Bombakla!

2011-10-03T00:28:00.003+08:00

The Pukesome Mummy vents in The Sunday Times:

"I have a 20-month-old son whom I love dearly, but sometimes, I think I will love him even more if I can feed him his meals intravaneously.

You see, he has a hate-hate relationship with food in that he will refuse to eat most things offered to him, making mealtimes hell for me (and his caregivers, when I’m at work).
The only things he will eat are mee suah, rice, codfish, Chinese-style soups, potatoes, carrots, broccoli, fresh milk, papaya and grapes.

And even then, these things are not always accepted by His Royal Highness. He may eat carrot one day and then eye it with suspicion the next. And while he eats grapes, he spits out raisins.
Arguably, there is something from every food group here, so theoretically, he is not nutritionally deprived. But it would really be nice if he had a less selective diet.

Some days, he will deign to accept the food proffered, only to push the entire load out of his mouth with his tongue while making a face as if to say: “Woman! Why are you feeding me dog turd? Are you out of your mind?”

And these are his better days.

On bad days, he acts like the spoon bearing food actually holds a heap of smouldering coal. Attempting to avoid said coal by squirming violently, he will, at the same time, try to knock it off the spoon. Managing to overturn his bowl of food scores him extra points.

Anything that I manage to force into him would be spewed out projectile-style as in the movie Exorcist, which causes me a lot of grief. He does not care whether pasta sauce can be washed out from his clothes, or that oatmeal on the floor looks like puke and is just as bad to clean up. I care very much however – because I am the one trailing after him with a dishrag.

Usually, a mealtime like this would end up in tears – mine mostly.

It’s not as if I feed him all sorts of horrible mashed up baby food. In my attempt to widen his gastronomic repertoire, I have served up kid-friendly food such as French toast, macaroni and cheese, oatmeal with raisins and honey, eggs hardboiled, soft-boiled, steamed, scrambled and fried, pasta and even mini fishburgers. Stuff that I would eat myself.

Pffft, says my son.

He also declines to eat things favoured by toddlers such as banana, cheese and yoghurt. He even rejects sugar-coated cereal. This surely is not a good sign. What self-respecting toddler rejects sugary cereal?

I also constantly attempt to feed him adult food off my plate. Does he take it? No.

There is no method to his madness.

On some days, he gets by with very little food. Mystifyingly, his severely limited calorific intake does not seem to have dampened his energy one bit. A typical day sees him whirling around the house as fast as his matchstick thin legs can take him, destroying things with superhuman speed and strength. (Case in point: He dragged a big Corningware pot off the kitchen counter and broke it.)

I don't know where he gets his strength from, but it is possible that he gets an extra boost from solar power.

Surely, this food hating toddler is not mine. My husband and I both have healthy appetites and a love for good food. It has been suggested more than once that I may like to consider doing a DNA test. Just in case. Just saying.

After one particularly bad mealtime in which I morphed into psycho bitch screaming “EAT EAT EAT!” while a my temple pulsed violently, I decided to seek answers on how to get him to eat a wider variety of food.

I surfed the net, posted questions on forums and asked my friends, to which these pieces of advice were offered.

“Your toddler is trying asserting his independence.”
Good to know, but this does not solve my problem.

“Try mixing Bovril into his food. I'm told this works wonders.”
This would have worked if not for the fact that my anorexic son has recently started to reject all food that looks dark or black, such as chocolate, red-fleshed dragonfruit and milo.

"Don't turn mealtimes into a battlefield. Be patient."
When one buys a piece of fish fillet for $6.50, a bag of panko for $3, a bag of butter rolls for $2.90 and spends time preparing the food, baking it and assembling bite-sized fish burgers, and all the toddler would eat are two nibbles of the butter roll, one needs to practice serious meditation in order not to lose one’s cool.

"A toddler needs to sample a new food up to 10 times before he will accept it."
It would be great if I can actually get him to open his mouth.

"Don't feed him anything until the next mealtime, and then he'll be hungry enough to eat."
I do not think he feels hunger. I think he is a cyborg.

