Fun With Atichyphobia

No, I didn't catch something from eating unpasteurised cheese, I'm just trying to rationalise my Fear of Poverty And Failure ("FOPF").

It's becoming both a cliche and a truism, in my view, that the FOPF in a person is proportional to their grades in school. Better grades, more FOPF. Worse grades, less FOPF. Except maybe for me, my grades were fairly mediocre once I discovered boys but my FOPF factor is and has always been really really OTT.

Especially now when I'm at a bit of a crossroad situation and trying to figure things out. How much does a person need to think before they make a decision? And is this before or after their head explodes. I have always faulted myself for not thinking hard enough before I reach a business decision - this time I'm really trying to make a decision only after seeing the pros and cons from every single angle, and even then I wonder.

Decision A - means I will have to, for once, take some fairly substantial risks financially.

Decision B - no financial risk, but it comes with its own cons too.

But the biggest thing about Decision A, she said, finally getting to the point, is that I have to inform my mother that I'm making Decision A. I will have to take the risk that she will look at me and the expression on her face will read something between horror and disappointment. Or rather, she will be squarely in horror territory, but within 100metres of reaching disappointment and finding a place for long-term parking. Shortly thereafter, all the relatives on my mother's side would be informed through a series of hysterical phone calls, and within a day or two, I will get a call from one of my favorite aunts, asking in sad haunted tones if I will be able to make ends meet and do I need any money to buy food for the children.

All my life I have felt like failure was not an option, and that, whilst a certain sibling of mine is free to walk the earth unemployed, shirtless and unshaven, unencumbered by pride or responsibility, it would be a grave disappointment to my mother if I should fail to show a stellar performance in anything I should try my hand at. In response, I severely limit the number of things I try my hand at that she knows about. Anyone who's played pool with me would suspect I might have some issues - I treat every shot like the fate of the free world hangs in the balance.

I think about passing these values on to my children and I weigh the pros and cons. FOPF means they will, by default, end up reasonably successful having taken minimal financial risks and always career planning. Plodding along, working hard, doing reasonably well and being comfortable. They would also be pretty good at pool. No FOPF could mean crashing failure at some point(s), and if we look at real life examples within the family tree, a permanent establishment in the parental home with a mother who will chop his vegetables in teeny tiny little pieces so that her 34 year old son will not have to chew too much.

Is it all in my mind? I don't think so. We were not created equal, my siblings and I. Some of us are not given the option of failure, some of us are allowed to fail. And whilst I don't spend much time wondering what people think of me generally, I look around me during family reunions and all I see are mirrors.

Time of the Season

So it's that time of the year again for parent-teacher meetings. I just attended 2 yesterday, one of which was, to my horror, conducted in Chinese. It is a constant embarrassment to me that The Son's Chinese language abilities may already have surpassed my own and that, with every new Chinese word he learns, another one slips from my memory.

In effort to spare The Son the torture of going through 12 years of mediocre grades in his Chinese classes, we have enrolled him in not one, but two, Chinese language tuition courses. Having done this, I suppose it would only be natural and expected for us to receive, at the end of each term, 2 progress reports for The Son but what I certainly did not expect was for both of them to be written in Chinese. Not the simple stuff that The Son has been learning, but of the standard that one would expect to find in Lianhe Zaobao.

Do the teachers not know their audience??? The type of parent that would send their child to a Chinese tuition centre would be unlikely to be conversant, or even have a passing acquaintance, with the Chinese language. I have passed the reports to a friend to translate for me - she has a great laugh at my expense every time I do this, but how else am I going to understand what the progress is.

At yesterday's meeting with the Chinese teacher, she passed me the report and waited expectantly for me to read it so that we could discuss any questions I had. She watched my finger crawl laboriously under each word for about 2 minutes as I tried my damndest to pronounce each word under my breath. We got past the second sentence before I gave up. I had a nightmare flashback to my last Chinese oral examination.

I wonder what she thought when, whilst writing The Son's Chinese name at the back of the cheque for the term fees, she saw me surreptitiously referring to the Chinese characters of his name written at the top of his progress report. I'm told that I'm not alone in this - a friend told me once that he was in the process of writing his son's Chinese name down for school registration when he realised that he had forgotten how to write 2 out of the 3 characters and had to take the form home.

