c&c: bath

LU

She loves swimming and she loves water.

But she hates baths.



Lu’s bath is when I look at KK, he looks at me, and nobody wants to do the job.

What she hates most is when the water goes over her head, like Jo.

But I’m not going to give her the Princess treatment. She just has to learn the hard way.

Brushing teeth is just as tough. She whines throughout. Her favourite part is the spitting out of water. She loves wetting my clothes.

JO

For someone who used to hate baths, she is now a #1 fan. She likes to be clean and nice-smelling.

The moment she puts down her dinner dish, she fights to be the first to bath.

She still has water-in-eye issues, and most of her face remains dry throughout.

But as she is still in her strive-to-please phase, she tries her darndest to wash her own hair, her own body and soap herself.

And brushing her teeth always makes us want to laugh.

KK makes her do the hippopotamus, mouth open wide for molar-brushing...



... then the sunflower. Her sunny smile and slitty eyes are glorious.



DAY

The day we allowed him to take full responsibility for bodily cleanliness (some months back), we were seriously chuffed.

Relieved of 33.3% of our bathing duties!



As he does everything himself – remove clothes, bathe, brush his own teeth, dry himself, wear his own clothes – it’s significant relief.

He only asks me on occasion to check that he’s washed away all the soap.

Sometimes he helps us to bathe Lu. (not soap her, but entertain her in the bathtub and keep her happy as we do the job)

More and more, he is an asset rather than a liability.

c&c: sartorial sense

LU

The notty one likes dresses.



She flings out shirt after shorts and points to the dresses.

Once on, she spins in a wobbly circle, goes to the mirror, tilts her head. “Peety! Gordeous! Bee-ti-ful!” (Pretty! Gorgeous! Beautiful!”)

She goes to show everyone her dress. Waltzes up to KK: “Dess, papa, dess! Peety!”

He always laughs.

JO

Her current fav: A big pink butterfly striped shirt and pink Barney pants.



It’s hardly dry on the line but she plucks off the peg and wears it straight after her bath. It’s the kind of outfit I wish I had two sets off so she can wear it every day.

What she really wants to wear is Red and Yellow clothes. Anything that is Red and Yellow.

She loves the colours so much she disallows anyone else in the family from wearing Red and Yellow.

After Lu or Day finishes their bath, she solemnly reminds me: “Mummy don’t let Gor-gor / Lulu wear a red and yellow shirt or red and yellow pants, OK?”

And while her fav ensemble is not really Red and Yellow, she bluffs herself. She points to the dark pink: “Mummy that’s red”. Then points to the white: “Mummy that’s yellow, right?”

The reason why she does that is because she has NO Red and Yellow clothes. All the hand-me-downs are pink.

So the pink butterfly shirt is her de facto “Red and Yellow” fave.

That said, she is right fussy about her clothes.

Panties must NOT peek out from the rims of ill-fitting pants or she will scream. Straps of shoes must be aligned perfectly, if the velcro is off she will scream. One drop of water on anything she is wearing and she will scream.

If she is going out, she will not wear T-shirts and pants. She wears a pretty “Red and Yellow” dress (it could well be green), black court shoes, makes me tie her hair in plaits.

So much to say about her fashion sense.

DAY

He has never given a hoot about his clothes, never.

He pretty much wears whatever we put on him.

Now that he selects his clothes post-bath, I realize he has a preference for character clothes.

Shirts with Thomas the Train on it, Ben 10.

His current fave: A green satiny-smooth Ben 10 outfit from a pasar malam, the first and only time I asked him to choose an outfit for himself.



Frankly it’s hideous. But I have never stopped him from wearing it.

The plain-coloured shirts I select for him on the occasion I do, he wears them. But without any enthusiasm.

c&c: wakey wakey

Compare and Contrast.

A five-day series on 3 different responses to the same thing.

It could be age, it could be gender, it could be character. They’re just different.

We start with Waking Hour.

LU

She is everyone’s alarm clock.

No matter what time she sleeps at night, she pops up between 7 and 730am, the first to rise.

Quietly getting up without any crying, she comes straight to my bed, crawls all over, flings her legs over my chin and sits astride my face so I can’t breath, butts all over and gives me new bruises on my face.

Grabs my hand, attempts to pull me up.

She chants: “Mum-MY! Mum-MY! Pees (please)! Dum (come)! Mum-MY!”

She pulls the tissue, shreds it, goes to the playroom and plays solo.

KK wakes up. Does his thing. Goes off to work. She sends him off at the door, says bye.

She is alone once more. She comes back to me. Slaps me on the face. Grabs a diaper from the store room and throws it on me expecting me to do my duty and change her pee-soaked one.

“MMUUUUMMM-MMMYYYY!!!!!”



I finally wake up. I am gray-faced and tired-looking next to her peachy fresh one.