I was also advised to try feeding him a special nutritionally-balanced formula which will fatten him up. I almost guffawed. My son, who won’t even eat anything that looks and tastes like real food, drinking artificially flavoured formula? In my dreams, I think.

So, for now, my search for a solution continues while my son continues to subsist on love and fresh air.

His father and I are taking him to Hong Kong for a short trip soon and I have no idea where I’m going to find homecooked mee suah there.

Will my toddler starve to death in the land of dim sum and roast goose?

That will be another story. Wish me luck."

2011-02-18T19:47:00.004+08:00

Me: I was reading online reviews about this hotel and someone wrote: "The bathroom was dirty. There was 'downstairs hair' on the bathtub."

My twin: hahahahahahahaha

Me: Then armpit hair is mezzanine hair.

Me: Hair on your head is penthouse hair.

My twin: Then what is nose hair?

Me: Balcony hair.

My twin: Chest hair is lobby hair.

Me: Hahahahahahahahahahah

My twin: Leg hair is basement hair.

Me: Hahahahahahahahhah

Me: I can't believe I'm having this discussion with you and finding it funny!

My twin: I'm snorting

The next day:
Me: Can you believe, last night, when i thought about our lobby hair conversation, i started laughing again

Me: Why am i so easily amused by stuff as puerile as this??? hahahahhahahah

My twin: Its not puerile! we are comic geniuses!

(We are also deluded.)

2011-02-10T19:41:00.006+08:00

In a previous post, I said that I discovered the Babycrat is a Chinaman who wants to eat only white rice. That is not true anymore. The Babycrat no longer wants to eat white rice. He no longer wants to eat, for that matter.

Mealtimes with him have become a battle in which he tries his best to avoid having the spoon come in contact with his mouth, while simultaneously attempting to sweep the food off the spoon with his arms swinging wildly. Managing to overturn his bowl of food scores him extra points.

On good days, he will deign to eat a few teaspoons of oatmeal, some bites of banana, several small mouthfuls of rice and maybe a few sips of soup. On bad days, what I manage to spoon into his mouth gets spat out immediately, or, more accurately, blown out of his mouth with a loud pfffft. (Just imagine a woodchipper at work.)

Initially, I thought he was tired of the porridge he had been eating. (Although I think his porridge is delicious; I would eat it myself.) So I tried feeding him different foods such as banana, avocado, tofu, bread, teddy biscuits, pasta, peas, corn, carrot, potato.

Pffffft.

It was to be nil by mouth. My son wants to be a 神仙. (And no, he doesn't drink a lot of milk either.)

Then I realised he was not having issues with the food I served him. He was having issues with the fact that I was serving him food. This is because the Babycrat will just as happily chew on a piece of plastic as he will suck on a price tag peeled off a book. (And then when I attempt to dig out the non-food object he's been eating, he will bite down very hard on my finger in protest, leaving two neat and tiny rows of teeth marks.)

And oh, he loves to lick the floor too.

And yet the lack of food intake does not seem to have dulled his energy one bit. Constantly, he whirls around the house, toddling as fast as his legs will take him, pulling objects off the shelves, flinging toys around, opening and slamming drawers, destroying things in general.

My conclusion: My baby is powered by air and solar energy. (It's photosynthesis, says Ms C. I couldn't agree more.)

2010-12-31T09:50:00.004+08:00

L: My friend says you look like someone from Harry Potter.

Me: Yay, that means my hairstyle works. I copied Emma Watson's cut!

L: I don't think she meant your hairstyle. She said with your new specs, you look like one of those wizards.

Me: Oh. Okay. Oh well. At least that's better than saying I look like Hagrid.

2010-12-29T16:10:00.007+08:00

"WHERE'S MY CAVIAR????"
- Kim Jong ii is displeased

2010-12-23T18:23:00.001+08:00

Funny:
I was surfing Babycenter.com when I came across this frequently asked question: "Is it normal for my baby to drink bathwater?"

Funnier:
A pediatrician replies: "I've never seen a child get sick from drinking bathwater — even though kids pee in the tub all the time."

It rocks to be a baby.

