My first book review

Parenting is an immensely rewarding yet demanding and energy-draining job. While it doesn't exactly have to be rocket science, there is most certainly nothing child's play like about it. The constant nagging ambivalence whether I am a good mother, role model, teacher, friend, safe habour, coupled with tormenting anxieties if we are making the right choices for our daughter make me ponder ceaselessly if my limited imagination and wit will ever lead me to pull off this whole breeding stunt successfully. However you want to define 'successfully'

When Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, a parenting memoir, was offered to me by the friend, I thought the timing couldn't be better.

Despite waves of negative reviews about the unusual style of child rearing, I find the book a fitting read for someone like me who is still grappling with the whole concept and idea of parenthood. Sure, it is not exactly a how-to guide but who cares? Plus I needed some dosage of humor to dispel my parenting anxiety.

A candid and self-mocking coming-of-age memoir, it is the third book written by Amy Chua, a Chinese-American Yale law professor, whose traditional and incredulously strict and harsh Chinese parenting method did not always sit down well with her two daughters, especially her younger one.

To prepare her girls for their future, she imposed math and spelling drills, piano and violin practice for hours on end each and everyday. The girls were not allowed to go on playdates or sleepovers, no television and computer games. And the Tiger Mother's punishingly high expectations do not accept any grade lower than an A. She declared, 'What Chinese parents understand is that nothing is fun until you're good at it.'

Her child nurturing journey is naturally not without difficulties. With an inevitable clash of cultures, many drilling sessions manifested into screaming and bitter episodes. Even her usually obedient and submissive elder daughter did not hold up well to the crushing authoritarianism. Her husband's well-meaning but feeble interventions only served to further resolved Chua's determination to do the parenting job her way. Until her 13 year-old daughter rebelled.

Many are indignant and left speechless by Chua's extreme child rearing techniques. One went as far as to calling her a monster. True, she is extremely hardcore and her sometimes-cocky maternal ruthlessness and confidence maybe hard to swallow. But like all parents, she only wants the best for her children.

Rather than nitpicking, I decided instead to concentrate on the positive aspects of the book. Throughout the book, it didn't fail to strike me that mere mortals like me would have taken the easy way out and let the girls be so as to avoid all the inconveniences of 'epic battles' or 'showdowns' Yet, despite her busy work schedules and commitments, Chua's unflagging strength, brutal determination and clever resourcefulness to plod on against all odds; her fierce dedication to relentlessly push her girls to practise, practise, practise just so they could achieve mastery in any subjects of study; and her unnatural little requirement of sleep, have all but inspired my awe and respect for this tough woman.

There are no questions that these qualities were results of her own strict upbringing which she sees as 'a great success story' Therefore, it's only natural for her to want to instill these attributes of strength and perseverance in her girls in order for them to reach their full potential in life's work and that giving up halfway is never the answer.

Chua's elder daughter, Sophia, sums it up best:

'To me, it’s not about achievement or self-gratification. It’s about knowing that you’ve pushed yourself, body and mind, to the limits of your own potential. You feel it when you’re sprinting, and when the piano piece you’ve practiced for hours finally comes to life beneath your fingertips. You feel it when you encounter a life-changing idea, and when you do something on your own that you never thought you could. If I died tomorrow, I would die feeling I’ve lived my whole life at 110 percent.

And for that, Tiger Mom, thank you.'

In spite of my admiration for the author, I can never and will never be a Tiger Mother. Like Chua, I do wish my daughter greatness and success too. But I just can't ignore the compelling feeling that while achievements maybe great, they are not everything and certainly not the endgame in life. There is more to life than that and that is for her to find out when she grows up.

I strongly believe as a mother, my role is to ensure my child has a happy and fun childhood and at the same time to guide and help her grow up as a well-rounded, well-adjusted, responsible, compassionate, happy, honest and good person. Looks like someone has got herself a full plate....

Well, whoever says parenthood is easy?

The End of Me

I have finally fallen into the evil clutches of the highly infectious plague: the Internet television.

TV-watching has become such a sporadic event ever since I live in this let's-dub-every-foreign-film/tv-serie land. The sheer pleasure of being entertained by the google box or the big screen has all but been brutally murdered because the auditory sense is appalled by the voice-overs which are often frightfully incongruous with the acting humans on screen.