DAY

He’s always #2.

He usually gets up after Lu and before me.

He wakes up quietly, pees then goes straight to the playroom to fiddle with his trains or takes out a book to read.



JO

I have never let her wake up on her own because we’d be horribly late.

While Day and Lu are occupied eating breakfasts, usually about 815am, I shake her. I push her, I stroke her hair, I whisper in her ear.

She tosses and turns reluctantly, whines, but her eyes never open. She goes back to sleep.

I whisper again: “Jo, I made sweet potato soup for you for breakfast. If you don’t wake up Lulu and gor-gor will finish it.”

She squacks.



If she’s had enough sleep, she quietly pads to the kitchen. If she hasn’t, she screams all the way about how no one can touch her sweet potato soup.

sunflower life

We put two sunflower seeds in a pot and chucked it on the balcony.

The kids squealed when the first shoots appeared weeks ago and then lost interest. (remind me never to get a pet)

Despite the lack of attention, it grew. A pathetic tiny little thing with a face about as big as your average door knob.



Its companion, initially stronger and taller, was severely traumatised when Lu suddenly pulled it up one day and waved its roots around.

I screamed. It was murder.

I buried its roots back but thought it was a goner. KK said: "Don't throw it away. It's struggling to live."

And it did. Half the height but a small flower bloomed nonetheless.



Both, unfortunately, are now dying because the torrential rain and wind flattened them out.

snapshot

It's 4pm. I'm at the computer.

I have closed the door against the kids.

I think we've had quite enough of each other today.

Big 2 did not go to school. Playground, cookie baking, macaroni lunch at home, bookshop, fries at Macs, with all 3.

I order them to have a nap. I didn't have the energy to follow through.

Lu made a getaway to join her siblings in their room and I closed my door.

I just had a peep.

The three were sitting in a ring, munching on the chocolate chip cookies we made this morning (there's one shitty-looking piece on the floor which Lu dropped), reading, enjoying the cold rainy weather.



I took a snap and retreated back to my shelter.

Lu's just come in. "Mummy, mummy, mummy!" she chirps.

I glare at her and point to the bed: "Go to sleep, Lulu."

She scurries back out, quick as a rat (she IS born in the year of the mouse).

I'm still free. But I don't know for how long more*.

* Five minutes.

hiao pors

Baby vainpot.



And her inspiration.



How is it that a vanilla plain mum begets two vain girls?

And how wasted it is, that I have no necklaces (0), earrings (4 gold studs), hats (0), belts (0), scarves (0), bags (only the ugly gray one), shoes (3 pairs including 1 pair of slippers) to inspire them with.

I hypothesise: In reaction to their fashion-blind mama, these 2 girls will be rabid fashionistas.

Don't break my bank, girls.

no more milk

That’s it then. My milk-producing years are over.

Lu has finally gone off the breast.

Last feed: Wee hours of Monday morning, 16 November.

Duration of breast milk: Two days short of 20 months.

She’s had my milk the longest.

Despite this, she was the hardest to wean.

It could be because Day and Jo were both naturally weaned when I became pregnant.

For both of them, the milk slowed to an irritating trickle which did nothing for their hunger. The taste of the milk might have changed. And I was psychologically adamant that there was only enough of me to nurture one (the one in the belly) and not two. I cut them off quickly.

Lu was the first time I had ever tried to forcibly push the baby off my boob for no other reason than “time’s up”.

And the fact that I am heading for a three-day Penang holiday with Day and Jo, sans Lu and KK, at the end of November.

It was horribly unnatural.

Milk was abundant – once I stayed away for a whole day and nearly suffered a blocked duct by evening - she was enjoying it more than ever and had developed a particular tendre for the breast.

Up till a month ago, she fed, five, six times a day. After meals, before sleep, a few times in the middle of the night, any time she felt like it.

I kept putting Project Wean off. Then October became November.

I thought about getting a passport and an air ticket for Lu last-minute. I thought about trying to pump milk out for Lu in Penang. Then I figured it really is time.

I said NO to day feeds. I told her: Lulu, nan-nan is for babies. You are a little girl now.

Oh! How distressed she was!

She came running after me, arms waving, squealing “PEES! PEES, MUMMY! PEES, NAN-NAN!” (Pees = please)

I couldn’t resist her manners.

She would pull down or pull up my shirt and look for milk.

She was breastmilk-crazed.

But slowly, over a week, the day feeds stopped.

She would still come to me at night – quietly unerringly heading for me in my bed from her room in the 2am pitch darkness – for one feed.

That took another week. I think I finally managed to say NO over the weekend in my drowsy state (it is so habitual to just roll over and feed her), she squalled a little and I think she’s stopped for good.

Time taken to wean: About three weeks.

If I have my way and Lu is my last child ever, this would be farewell to breastfeeding.