(Just in case you're wondering whether it's okay, the answer in one word is: yes. Not that I've ever wondered whether it's okay. When the Babycrat tried to lap up the water in his tub, the Resident Bureaucrat and I just thought he was thirsty. And no, the Babycrat didn't pee in it.)

2010-12-10T21:32:00.004+08:00

Suffering from severe wanderlust, the Resident Bureaucrat and I decided to finally go on a holiday to Perth, during which, the Babycrat decided to go on a hunger strike.

He was, by then, eating a fair bit of solids such as porridge and cereals, and our solution to feeding him while on the road was baby jar food. Unfortunately, he had very strong views about baby jar food in that he wouldn't eat it.

Admittedly, despite its delicious sounding labels (gourmet chicken dinner, anyone?), baby jar food tastes like a highly-watered down version of real food. But I was working under the assumption that babies had no taste buds. And babies are supposed to eat - and like - mash, aren't they? (Answer: No)

Besides, we couldn't possibly be travelling with a crockpot to cook porridge for him. (I know some parents really do that. But I'm not one of those types, sorry.) Also, sometime before the trip, I did experimentally feed the Babycrat some jar food and he ate everything up. So how was I supposed to know his tastes would suddenly change and he would reject the food?

When we tried to feed him, he tried his best to fend it off. Turning his head violently from this side to that, he also flailed his arms around wildly like windshield wipers for the face. Trying to force food into him was like playing a game of space invaders in which we had to dodge enemy spaceships (his arms) to reach the mothership (his mouth, a moving target).

The Babycrat usually won because he didn't care if the food landed on his clothes, on the bedsheet or the carpet. We finally gave up. Cleaning tomato beef pastina mash off his clothes (and ours) was going to be tough.

But as he wasn't supposed to eat outside food, which was full of salt, MSG and all things bad (according to his pediatrician), we weren't sure what else to feed him.

At the end of our tether, we decided to try feeding him the white rice off our plates of Chinese food*.

He ate it.

I'm sure plain white rice didn't taste any more exciting than baby jar food. Which could only mean... drum roll please ... my baby is a Chinaman.

I'm secretly pleased. Chinese food good. Ang moh food bad.

(He didn't starve of course. Besides white rice and Mother's Milk, he also deigned to eat fruit such as banana and avocado, and instant oatmeal. We should be so thankful.)

*Yes, of course we were eating Chinese food in Australia. We actively seek out Chinese food no matter which country we are travelling in. In fact, it can be argued that travelling with me is no different from travelling on a group tour with for example, Chan Brothers, in that you are made to eat Chinese food all the time. The words "Chinese restaurant" never fail to get my heart a-fluttering.

2010-12-01T16:21:00.011+08:00

Weeks after learning anti-rape moves in the self-defence class my twin and I signed up for, I finally got around to asking the Resident Bureaucrat to let me practice my moves on him. He had to pretend to be a rapist.

"Sit on me sit on me!" I said, beckoning merrily to him, confident that my new-found skills will allow me to toss him right off with ease.

He looked hesitant. "Sit on you ah?"

"Yes, yes, sit on my hips!"

He gingerly sat on me. So far so good.

"Pretend to rape me!"

So he pinned down my shoulders with his hands.

Uh oh. Already, things were not going the way I expected them to. In class, we didn't practice a scenario in which we were pinned down by the shoulders.

"You're supposed to put your hands down on the ground like what I was taught in class!" I shrieked at the Resident Bureaucrat.

"You tell that to a real rapist," he said.

So, with him pinning my shoulders down, I tried to throw him off me by supposedly lifting my hips and then twisting my body extremely. The moves didn't work. The Resident Bureaucrat was so heavy, I couldn't lift my hips, much less twist my body. Not willing to concede defeat so easily, I tried again; it took several attempts before I managed to throw him off only halfway. And I think I pulled something in my hip in the process. And I cannot be not sure the Resident Bureaucrat wasn't just playing along with me.

Then I recalled another technique we were taught in class, in which we crossed our legs over the rapist's back and counter-intuitively pulled him towards us so that we can get him close enough to dig out his eyeballs with our hands (or deafen him by clapping on his ears hard).