Therefore, I resort to other more productive and stimulating activities like posting trying-hard-to-be-cool updates/pictures on Facebook for the sole narcissistic purpose of garnering approvals or nods from online friends, liking their status/pictures (oh, that's very meaningful surprisingly because clicking that 'like' button is not unlike a good deed which will almost always satisfy the friends' similar urge for endorsements. Now, isn't that for a good cause?) and checking out these online friends checking out my check-ins. And whatever spare time may be left of it, I then engage in mundane and uninspiringly pursuits such as writing or reading.

Given that my time has been so well-occupied, I hardly have the chance to miss watching TV until this happened:

iPad + TV Apps = The End of Me

With a mind-boggling range of channels to choose from, it's suddenly transformed my pitiful plight from TV drought to overwhelmingly spoilt for choices.

Not that I am complaining. It's a much-needed change from the often thought-provoking yet heavy and depressing German television to the glitz and glamour of American shows which can be terribly entertaining but at the same time reek of implausibility and too-perfect superficies.

Now that the couch potato is back at wallowing in television-ing, you can expect the already-lack-of-colours imagination taking a backseat even further back. Heh.

A good day

So I finally decided to jump on the bandwagon of H&M's guest-designers collaborations. It's Marni x H&M this time. I am very taken to its quirky designs and the use of clashing colours and prints. With rather friendly prices, so what if I look like just another girl on the street?

As I was a few shops away from the store, the absence of a helter skelter crowd confirmed my premonition that I was too late. True enough, the few unwanted pieces that were left haphazardly on the shelves seemed to be enjoying their moment of peace after all that frenzy. Admittedly, I secretly heaved a sigh of relief that I was spared from a face off with a mob of frantic females of the species.

To my delight, however, the men's collection was not totally sold out. The man is in luck. Easter comes early for him this year.

Pleased with my shopping and new haircut, I was literally bouncing in my step as I made my way.

Then I saw him. A guy in his wheelchair, stretching out his hands, asking passers-by for money. My pace slowed as my mind raced: How often do I actually walk over to the needy and give out money to them? Almost never. Shame on you, hoonie! What kind of lousy human being are you?!

I stopped in front of the guy and put a €5 note in his hands. As he was thanking me gratefully, I could only smile at him. It may not be much but I do hope it had somehow made his day a little easier. Now I wish I had given him more.

Anyways, that single act alone made my day, not the shopping, not the haircut.

Giving is receiving. Indeed.

Literary pursuit gone a little awry

I just won't let myself have the satisfaction to state I have been so busy lately that I couldn't find the time to blog. Busy is such an overrated excuse these days that I sternly remind myself not to succumb to its delusional madness so easily. The true excuse is, quite simply, the inspiration missing and the words wanting.

In my hopeful but miserable attempt to draw much-needed motivation from one of Time's 100 best novels, Brideshead Revisited, I fell embarrassingly flat on my face. Painfully, I plodded through the book and having not seen any sparks of light at the end of the tunnel, I yielded yet again to the sloth monster, without putting up much struggle.

Then occasions for some self-justification to a respite from the unceasing preoccupation with the hunt for new writing materials thankfully arose. The girlfriend was visiting with her little one and hubby. I didn't forget the promise I made to cook her beef rendang. So beef rendang it was, as a form of silent encouragement, acknowledgement and support in her long path of motherhood. It didn't matter at all if she understood my intention. One thing is for sure, she is coping exceedingly well with her little beauty and with all the new changes. I am extremely proud of her.

Days later, Chinese New Year was literally knocking on the door and of course, a violent storm was cooked up in the kitchen for the reunion dinner with enough food to feed this family of three for days on end. Plenty of favourite home-cooked food = full stomach = comforted happy soul!

Together with the brief break, it instantly added new vigour to my pursuit of literary inspirations. Which's how I discovered Poskod. Much time is spent reading, digesting and liking their beautiful albeit sometimes-too-lyrical articles. Then along the course, rather than focusing on the on-hand objective, I stumbled upon and got distracted by the controversial novel called Once a Jolly Hangman which is about the capital punishment in Singapore. Its author, Alan Shadrake was arrested and jailed after the publication of the book. Incidentally, the book is not available in Singapore. With so much controversy surrounding it, I simply had to get hold of a copy, don't I? My comment after reading it? Let's just say, where there's smoke, there's fire.

