Flying kites and bringing up boys

Learning to trust. And let go.

An excerpt from my current read:

The late Erma Bombeck likened the parenting responsibility to flying a kite. You start by trying to get the little craft off the ground, and sometimes you wonder if it's going to make it. You're running down the road as fast as you can with this awkward kite flapping in the wind behind you. Sometimes it crashes to the ground, so you tie on a longer tail and try it again. Suddenly it catches a little gust of wind and flies dangerously close to the power lines. Your heart is pounding as you survey the risk, but then without warning the kite begins to tug on the string as it ascends into the sky. You release your grip little by little, and sooner than you expected, you come to the end of the twine. You stand on tiptoe holding the last inch between your thumb and forefinger. Then reluctantly, you let go, permitting the kite to soar unfettered and independent in God's blue heaven. It's an exhilarating and terrifying moment, and one that was ordained from the day of the child's birth. With this final release, your task as a parent is finished. The kite is free, and so, for the first time in twenty years, are you.

Bringing Up Boys, Dr James Dobson

Here’s a detailed excerpt from the first chapter if you’re intrigued to learn more.

The other day, just for fun I picked up Nathan and tried to lie him down on my lap facing me just like how I used to when he was a baby. I remember him lying there contentedly (maybe because he couldn’t move anywhere anyway) and smiling up at me adoringly as I cooed and sing to him.

This time, my boy didn’t even stay still for half a second before he was turning and twisting around, climbing over my shoulder, yelling at the top of his voice, then smirking at me cheekily as he leans precariously over the edge of the couch. And I’m gripping on to his shirt and arm, trying to contain a wriggling, moving mass of legs, arms, hands and feet, to prevent him from toppling over. He on the other hand is laughing like nobody’s business, thinking this is the fun-nest game in the world.

My father-in-law habitually refers to Nathan as “the baby”. Recently when he called, he happen to ask “how is the baby?” and the realisation just hit me. I reminded him gently that Nathan wasn’t a baby anymore. Nathan himself is very much aware of this fact and often points out other babies or pictures of babies and says “baby!” as if to reinforce the fact that that is a baby and he isn’t one.

So here is my Nathan, moving on into toddler-hood.

When I see him in all his boyish-glory, I am filled with a mixed feeling of pride and wistfulness. My little kite is slowly taking off the ground.

P.S. More about our parenting adventure

My paternal grandmother

A post in memory of my late po-po (paternal grandmother)

A patchwork-play-blankie she made for Nathan, her great-grandson

Things I remember…

Lunch at her house on Sundays after church - the two staple dishes on her table were always: pak cham kai (Hakka style poached chicken) and ngiong tew fu (tofu stuffed with pork mince)

Playing with the cute yellow fluffy chicks in her back garden - she always had chickens in her backyard

Her beautiful yappy dogs (Japanese Spitzes) that she loved so much

Photo taken with my po-po and gu-gu in November 2011

Although I was not extremely close to her, I somehow felt rather melancholic and wistful following the news of her death.

Perhaps it was the fact that her death meant the passing of a generation in our family (as my gong-gong had already passed away 11 years before). Or perhaps it was the fact that with her passing, the only person in our family with a direct link to our Kadazandusun heritage is gone. She is the only family member I know of who spoke Kadazan.

She died peacefully on 5th April 2012. She was 83. From an outsider’s perspective, everything seem normal the night before. She went about her normal routine and went to bed as usual. In the middle of the night, my aunt woke to the sound of my grandmother’s laboured breathing. In the course of events that followed (i.e. calling other family members, rushing her to the hospital, receiving the brain haemorrhage diagnosis) she slipped into a coma and eventually breathed her last breath.

To everyone else around her, the news was unexpected and came as a sudden blow. Yes of course at 83, everyone knew that it might not be long before the time came for final good-byes… but I think we thought perhaps there would be a sign or indication to help brace ourselves for it. But that’s they way life goes I suppose.

“It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we know. It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things.”
― Lemony Snicket, Horseradish: Bitter Truths You Can't Avoid

Our new uber cool chalkboard door

Something outrageous and cool I did recently…

I turned the inside of our front door into a chalkboard!

I used DIY chalkboard paint which I mixed together myself using some of the leftover supplies from our house construction.

With the leftover paint, I painted over an old photo frame and hung it up on the front side of the door.

I love the idea that I can change the wordings anytime depending on the season or situation… like “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Easter” or even “Shhh… baby asleep!”

Whadaya think? Nice?

Scar

Had our follow up appointment at the hospital this morning to review Nathan’s scar from the accident.

Unfortunately the doctors could not say anything conclusive. Apparently the area is not healing perfectly as planned. Nathan is just too active a boy to keep down - the day after the surgery he tripped again and popped the stitches on the top layer of the wound. I was absolutely mortified and went back into my ‘wreck mode’ when that happened.