So I made the Resident Bureaucrat sit on me again and tried to cross my legs behind him. But as it turns out, his body was so wide, I couldn't even bring my legs around him, much less pull him towards me to dig out his eyeballs. And besides, he still had my shoulders pinned down, so my arms were pretty much out of action anyway.

So much for my lethal moves.

Then, to top it off, he attempted to strangle me. I did learn how to fend off an attacker who tries to strangle me. But I didn't learn what to do if an attacker tries to strangle me while sitting on me. I thrashed around without much result until he decided to let go of my neck.

Major fail.

And as the Resident Bureaucrat pointed out, he is already considered small-built.

Besides polishing up my moves, I need to work out more in the gym, build up some extra muscles for strength.

And pray very hard that no one tries to rape me.

2010-11-22T15:54:00.007+08:00

Dear God, please do not let me degenerate into one of those parents who tote around a pair of scissors to cut up food* for their children, lest the kids should have to, heaven forbid, chew their food.

Thank you very much.

Amen.

(I may end up eating my words however; I once swore I was not going to be one of those parents who carry porridge around in a thermos flask to feed my baby. Now I go out with a thermos flask containing porridge and a spoon and a small towel in a plastic bag. Not that I want to. But the Babycrat is not supposed to eat outside food until he's at least a year old, and I can't keep feeding him Cheerios when we're outside. But you have to believe me when I tell you that the porridge-in-a-thermos-flask thing causes me a lot of pain.)

*Ms C tells me that big foods such as fishballs do need to be cut up for toddlers, but, to quote her, "what's wrong with using a fork and spoon?"

2010-11-11T15:31:00.008+08:00

Panic stations! I realised that at the ripe old age of 10 months, the Babycrat has yet to receive a single shichida, kumon, abacus, phonics, music, Japanese language, baby sign or speech and drama lesson! He hasn't been enrolled in swimming or baby gym sessions! He hasn't been sent for any right-brain, left-brain, mid-brain or no-brain training!

In fact, I haven't even bought a single flashcard pack or a Baby Einstein DVD! All his toys are old-fashioned non-electronic gadgets which do not have flashing lights and bleeping noises designed to stimulate his visual, auditory and cognitive development! I haven't taken him to the SSO Baby Proms! He hasn't even been listening to Mozart! He hasn't been put on the waiting list for a prestigious playschool either! Never mind that he can't talk, or even walk yet!

Because he didn't receive the headstart in life that his same-age peers are getting, he's going fail his PSLE, drop out of school and wind up working as a garbageman! He'll earn a minimum wage, be unable to find a wife and turn to drink to drown his despair, eventually dying a lonely alcoholic! His body will be found half-eaten by an Alsatian!

A life ruined all because his lazy, irresponsible parents didn't bother to send him for early enrichment classes! Why bother having children if they don't want to bring them up well? Such people should be sterilised by law! Bad parents!

2010-11-03T10:55:00.021+08:00

A few months ago, I had gone to the shops opposite my flat to buy something when I was stopped by an old woman mumbling some sob story to me hoping that I would give her money. While listening to her, I saw an old man walk past me. And then, he touched my butt.

I'm not proud of what happened next, but I reflexively punched him (on the arm, unfortunately, and not his face).

Then we had an exchange of words, which ended up with both of us slinking off - me because I was suddenly embarassed by what I had done. Bashing up an old man. What next! Robbing old ladies? Stealing pacifiers from babies?

I must stress that I'm not usually this violent. (Just ask the Resident Bureaucrat, and if he dares to say otherwise, I'll punch him too.) It was just that Dirty Old Man had caught me on a day where my mood was really not that great.

So, when out of the blue, my twin asked whether I wanted to take a self-defence class, I jumped at it. It would be nice to learn how to fend off dirty old men.

The course turned out very good, if violent. In the five sessions, we learnt ways of fleeing from or fighting back attackers using techniques which included slapping the groin, digging out the eyeballs, bursting the eardrums, twisting arms and using hard objects to hit at the face. (Lethal weapons now, we are.)