Through the book, I did a little research on people like, Singaporean film-maker, Martyn See (whose films such as Singapore Rebel and Zahari's 17 years are banned in Singapore), Francis Seow, JB Jeyaretnam, Chee Soon Juan etc. Countless related articles, books and videos turned up in my search. And I am glad to be able to read all these and watch these banned films, all of which I believe I wouldn't have the possibility to do so if I were still living in my beloved country.

It is indeed an eye-opener for me and to quote our former President Devan Nair, 'for those whose eyes still require to be opened.'

A sudden recollection

It suddenly came to the idle mind (thanks to the abundance of festive grubs) that the first buds of aspiration to write didn't occur just recently. In fact, it was some fifteen years ago when that spark of fire to scribble, to compose, to write was ignited.

Each morning while waiting for the bus to arrive, I would be greeted without fail with the image of a father, carrying his handicapped young daughter over his shoulder, on his way to the market. His daughter was probably about 8 to 10 years old. As they passed the busy bus-stop, he must be terribly conscious of the unseen emotional flutter their atypical presence had stirred which led to either gazes being swiftly averted or curious stares fixated unbashedly at them. For I sensed, rather than saw, his already straightened back became ever so slightly stiffer. The feeling was no doubt an unnerving and awkward one, so I thought then. Of course he had the choice to leave his daughter to her own devices in the flat while he could go about his marketing in peace and without any public scrutiny. Instead, the knowledge that it would do his little girl good to be out and about, had possibly propelled him to disregard society's often unwanted and embarrassing pity for the invalids.

This powerful picture of a doting father whose love knew no bounds etched deeply into the mind of a then hoonie who didn't quite have many cares in the world. The impact on me was frightfully great that I felt documenting it in the form of a dairy was in order. I could hardly contain my enthusiasm.

I believe I merely did a few entries on my thoughts of the pair and the ego in me was already itching for some sorts of commendation. Boldly, I showed the unpolished and clumsy writings to the ex. Upon finishing reading, he returned the dairy to me without a word. I looked at him expectantly and waited. Oddly, there was no response from him. A slow realization gradually transgressed. It was clear that he wasn't going to share with me his take on my maiden attempt. I must have sucked awfully. The wounded vanity kept me from pressing him for further blows.

The earnest aspiration was nipped so completely in the bud by his wordless reservations that I never again inked any word in the pages of that dairy.

We moved shortly after and I never see the father and daughter again.

And the dairy was strangely nowhere to be found.

A Batty Christmas

In view of my eager anticipation of The Bat's final movie:

Happy Holidays, everyone!!!

Photo credit: here

Now you see me, now you don't!

So much for declaring shamelessly that I strive to write as often as I can. The last entry was a month ago and then poof! I disappeared into thin air. No word, no update, no nothing to show for my newfound commitment. I am amazed I have this natural aptitude to conveniently and consciously forget an important promise I made to myself even when the fingers of guiltiness tap ever so lightly yet persistently on the window pane of my conscience. Then I wave away the guilt trip absently like how I would with a fly that buzzed noisily in my ear while I terrified my soul insanely in the dark hotel world of Jack Torrance and lost myself impatiently in the slow sorrowful tale of Frankenstein.

And then here I am again.

A late dream

I tried rereading my last post minutes ago. Yes, I do that sometimes and I have a feeling I am not alone in taking this little ego trip once in a while. So I was saying, I was rereading the last post and I had to stop after a few sentences because the unfortunate entry was terrifyingly boring that even I, as its guilty author, couldn't stand to finish reading it, what more the readers of this blog? Which entails me to genuinely pity them, provided there is any left by now.

How did I manage to get so suicidally boring? That is not to say I wasn't boring in the past but since I hardly ever receive any criticism, whether constructive or not, I presume no news is good news. Or perhaps I am just being self-deceivingly positive. I almost forgot that this blog is quite akin to an undiscovered virgin island shrouded in a cloak of mystery in the choppy waters of blogosphere. Ok, I am romantising things here because I can't help it and I digress.