In other news, The Son and I checked out the rather intriguing Body Works Exhibition at the Science Centre recently. We encircled the various displays of preserved human bodies while The Son clung to me and asked me whether "Daddy will grow old" and "Will Daddy die". He did not enquire after my mortality. In my typical motherly passive-aggressive style, I informed him that everybody dies. Daddy, mommy, even our dog, will eventually die. This may take a long time, but everybody dies. No one is spared.

At one point, we found ourselves staring at a display of a male carcass sitting on a carriage drawn by 2 skinned deer in mid-gallop. The Son points at the man and his question carries across the room: "DID SANTA DIE???"

Pretty Fly for a Shy Girl

I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever be rid of this damn shyness problem. Shyness isn't a disease, there's no cure and as an evolutionary tool, it's the equivalent of an appendix. We don't need it, we don't want it, but for some of us, we're stuck with it. And it's inoperable.

For me, it's the prospect of meeting new people, as completely ridiculous as it sounds given my chosen profession. I used to have a problem meeting new people at all. I can still remember a client lunch when I was too shy to speak (but not too shy to eat). Now I can manage meeting one batch of clients at a time. Have been fine for some time now, and I do actually enjoy it. But networking is the absolute bane of my existence and, as I recently discovered, the prospect of spending 2 days at an internal networking conference will give me an asthma attack. Actually, 2 asthma attacks - one for each day.

I realised I was shy on the first day of my Primary One education. I was heading home with my Grandfather, and I could see from a distance that someone I had just met was about to pass my way. What do I do? What do I say? Do I make eye contact? When do I make eye contact? Do I smile? When do I smile? What kind of smile? Do I stop and chat? What if I don't? Would that be rude?

When she passed by, I was frantically digging in my bag for an imaginary book. I just couldn't go through with it.

About 8 years ago, I came up with what I thought was an amazing solution for the shyness problem, which was speaking at seminars. About 50 or so seminars later, I am dismayed to find that the shyness problem is cured - but only for when I speak at seminars. There is still an unholy dread of networking in any shape, size or form. I can see myself now at the pearly gates of heaven, cringing and wheezing at the thought of having to network with all these dead relatives. Or I could just find myself in hell, with my aunt, and no networking issues at all.

Recently, after a sleepless night, I realised the shyness issue also extends to the blog, which means that it is reaching critical proportions indeed. I go through the same series of reactions when I'm trying to respond to a comment on this blog, which could explain why I'm such a total sloth when it comes to responding to comments. It's not that I do not respond. I just do not publish the response. I am delighted and overwhelmed when I get a comment. Usually it makes my day to think that people might read the stuff I type out. Then I think of a response. Then I type it, then edit, then redact, then retype, then edit and then delete it in frustration because I don't think it will be good enough to publish. Then I spend sleepless nights agonizing and wondering if people think I'm too stuck up to respond to their comment.

Will there ever be a cure for shyness? Desperate people want to know. One hopes there will be a solution other than attending 50 networking events.

Not a Food Blog

So maternity leave has been wonderful and it has really allowed me to focus on The Kids. It also saves a heap of cash to eat at home all the time.

Then one day my Rather Cool Cousin calls me up to say that Damien de Silva has kindly agreed to cook a special dinner for 10 persons for the price of S$x, x being less than 100. It will be 2 appetizers, 2 mains and 1 dessert. This is Damien de Silva aka Soul Kitchen, who knows me as Tagliatelle Ragu girl, and who now owns and runs Big D's Grill out of a coffee shop at Block 46 Holland Drive. And by 'coffee shop', I don't mean a Starbucks. It's an old skool coffee shop without any airconditioning. It is a testament to Damien's amazing food that his cult following of foodies will follow him literally to the ends of the earth, because that's exactly where he has chosen to set up his stall this time.

I don't say no to this. I mean, if God descended from Heaven in a chariot bearing his own barbeque sauce and offered to cook dinner for you, would you refuse? Instead I show up hungry, child-free and only 10 minutes late, which is a personal record for me. And I feast.

As this is not a food blog, there will be no pictures of the food, and also not much description of the food but suffice to say that I just ate the remainders of the duck confit 5 days after it was originally served and it still tasted toe-curlingly good. And I don't even like duck confit. It's always stringy and chewy and reminds me that birds raised for food should not be permitted to attend aerobics classes twice a week. Damien made it so tender that the meat fell off the bone, and I have been pulling off bits and pieces of it for the last 2 days to mash into The Son's porridge.