With my twin and I taking turns being the attacker/rapist and the victim, we practised our moves in class.

We also took part in a sparring session which had us donning protective face masks and hitting one another with a water bottle. While two of our classmates were very gentle and kept apologising to one another with "paiseh paiseh, sorry!" everytime they struck, my twin and I were like rabid chickens in a Thai cock fighting match. Circling each other, we started lashing out blindly and mercilessly until the instructor stepped in to intervene. He said in a real situation, the both of us would have just ended up killing each other.

My twin and I evidently have a lot of inner rage. Which could be good when dealing with dirty old men.

However, no matter how many self-defence classes I take, there will always be one attacker I am unable to fend off: The Babycrat.

He, who had recently learnt that his hands can be very lethal weapons indeed, has been happily taking swipes at my face and clawing at me when I'm carrying him, breastfeeding him or wearing him in a sling in front of me.

It doesn't help that his nails are very sharp, leaving me with cuts and scratches all over my cheeks, my nose, my forehead and my chin. There are days when I look like I had stumbled into the middle of a cat fight (between real cats). A particularly vicious attack in which he hooked a clawed finger into my nostril and let rip upwards left me with a nosebleed.

(Don't even get me started about the biting.)

I have tried many ways to make him stop. I tell him "NO" in a firm voice. I stare sternly at him. I slap his hand. I grab it and hold it away from me (in which case, he then swipes at me with his other hand). No matter what I do, he thinks I'm playing with him, and this makes him laugh uproariously.

Sometimes, when he's in a mood to challenge me, he even swipes at me faster and with much more determination and strength, while staring at my face intently to gauge my reaction. I sometimes end up admitting defeat and covering my face with my arms the way I had been taught to in self-defence class.

This is very bad indeed. I may need plastic surgery by the time the Babycrat learns that "NO" is not a suggestion.

Compared to him, fending off dirty old men would be such a breeze.

2010-09-25T23:31:00.005+08:00

My theory is that as parents, you'll never know the truth about how cute your little sprog really is. This is because, to you, the baby will be the cutest baby in the world, and when your friends gush over how adorable the baby is, you can never be sure whether they're just being diplomatic.

But of course, this rule does not apply to me; my baby is the cutest baby in the world. And my friends are really sincere when they coo over the Babycrat.

So says the deluded Pukesome Mummy.

2010-09-24T13:36:00.004+08:00

The Evil Milk Powder Company saga continues.

A while ago, I received a brochure from Evil Milk Powder Company. When I opened it, I found my name printed in it to make it look like the mailer was custom made just for me.

It said: Dear Ky, we noticed that you logged onto our website recently (emphasis mine). We hope you found the information that you required. If not, feel free to call us for guidance.

It went on to give babycare tips, stating that, as a Capricorn baby, the Babycrat "needs to feel secure with regular meals and life on a fairly routine schedule to help them settled (sic)" [Other babies need to feel insecure? And they prefer to be fed irregularly?]

It continued: "Capricorn babies are quite contented as long as the practical things are taken care of by mom and dad in relation to their well being." [Don't other babies feel contented if mom and dad take care of their well-being? Those ungrateful wretches.] They are serious little people for their age, practical and concerned with what is real and what is not, so encourage them to take responsibility. ['Babycrat! Who did this doo doo on the living room floor? Take responsibility!'] Remember, Capricorn babies go by the book when setting limits."

Then the brochure concluded with: "Good news! There are 11 other Mummies living in the same neighbourhood as you. Get in touch with them and share your experiences at our forum."

Big Brother is not only watching me. It is listening to my phone conversations, tracking my e-mail, keeping tabs on my IP address and very likely to have someone tailing me round the clock.

A friend in Melbourne told me her town council arranges meet-ups for all Mummies who had given birth around the same period of time so they could get to know one another, network and form playgroups for their babies.

I lamented the lack of such a service in Singapore when the Resident Bureaucrat pointed out that all I had to do was to contact Evil Milk Powder Company.

"They know it all, don't they? They know even more than the Government," he said.