What I am trying to say is, I am fully aware how awfully few readers this blog has. That is decidedly no gratification to the already vulnerable ego. But I ain't complaining because the only reason why I construct this blog to be as invisible as possible is I am truly and painfully self-conscious of my own writing. So there you have it, my naked soul.

Which brings me to the next question. Why do I continue to blog? Well, this may sound cliche but I got hooked on writing when this blog was born. And like many countless bloggers out there, I imagine one day my insufferable amateurish scribble would be read and being curiously appreciated by someone and get published somewhere, even if it's an unknown publication which no one has ever heard of before.

Don't ask me how on earth would someone like that get to read my scribble when this blog is as secluded as the aforementioned virgin island. I haven't figured that out yet. But when I have, I will let you know.

You might say how dare I dream such big dreams. Just look at the rubbish I write, it's neither professional, entertaining nor informative. No on will ever pay attention to what I have to say or write.

Well, for a start, no matter if it will ever come true at the end of the day, it doesn't hurt to have a dream. Secondly, (another cliche!) dreams keep us alive! Some people don't even have dreams, sadly. As much as I am a dreamer, I am also a very practical person. I predict it will take me at least ten years before that big day will arrive, if ever. Why ten years? Ten years is the politically correct time frame for one to graduate from a novice to a reasonably qualified scrawler. Just look at any successful cooks, doctors or craftsmen, it took them years and years of sharpening their skills and improving their expertise in their field before they got to where they are right now. For me to get there, I need to put in a plenitude amount of hard work and strive to read extensively and to write as often as I can, preferably everyday, through all of which I hope I will eventually find a voice and style that I can call my own. That sounds simple enough. But if you have been following this blog for a while, you would have noticed that diligence and self-discipline aren't exactly my strengths. I do try my best nonetheless, irregardless if I have the writer's block or if I am running out of things to write.

Now you understand why the ridiculous previous post. As the saying goes, practice makes perfect. This space has become my training ground. Thus, do bear with me if you can. Thank you.

The agonies of a mom

It didn't cross our chaotic minds to get our baby the little matching mittens as we were too caught up in the hustle of purchasing more essential winter garb for her, like the quilted coat, cardigans, warm trousers and so on. Then in the midst of the frenzy shopping, Oma's keen eyes spied the sweet but fashionable knitted hat and scarf. One look at the products, we gave her a quick nod signalling our approval. Off they went to the pram (which incidentally also served as our makeshift shopping bag for that day) to wait in line for the trip to the cashier later.

The man and I were dithering over what's necessary and what's not when good old Oma came in to keep us in check. Ok well, they're the ones paying so perhaps that's why. Hahaha.. Obediently, we put the remaining unsuccessful contenders back to their racks and proceeded to make the payment, with Opa's wallet already ready in hand, despite the long snaking line.

Happy with our loots, we headed home after a pleasant dinner.

I promptly washed the shopping the next day and waited impatiently for them to be air-dried. Oh yes, I did read the labels. Knits, coats etc and dryer really don't agree with each other.

The fall weather was clear and sunny but crisp. As the man was wrapping the little one up for her daily walk, I discovered, horror of horrors, that she only has a pair of fuchsia gloves to go with her beige knitted hat!! The glaring mismatch is an annoying sight. I determinedly resolved the unforgivable oversight must be fixed.

Two days later, I needed to be in the city to do an exchange and eagerly popped by the store in the hope of finding the matching gloves. No luck. They're sold out.

Shortly after that, the man chanced upon a gadget (among many) which caught his fancy and made up his mind finally to indulge himself this time. So off he rushed to the city happily in search of the device, but first not without my instruction to check out the store again if they had new stocks of the mittens. Sadly, we're second time unlucky. The man returned home empty-handed except for his new toy.

Infuriated, I racked deep in the brains where else I could get my hands on the hotcake mittens....

Then it hit me! The online shop, of course! Where else! Why didn't I think of that earlier?! And to think that I brag all the time how frequent I shop online! I truly deserved a good kick in the butt!