I hope he does this again, and soon.

In other news, The Daughter is serving out her 3rd month of babyhood and is getting a little bit fat. Before I had her, I used to long for a great fat baby with deep fat creases on her neck, arms and legs. And now I have one! And boy is it difficult to keep the fat creases clean on the inside. They require cleaning about 3 times a day otherwise she's one big fat smelly rash. According to Grandma, she looks just like me when I was a baby, but much, much fatter. Apparently I was past full term (slightly late in arriving, as always) but skinny.

Finally, and I have to note this down at the expense of sounding like a woman obsessed with her own children, The Son had another epiphany this morning. He buckled his sister into the swing and in so doing pinched his index finger. I gave him the usual spiel about how he needs to be careful otherwise he will hurt himself doing all these things and everyone will be sad.

Small boys are tough, mama, he said. Much tougher than big people and babies. You always say that this will hurt me a lot but it only hurt a little. I'm tough. Tougher than big people and babies. RIGHT?

Snippets

When I was about ... 24 and going through an extremely painful breakup (having just experienced the joy of being dumped) I prayed constantly for about 6 months for "inner peace". Well, I've certainly found it now.

Inner peace is when both children are finally asleep.

Possibly because I am married and out of the market, and further possibly because I now have kids (and could possibly no longer be a virgin), my male friends have started to confide in me. It is a disturbing trend, because after years of hearing bullshit ("we usually talk a lot more about sports"), I am finally getting to hear what guys really really talk about when there are no women around.

Male Friend No. 1, whilst I was hoeing into a nice juicy wedge of Hawaiian pizza and only half-listening:

"I'll be the first to admit it - my penis is extremely short. But it's also extremely thick, and that's what makes the girls so happy." At that moment, I happened to glance at the tiny little salt and pepper shakers on the table and managed to say mm-hmm mm-hmm. My hyperactive imagination, eager as ever to help out with the illustrations, showed me a picture of a flesh-coloured cha siew pao.

[I asked him if I could ever put this discussion in an electronic medium and he said yes he has no detractors, only satisfied customers.]

Friend no. 2, on the phone:

So how should I react if, after having sex for the first time with this girl, she asks me if we could try a threesome next time. Does this mean she had a bad time with me and next time I should bring reinforcements?

No dude. If a girl has a bad time, you can rest assured that none of her future plans extending beyond the next hour would involve you. At this point, if she could make you disappear, you'd already be gone. And she wouldn't be asking after your friends. Clearly you have ventured into a rarified zone with this girl where she doesn't want to be your friend, she doesn't want any kind of long-term relationship with you, she just wants a Weinerslave.

[Clearly, also, I live vicariously through friend no. 2.]

Friend no. 3, also on the phone:

So I went to KL with 2 other guys and we hooked up with this girl who wants to try a group thing. She's small but extremely enthusiastic. I'm just watching the action from the side when one of the guys asks me to join in. Join in where? I asked. There's no space!! Between the 2 of you, I can hardly see her!!

[Given my rather uptight attitude towards these issues, it took me 2 hours to find that funny.]

But anyway, I might sound like I'm complaining but secretly I am so pleased to have finally been allowed into the inner circle (of a man's mind). It might be in need of a little cleaning but it sure beats a discussion about sports. Nobody has ever confided in me about sports before.

Now that I'm no longer pregnant, I do miss the little pregnancy jokes.

1. Pregnant friend and pregnant me in a crowded lift full of strangers. I looked over at her and asked "do you know who the father is yet?"

"I just found out," she replies. "Now I'm trying to get him to admit that it's his."

2. Pregnant me and The Son accompany a single girlfriend who's getting married to a bridal boutique. Salesgirl comes up to us and asks "so... who's the bride?"

"Me me me!!" I wanted to say. "He finally said yes!! I'm so happy!!"

Great Expectations

It is with great pleasure and relief that we announce the long awaited arrival of Chicken No. 2. She arrived on a Saturday night, exactly on her forecasted birth date, and I'm still trying to remember what it was they said about Saturday's child.

One thing we do know - she has got mad screaming skillz. I feel like we have a new pet in the house. A new angry red screaming pet. I can hear the neighbours shutting their windows whenever she starts up. I'm surprised we haven't heard from them yet.