Indeed. Census 2010, you could take a leaf from Evil Milk Powder Company's book.

2010-09-03T21:57:00.003+08:00

Sometimes, I'll look at the Babycrat when he's sleeping and think: "Actually, he's not such a bad kid."

2010-09-02T17:18:00.000+08:00

Inane conversation #241:

Me: I just devoured a box of chicken biscuits, hahahaha
My twin: wahahahahahah I went home and ate prawn crackers! I tell you, that stuff is like crack!
Me: YES! It shd be a controlled substance! So ppl like me don't kill ourselves eating it!
My twin: Worse is you don't die. Just grow fat.

So true. And so tragic.

2010-08-30T18:54:00.008+08:00

You know you're fast becoming a bona fide Pukesome Mummy when you walk past this movie poster and you think: "Hmm, this looks interesting!"

This happened to me last week. But rationality grabbed me by the collar and gave me a good shaking up and then I thought: "Nah."

Thank goodness, rescued in the nick of time.

(Not to offend those who might find this film interesting, I'm sure it's a film with very good production values and is one that puts its story through in a cute, sometimes-funny and touching, but non-cloying fashion. But this is just so not me.)

2010-08-01T22:39:00.003+08:00

Overheard:

"等一下你的头都断掉!"
- Father warning his daughter not to stick her head too far out while riding the escalator at a shopping mall

2010-07-25T16:55:00.008+08:00

You know you've been at it for too long when you see a bistro & bar called The Pump Room and your first thought is: A nursing room, how nice!

2010-07-23T10:55:00.004+08:00

On Tuesday, I left the Babycrat at my mother's house because I had to go somewhere where babies are not allowed.

In between appointments, I rushed home for a quick nap.

When I woke up, a strange sensation rushed over me. It was a mysterious feeling of inner peace. I felt I had achieved nirvana. I was experiencing zen. I could hear birdsong outside my window. I was in equilibrium and a sense of serenity wrapped me in a warm embrace.

And then I realised it was because this was the first time in six months that I had not woken up to a baby going "eh eh eh eh eh eh eh eh!" at 130 decibels right into my ear.

Oh yes, babies are fun.

2010-07-22T16:19:00.031+08:00

Last month, my sister rented a jumperoo (left, baby not mine) for the Babycrat. I don't know about him, but when the rental expired and the jumperoo was returned, I started to miss it rather badly.

This is because the Babycrat is now into his standing phase, and wants to stand all the time*. It is however, a position that he is unable to assume unless someone was holding him - or unless he is put into the jumperoo. With the jumperoo gone, I became the jumperoo, physically supporting the Babycrat in his quest for verticality, which made for very tired hands, not to mention the fact that it became hard to surf the net, take a shower or even pick my nose.

I thought about buying a jumperoo for the Babycrat. But besides being Bad Mummy, I am also Cheapskate Mummy, and didn't want to spend too much money ($239) on a toy that he would no doubt outgrow very quickly. Also, if I were to buy a new set, after factoring in the $40 for a month's rental, my use and enjoyment of the jumperoo would then cost $40 more than what other people would pay. Outrageous.

So I set out to buy a second-hand one, thinking that the process would be as easy as buying a pre-loved pram, which I acquired online without too much fuss.

Wrong.

Second-hand jumperoos turned out to be as hot as iPhones. No, hotter.

While there were many people selling their used jumperoos on forums, all claiming theirs was in "perfect condition" or "rarely used", demand far exceeded supply.

Of the six people I sms-ed or mailed about their jumperoos, five told me theirs have been sold. The sixth person didn't even bother to reply me, presumably because she was inundated by would-be buyers throwing money at her. And I thought I had acted fast, having replied to the sellers within a day or two of their posting.

While searching online, I also came across plenty of postings from desperate buyers that said: "Need to buy jumperoo. Please e-mail me!"

Just when I thought all hope was lost and started to seriously contemplate buying a brand new one, I found someone selling hers on a Punggol community forum. It was posted only the day before and had drawn no responses yet.