To my utmost relief, the online shop still carried the mittens! On the pretext of making the shipping cost worthwhile, I lingered on the website for some knits for myself. Then the man indiscreetly peeped to see what I was up to and asked the doomed question, 'Are you shopping for me?' To which, I gave the doomed reply, 'You need anything? We can check out their menswear.' His doomed answer, 'Not now. I am not in the mood to shop. Tomorrow maybe.'

The quintessential cheapskate in me still insisted on making the 4€ shipping cost worth its while, which led to the even doomed-est decision to wait till the next day to purchase the mittens.

Well, this is no Sherlock Holmes. All of you would have guessed by the time I visited the online shop again on the morrow, the mittens were gone! Gone, Gone, GONE!!! AAAARRRRRGGGGHHHH! Why didn't I just get them there and then when they were available?! The hell with the 4€! I was THAT close to pulling all my hair out!

What should I do now? No matching mittens for my little girl? And subject her to the disdain and sneering of the fashion police and risk leaving her with psychological scars on her tender little soul and having her grew up as an insecure and painfully self-conscious young woman who's socially inadequate and facing the bleak prospects of living sadly ever after, alone?!! And all because of a pair of mittens?!

I shudder to think further.

I fail as a mother.

Photo credit: here

Customer is king, not!

Our dinner over the weekend was a pleasant one. When he set his eyes on the cherub, our chirpy Chinese server quipped, '真是个漂亮的小姑娘!'

I had to beam at the remark. Not because someone thinks favourably of my playful darling. Ok, that too. It's just how the way he put it: terribly old-fashioned and yet so very endearing. Never mind if there is any truth in it or not.

Each time he passed us by, he would make friendly comments like, '怎么啦?不让妈妈吃饭啊?' His warm and attentive disposition is a welcome change from the usual malevolent and disagreeable temperament which is the Cantonese server or ex-server, at least I hope.

Which brings to mind a most unpleasant incident involving this particular waitress. It was the first day of the Chinese New Year, some two, three years ago. The few of us, yearning for our own kind, agreed to meet up at the said restaurant with the hope that the mediocre Chinese grub would at least quell our cravings and thereby dissipate our homesickness. Merrily chit-chatting away, we finally settled into our seats. With the menu spread out in front of us, we casually wondered aloud to the server if there were any special dishes for the occasion or any specialties to be recommended. Instead, we were rudely greeted by loud clinks and clanks of table-setting by none other than our leading lady, the unbelievably grumpy woman. She was anything but light-handed when it came to handling the tableware. At one point, I was quite certain one of the cups was about to break from all the deliberate manhandling. Her body language was literally screaming: she couldn't wait for us to leave, let alone take time to inform us of their specialities!! And to think that we hadn't even ordered our food yet! The lot of us was bewildered by the plain hostility and couldn't fathom her dark mood. But once the food issue was sorted, her unconcealed display of sulkiness became a source of curiosity to us. A brief discussion ensued and we came to the conclusion that she must be immensely maddened by the fact that she had to be working on this important day of the lunar calendar. As a result, she must have secretly swore that whoever crossed her path on that fateful day would get it from her.

Other than raising our eyebrows in protest, we stomached in silence the dreadful service which somewhat marred our festive mood. Our inaction is virtually unheard of since we Singaporeans are notorious for our penchant for making our displeasures known. In other words, we love to complain. Yet, in this instance, I suppose we, as much as we loathe to admit, kind of empathize with her. To be fair, we wouldn't be too delighted if we were given no other choice but to work on this day. So we held our tongues.

Still, a service staff audacious enough to unleash her private resentment on customers is an undesirable attendant. Such perplexing work ethic is inconceivable. It is a crime.

From then on, I eye her with misgiving whenever she waits on us. Even when she is all smiles and everything, I resolve not to be fooled by her falseness. First impression lasts forever, so they say.

I see you are wondering what draws me back to the same crime scene and perversely indulge myself in the awful service again and again. Well, the sad truth is, that is the only decent Chinese restaurant to be had in our miserably small city center. And beggars can't be choosers. But lately, word has it that a competitor (a much better one, finally!) has just set up shop next to the said restaurant. It's high time for me to leave the dark side of the force.

And may the force be with the chirpy waiter I mentioned earlier.