This one was fed a very very Omega-3 rich diet, whereas for Chicken No. 1, I had no clue about Omega-3 so he had none. We are watching to see if it made a difference. I think a thousand bucks worth of Omega-3 tablets went into Chicken No. 2, plus another truckload of vitamins B, C, D, iron, calcium and I can't remember what else. I was taking pills and supplements all day with this one. She weighed 4.05kg at birth, and was the heavyweight champion in the ward. No. 1 weighed 2.92kg. He was the lightest baby they had in the ward for the few days we stayed in the hospital.

Also, for no. 1, we read not a single childcare book, so basically everything he did was completely unexpected and a wonder to us all. Omigod he just filled up his little diaper, we would say in awe. We had no standards for him whatsoever. But for no. 2, I have bought a grand total of 2 books on babies and so we will actually have a clue this time around. One of them actually has a "crying" analysis, so that we can interpret what she's screaming about. So far it's been very accurate. But then again, she's usually hungry. It's not like she's asking to borrow the car or anything.

I recently discovered by accident that men have an extremely rosy impression of breastfeeding class. A sea of boobs and half naked women expressing milk in a semi-erotic fashion, is what I understand they think it is. In reality, it is a sea of boobs, but from a motley crew of wan looking no-makeup extremely exhausted women who all sit very gingerly (stitches) and who still look pregnant despite the fact that each one is carrying a small red infant. One class attendee was so dazed that she didn't realise the class was BYOB (bring your own baby) and showed up alone. Another class attendee didn't realise that you are not expected to whip off your shirt and sit there topless in front of God and everybody (she must have arrived first). The rest of us just adjusted our clothing to show as little as possible and tried not to stare at each other's boobs as the instructor walked around grabbing and squeezing to ensure milk flow. It's not exactly a Victoria's Secret moment.

In other news, it sure is good to be holding a new baby.

Great Speeches and Soliloquys from the Peanut Gallery

I don't know if it's typical for 4 year old boys to get a little bit long-winded, but The Son has certainly headed off in that direction. Over the last 6 months, we have noticed an marked increase in the melodrama department, something my husband refers to as "chewing the scenery".

A couple of weekends ago, he let loose a really long soliloquy at Parkway Parade which, if he had not been leaning a little bit too close to the dustbin and standing at barely 2/3 of my height, I might have been tempted to take seriously. It started with a trip to Parkway Parade on Saturday morning, and I briefed him beforehand on the trip agenda, basically we would attend at Parkway Parade for the purpose of depositing a cheque, eating and drinking store-bought foods and, at some point, spending some quality time at the arcade (Timezone).

So naturally he was keen, and also naturally, when we arrived at Parkway Parade, I prioritized all my stuff first, which meant that 4 hours later, we would still be sitting at Dome's while I enjoyed a burger and an iced coffee with ice cream and he had a choc milk-shake. Then The Mother calls to say she will pick us up half an hour early, and could we please report to the taxi stand immediately, so that she knows which building is Parkway Parade by the 2 small people standing in front of it.

When The Son got wind of the fact that his arcade trip was cancelled, he was extremely displeased and spake forth in a voice most dissatisfied. I informed him that it was understandable that he might be a little bit upset about the situation, but (burp) hey we can't always get what we want all the time, and there's always next time, so please get a grip on yourself and calm down.

At this point, he got a little bit shrill.

"Actually I'm not very happy with you. You are not saying it properly. I am not abit upset! Actually I am very upset! You said we are going to the arcade! Then you went to eat your food for so long! And you asked me to be patient. Now we are going to Grandma's house. I want to go to the arcade now!

(Then he looks around, shifts tactics) Where is Grandma? She's not here yet. Can we go to the arcade for a short while until she gets here? We are just waiting, Mama. Can we just go? I have been very patient with you, you know." Then he fixes me with a look that could bend spoons.

Jesus Christ. If he's like this now, what should we be expecting next year? Why can't he be like other little boys and just run around screaming in circles?

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In other news, I recently inspected the rather amazing collection of books at E@L's residence and it is truly a wonder to behold the depth and range of his casual reading material.

You should have seen the look on his face when I turned around to ask "Hey, do you have any Grisham or Stephen King in here?" It was awesome. The Husband cringed and averted his eyes ("I can't believe it's not margarine!").