My heartbeat quickened. I was sure no one would be reading a forum as obscure as this. I looked for a phone number, but the seller had left no contact details and the only way I could reach her was to send her a private message through the forum.

For that, I needed to sign in, and so, for the sake of a jumperoo, I became a member of the Punggol Forum, an online portal in which Punggol residents could post in threads under headings such as "Community issues: What do you want to see in Punggol; problems with neighbours; suggestions on improvements; feedback; problems that should be fixed" and "Complaints: Inconsiderate neighbours, noise, noisy mahjong games late at night".

Then I waited by my computer the whole afternoon and all night for a reply, refreshing my inbox very frequently. When I finally saw a new mail, it was with quivering hands** that I opened it and - hooray - she still had the jumperoo!

Even better, while other jumperoos were going for $150 to $180, hers was a mere $80 because "it's not from the rainforest series", she warned.

I jumped at it. I didn't think the Babycrat was going to care whether his jumperoo came with the overhanging palm leaves and dangling stuffed parrot as seen on those of the rainforest series. I didn't care either, as long as it keeps the Babycrat occupied and allows me to pick my nose.

* He might one day grow up to become a passenger that the SMRT would love to decorate as "exemplary commuter" - one who wouldn't complain about having to stand throughout a one hour journey while rubbing against a foreign worker's armpit and being crushed by a non-crush-load load of train riders.

**Although it was arguable whether my hands were shaking from nervousness, or simply from the sheer fatigue of by holding the Babycrat.

2010-07-16T20:18:00.009+08:00

Conversation between Bad Mummy and friend.

Y: Does your baby still wake up for night feeds?

Me: Yes. At least I think so. He sleeps in a cot next to me but when I wake up in the morning, he's sleeping in my bed. I can't remember carrying him over, but I'm assuming I carried him over to feed him in the middle of the night.

Y: So you feed him and both of you fall asleep together?

Me: Yes, I think so.

Y: So you just latch him on and he will just drink on his own?

Me: Yes, I think so.

Y: So what happens? Does he unlatch himself when he's full? Or what?

Me: I have no idea. Maybe he unlatches himself, or maybe when he falls asleep, his mouth falls open and my breast falls out. Or maybe when I roll over in my sleep, I yank the breast out from his mouth.

Y: I have seen photos of him. He looks quite sturdy. I assume he's getting enough to eat.

Me: Yes, I hope so.

2010-07-08T00:28:00.002+08:00

I was at the supermarket cashier when a woman in front of me asked whether a certain yoghurt was on special offer.

The cashier replied: "The low fat yogurt is not involved. Only involve this and this flavour. The low fat not involved hor."

Ya lar, the low fat yoghurt has nothing to do with it. Don't anyhow blame the low fat yoghurt for things it didn't do hor.

2010-07-01T23:27:00.104+08:00

It was a sultry Sunday night when six girls and one boy gathered at the very retro Ship Restaurant in celebration of hot celebrity Tony Leung's 48th birthday.

Dressed up in their finery, most guests appeared as characters in the veteran actor's films, and cheongsams of many colours and splendour graced the event.

Ms W was quietly elegant in her dark velvet cheongsam with dazzling silver threads running down the form-fitting outfit, Ms M supplied her own prop of a tiffin carrier as the reincarnation of Su Lizhen from In The Mood For Love, Ms C wore on her finger a ring as big as a 鸽子蛋 from Lust, Caution and Crazy Pink Lady swirled around in her Marilyn Monroe-styled dress.

The be-vested Mr B, the only thorn among the roses, was as dapper as they came, and was a doppleganger of the suave Mr Yee from Lust, Caution.

Appearing as Guest Of Honour was a standee of Tony Leung, all towering 1.75m of him. (Although it was said that the workers at the standee factory got his height wrong and cast him as a 1.85m figure instead. But that was not an issue with the guests, as it only meant more of him to fuss over.)

As the protective wrapping was removed from Standee Tony to squeals of excitment, party guests clamoured around to have their photos taken with him amid the standard photocall refrain of "Tony, look here! Tony, a photo! Smile, Tony, smile!"