After this morning’s appointment, I confess I came home, sat down and cried. I cried over the fact that the scar is still there and will continue to be there for who knows how long. The doctor could only tell me that they will continue to review it and see how it goes.

To others, it may seem a small imperceptible thing. But it’s undeniably there. Friends and family try to be more tactful. But friendly or curious strangers often ask me “what happened to his lip?”. When I relate the incident, they will quickly try to reassure me with a “oh, it doesn’t look THAT bad”. Hollow sounding words despite their well meant intentions.

People’s response to my reaction to this whole thing: “He’s a boy, it’s bound to happen eventually!” or “He’s only your first, wait till you have two or three!” or “It’s because you’re a mother” or “You’re just a more emotional person, Serene, don’t take it so hard”

How I wish I can control how I feel. It seems as long as the scar remains, I too will be carrying them in my heart. I’ve sought out various quotes and sayings to help me come to terms with it. Scars are noble, scars have meaning, scars have character, scars tell stories. The fact is, as long as it’s there, I will remember. And I wish not to. I wish the whole had never happened. I wish my son had never had to come out of this bearing this mark. I wish to blot out the whole episode and the scar away forever.

People say there will inevitably be more of such scrapes and injuries to come, maybe worse ones than this, particularly with boys. I should just learn to accept it. No, I never want anything like this to happen again. The pain and regret is terrible. Anything worse than this would be just too paralysing.

Anyway let’s take a break from all that. I’d like to say a word on something else… it’s about things like tattoos and body piercings. I myself am not a personal fan of them, but to me seeing them on other people it not a big deal. I’ve come to view them as part of the current wave of popular culture.

However, I realise now why it’s so heartbreaking for some parents when they see their children doings stuff like that to their body. But hey, what’s the big deal? If only they could look at themselves literally through the eyes of their mum or dad.

In my eyes, when I look at my son, I see perfection. The perfection of his bright shiny eyes, his teeny tiny nose, his two little ears, his yummy little mouth, his ten fingers and ten toes. I see satin smooth perfection of soft skin on chubby cheeks, arms, legs and his precious little body. Every part of him is wonderful. Beautiful. Perfect.

The photo that garnered the comment from my friend, Irene: “He looks so perfect, Serene”

I’m not advocating that tattoos and body piercings are wrong. In fact I myself have admired some pretty cool-looking ones on others. I do not have any authority or grounds to declare whether it is wrong or right. I am only expressing my emotions as a mother. And I now know and feel to my core why it can twist a parent’s heart up inside to see such beauty and perfection seemingly marred, tarnished, defaced or distorted.

I do not know yet how I will come to terms with this potential scar on my son. It has revealed a deeper side of the mother’s heart in me. I carry my child’s scar in my heart.

Photojournal of Nate’s first major boo-boo

April Fool’s Day. Nathan tripped and fell in our garden and cut his lip against our letterbox pole.

Result: a serious lower lip laceration

What followed was a harrowing experience of blood, tears, hospitals and waiting rooms. Oh the waiting. The waiting is the worst part of the experience.

From Fremantle Hospital Emergency, we were referred to Princess Margaret Hospital where we spent a whole day on April 2nd just waiting, waiting and waiting. Waiting for a much coveted slot in the operating room.

In between FB updates and chats to doctors and nurses and keeping our little Nate entertained, I couldn’t help some moments of tears. Tears from asking a million “whys'” and “if onlys”. Every time I glanced at that ugly gash on my son’s mouth, I was pierced through the heart.

 

FYI, we already had a paediatric plastic surgeon ready to operate on Nathan. However Princess Margaret Hospital only opens up ONE operating room on Sundays prioritised for extreme emergency cases.

As the clocked ticked by from 8am, to 2pm, to 4pm, to 7pm my heart grew weary with all the waiting and uncertainty as the nurses kept telling us of yet another emergency case coming in that pushed our Nate further back in the queue.

Nate was a trooper through the whole ordeal - smiling and even laughing through the pain and discomfort, making friends with the nurses and other kiddos, and trying to cheer his poor mother up with clownish tricks, silly faces and inside jokes.

Finally at 8pm they sent us home. We were to come back the next morning instead. A whole day in limbo gone just like that. A day in limbo being constantly on standby and fasting from food and water in preparation for surgery. I couldn’t bear to eat much at all the whole day knowing how hungry and thirsty my poor soon was.

We dragged ourselves back to the hospital early the next morning. After some initial delay, we were in. We were whisked through a blur of forms, questions, needles, devices and machines. Hubby was kind enough to let me be the designated parent to hold him while they administered the anaesthetic in the operating room.

And then I was escorted gently to another waiting room. This room was nice and quiet with two grandmotherly old ladies serving us tea and biscuits and patting me gently on the shoulder with kind assurances.

Post surgery: I met a poor, tired, hungry and traumatised child and held him as the nurse whizzed through blood pressure checks, temperature checks, removing needles, dosing neurofen…

“Please let this be the end, mummy!”

Milk. And home time. At last.