worrying about whether FBC would be born happy and healthy. It did seem particularly important in the circumstances though; as I (morbidly) told friends, if anything happened to Jon, at least there would be a baby 来做纪念, to be a remembrance. 

Which is why, before we embarked on having our second child, I told myself that I would be as chill as possible during my second pregnancy and enjoy it. Also, since #YOLO, why not just go for it and be the mother of Andy Lau?

***

So of course, in my first trimester, I had to have some spotting the day before we went on holiday to Penang in early December. I wasn't particularly worried, but given that we would be flying somewhere, I thought it would be best to get it checked out - and of course, I had to choose the worst possible gynaecologist (henceforth, "random gynae", and all references to "gynae" are simply for ease of typing and should not be taken to refer to him) available to see me at the end of the working day at short notice. He informed me that I had a polyp, which he removed without truly seeking my consent (when you are lying on a doctor's table with your legs open it is difficult to say anything when said doctor tells you he is going to remove the polyp which he thinks is causing the spotting, AND THEN PROCEEDS TO DO IT), then told me I should prepare to miscarry because he was unable to see anything via the vaginal ultrasound, although I already tried to explain to him that I was quite sure I had ovulated later than usual that month and was hence probably earlier on in the pregnancy than I was, based on my last period.

I went to Penang, carried Daniel everywhere, and ordered laksa without hum. We went to Penang on a Friday, and before we came back to Singapore two days later, on a Sunday, there was no more spotting. Suffice to say, I never went back to random gynae again, although he suggested that I schedule a further appointment with him to monitor my hCG levels.

In retrospect, I'm not sure why I initially insisted on waiting to see my previous gynae from NUH. The appointment NUH gave me was for a date almost two months after I called (after seeing random gynae), and it was only after I spent most of the week after Christmas in bed or in the toilet throwing up and subsisting primarily on fishball noodles with no fishballs, only fishcake please, and my mother pointing out to me that I was getting very gaunt and was I sure I wanted to wait so long? that I finally agreed to find another gynae. Jon accused me of forum shopping after my first real scan (I was already 11 weeks by then), when I gleefully told him that I had been given the green light to continue running, amongst other things which had been taboo with my previous gynae (she was wonderful, and I felt dreadfully disloyal to her when I switched).

It has been good, though. Being pregnant with a toddler and a full-time job is not the most fun thing in the world either, but I think my current gynae and his cheerful, if slightly FOS outlook has been instrumental in helping me fulfill my promise to myself.

#YOLO, yo.

***

With that, I wish to inform you that it is way past my bedtime and I am now more emo than I was before I started typing this post. In keeping with the #YOLO theme of this pregnancy, I actually kept a record of all the food it was worth throwing up during my first trimester and all the food which wasn't. I promise to share it another time when I am less emo and it is not so late. 

Only If I

It is quite likely that some time in the not-so-far-off future, I will come to rue the moments I wished that FBC would hurry and grow up already. I don't think I've indulged much in motherhood sentimentality, but I do know that he will only be small and cute and defenceless all at once at this point in his life, and I have no idea when the day will come where we will wake up in the morning and find that he has transformed into a gangly, awkward stranger. Treasure each day with your child! There is nothing more worthwhile! Enjoy all the overwhelming love! Did you ever, EVER think you could ever love anybody SO much? 

Guilt-inducing platitudes abound on social media, and when I'm not dismissing them as absolute tosh, I am holding back tears at my desk and telling myself not to succumb to this crap*.

*I am aware that not everyone who may read this thinks it is crap. No offence intended. I have weird coping mechanisms. 

For the record - even though FBC is almost two and we are expecting our Second Born Child ("SBC") pretty soon, I still don't feel that having children is worth it. Somewhere in my mind, of course, my rational self is aware and believes that it is (after all, we are having another), but when I was in the throes of nausea and a terrible cold* during my second first trimester, I looked at FBC sleeping peacefully next to me, and wondered what on earth I had gotten, and was getting myself into.

*I thought I would never, EVER, be able to eat again. Have YOU ever felt like you would never, EVER be able to eat again?

***

Before we had FBC, I was quite certain that I only wanted to try for a second one after he could communicate properly with us, i.e. tell us what he wanted or was feeling in words. It's not that he can't do so now, but he's nowhere near the fantastic ideal I had in mind when we were "family planning". 

That being said, it dawned on me a few days ago that it's probably just as well we decided to try for another one sooner rather than later, because I would in all likelihood have lost my nerve to have more than one child if we'd waited longer.   

Some days, I sit in the car after FBC gets on the school bus (yowling as he's strapped in, but the overly cheerful (for 8.30am) teacher who accompanies the children to school informs me that he usually stops once I'm out of sight), and feel horribly alone and a bit like I'm drowning (yes, Christians are humans too). I then spend part of those days looking at pictures of FBC on my phone and missing him, but when six o'clock comes and I have to leave the office so I can get to childcare before 7pm and avoid a fine, a sense of doom descends slowly but surely on my heart as I navigate through the little (thankfully) road angst I have to face at my area. I'm convinced FBC has a special whine reserved especially for me*, that he starts on the moment I strap him into his car seat. It's absolutely lovely seeing him run towards me on his short little legs in his too long school bermudas, arms outstretched, one of his best smiles breaking out on his chubby face as he gets closer, repeating "Mama mama mama"; I feel proud at how nicely he says bye to all the teachers and sits down without being told to have his sandals put on. But once we're alone in the car, all hell seems to break loose, and FBC doesn't let up until we're home and I've given him a bottle of milk.

*It is not usually turned on when there is someone else in the car, for example, Jon or my mother.

Moral of that story? Always make sure you have enough warm water and formula on hand to shake up a bottle of milk. Even if your house is, at most, a 15 minute drive from childcare. Evidently, toddlers are unaware of the concepts of patience and reasonableness.         

***

Now is when I tell you that I have found, after seven months or so as a Full Time Working Mother ("FTWM"), that having eschewed live-in help, I get through every day fully believing in the intrinsic worth of, and find great joy in serving my family even after a long and mentally draining day at work (so you can judge me for being indirectly judgmental of FTWMs who have live-in help).

Sarcasm aside, I think it comes down to my stubbornness and refusal to have to give up some of our privacy. And I also have reasons other than the usual How Can I Trust Someone Else With My Child?, What If Having a Helper Just Creates More Problems? and What If My Husband or Sons Molest My Helper? which you can ask me about in real life. We'll see how things go after SBC, I guess - though I am really not keen on the idea.

***

I have discovered that making a pot of chicken stock during the weekend can provide the base for two or three healthy and tasty dinners during the week. I usually put about six to eight Sakura chicken thighs and 6.5 to 7 cups of water in my 3.5l thermal pot. After the chicken thighs have cooked for 30-45 minutes, I remove the meat from the thighs, return the bones to the pot, top up with more water, and leave it in my thermal pot overnight (bringing the stock to a boil from time to time, if I have the time to do so (I usually don't)). And there you have the base for chicken soup, chicken pho, chicken porridge, [insert vegetable of choice] soup, etc. for the week.