I wish I could say I’d miss it. And sometimes I do. But looking ahead to a theoretically bright future (kid-less holidays!), I don’t think so!

ellis' party

We recently attended Ellis’ party. She turned two.



The thing about kiddy birthday parties is, most times the kids end up running around a lot and making a mess.

Organize something and it could end up being a big fat failure if nobody’s interested / everyone drifts away / nobody follows instructions.

I mean, kids don’t give face, right?

But this time, Day and Jo (Lu had to stay home for her nap) genuinely had a great time: There was a cookie baking session.



They were captivated.

I was left free and easy (my life is looking up!) to talk to friends, eat and do my own thing without having anyone to bother me.

Jo also met (fellow blogger) Auntie Sylvia, who finds Jo most fascinating!



Again, it's odd how I feel like I "know" Sylvia even though it's the first time we've met. I ask Sylvia about her childhood education course, about Danielle's primary school, as if we are catching up!

It's not a bad feeling at all, this instantaneous rapport.

It also makes me think: How many people "know" me?

when he's a man

A declaration from Day:

"When I'm grown up I want to have four children.

The first two are boys, and the third and fourth are girls.

Their names are Thomas, Gordon, Sophia and Natalie.

Mummy you'll be a grandmother and you can help me to look after them.

But how am I going to choose a girl?"

mickey

We had a pet. It was a rat.

It was living somewhere under our fridge. Or maybe our washing machine.

It came out late at night when we were all asleep and it was pitch dark.

It clambered up the wires, shit and peed in my rice cooker, gouged chunks out of my bananas, gnawed into my wholemeal bread, took the paint off the bottom of my balcony door when it desperately tried to scrabble out one night.

Once it left two pellets of shit in my saucepan. Centimetre-long pieces of dried, black pellets.

How did we know it was Mickey?

We didn’t. We thought it might have been a lizard. A bat. A bird. Or maybe a rat.

We pretty much lived with the shits for weeks, taking our own sweet time to try and figure out what creature it belonged to.

Until KK ventured into the kitchen last night in the pitch darkness and caught the rat unawares when he switched on the light.

He saw something zip past to the fridge. He made out a tail.

He saw red. He was a Man on a Mission.

He said: “I’m going to get the f*&cker.”

Tonight he came back armed with rat glue. Not one, but two types.

Rat poison was no good, we did not want any of the kids accidentally inhaling or eating it and having to get their stomachs pumped.

The management also told us to please not use rat poison as the rat would go off and die someplace and its carcass – which might not be found – would stink up the compound.

Traps were not available.

That left the glue.

Gleeful, KK set about getting ready to annihilate the rat.

Glue one was transparent and odour-less and came spread like jam on a ready-to-use pack with pre-packed bait. Just open up.

Glue two smelt like rotten eggs, was black as tar and had to be manually spread on hard boards.

Both glues were sticky as hell. Like melted cheese (stretch it and it goes on and on) but a lot stickier.



The arsenal: Two transparent glue packs, and four black glue boards.

KK cut up a bit of banana and dumped it in the centres. We knew Mickey liked bananas.

As to placement, we knew exactly where Mickey would go. I’ve been finding his shit pellets every morning, I knew his hang-outs.

The result? (skip if you don’t want to see a rat)
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Not even an hour after we had primed the battlefield, we saw Mickey in the flesh.

Quivering wetly on the first black glue board, all 15cm of him (not including tail) at the side of the fridge.

KK said, in triumph: “I know my strategy. There can only be one entrance and exit.”

Oh Mickey struggled. Pushing vainly with his hind legs to get off the board.

But he was well and truly mired. His tail was stuck fast. His body was stuck fast. His snout and one eye was stuck fast. He couldn’t even breath. I saw air bubbles come and go even as his abdomen heaved.

We stared at him. His fur was clean and brown, his ears were pink.

KK said: “Could this be someone’s pet?”

I hunkered down for a photo and looked into his beady round eyes. I confess, in a Ratatouille moment, I felt sorry for the poor dying creature.

KK, unbelievably, actually took me seriously: “Come on it’s either the rat or your kids. No need to feel sorry for it lah.”

Mickey’s final resting place: In a Cold Storage plastic bag, down the rubbish chute.

We hope that’s the end of it.

Then again, maybe not. The rat must have come from SOMEWHERE outside.

* Morning Update

Oh my God Oh My God we caught Mickey's dad.

We left the glues lying around.

This morning KK came in and announced with a smile: We're clean.

But he had not opened the balcony door.

(Skip if you don't want to see a BIG rat)
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A disgusting big wet rat which had sufficient strength to drag the board around the balcony and make a mess of the area (the glues are a bitch to clean up. No ordinary water or soap would do the trick, only industrial strength soap), I did not have the slightest sympathy.

We have a rat problem. Rather, the compound has a rat problem. They're coming from outside.