The flurry of the unveiling over, guests settled down to partake of the birthday feast, watched over by Standee Tony. First up was a piping hot dish of escargots, gently floating in a lake of melted butter, minced garlic and herbs.

Next up was the main course of Ship Steak, a delicious cut of tenderloin dished up in a hot plate and flambe-d right in front of the guests, who were instructed to shield themselves with their napkins. The tongues of fire that leapt from the dish had the guests squealing and cowering in fear for their eyebrows. But overall, it was agreed all round that the flames served as a delicious little course of amusement.

As the guests savoured their dinner and lively banter on topics revolving Tony was batted around, the empty dishes were cleared away and dessert was had. And then, it was time for the climax of the night - the birthday cake.

The cake, a confection of both dark and white chocolate, was brought out, appreciative comments were offered, candles were lit, cameras were whipped out again and, led by Ms M and Ms W, the party guests burst into a rowdy rendition of the Happy Birthday song in Cantonese, unabashedly ignoring puzzled stares from other diners.

Amid applause, Ms C blew out the candles in lieu of Tony the man himself and the cake was cut up and served, after which, the fun really began. Taking turns to carry Standee Tony, the guests strutted along the corridors of Shaw Towers, stopping intermittently to pose Tony and get photos taken with him.

Asked by the amused captain of the Ship Restaurant, who was passing by, as to whether they were movie directors, Ms M saucily replied: "We escaped from Woodbridge."

Merry laughter, exhortations of good luck and take care, and replies of thank yous were exchanged between the captain and the guests, as they merrily continued with their shenanigans.

Excitement generated more excitement, and wild ideas piled upon one another. Oh, such fun they had!

If standee Tony could speak, he would boast of his wonderful adventures, of being made to take flight as the guests took their famous jumping shots, of standing in a taxi queue, of queueing up at an ATM, of crossing the traffic light at Scotts Road. Standee Tony was also posed next to Smoking Bunny, who offered him a drag of her ciggie. The other guests were tickled and suitably scandalised all at once.

Finally, the hijinks with Standee Tony culminated at the Orchard Underpass as the guests wound down the night with a final series of jumping shots.

"I'm so hot!" panted Crazy Pink Lady with a big grin, after her third or fourth jump in the non-airconditioned underpass under Wheelock Place.

As the guests finally parted ways, everyone agreed that the party was a scream and was truly a night to remember.

(Someone pointed out that I have posted more pictures on facebook of the Tony Birthday Party than of the Babycrat. Guilty as charged.)

2010-06-25T13:42:00.007+08:00

Alfie is the funniest person I've ever known and when he leaves his comments on my photos or facebook statuses, they are so funny the only thing I can say is "hahahaha" because nothing I say will even sound remotely clever next to what he says.

They are so funny, I want to immortalise them. So this is the start of occasional posts called "Alfie Says...", dedicated to Alfieisms.

Here are some to start off with:

My facebook status: K bought a book from one of those makeshift book stalls at a shopping mall. The book looked new and was wrapped up in plastic. When she got home and opened up the book, a newspaper cutting of an obituary floated out from inside. This is not good.

Alfie says: Wow. 2 endings for the price of one. This is not bad.

Ms T says: Alfie cracks me up again!

Alfie says: alamak! and here i thought i was putting forth a little demonstration of structuralist semiotics and dialogism... my timing must be way off. haha... just kidding! :D

My facebook status: What's worse than having a baby poo on you while you're still changing his soiled diaper? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Alfie says: That's why it's the parents' job to make a teenager's life a living hell. Oh revenge will be sweet...Res BBC: "Why can't i go for a movie with my friends?"

You: "Because last time you pang sai on me.";D

Ms C says: i've been hit in the eye by pee before.

Alfie says: C, we talking about babies. This is no forum for the kinky stuff. Baby shower, not golden shower.

2010-06-15T23:31:00.012+08:00

Today, I went to buy Bubble Tea from a stall at 313@Somerset because I remembered that I could get a 50 cent-discount if I flashed the SingTel logo on my phone.

The pearl milk tea cost $1.90, but I didn't want ice. The stall assistant told me that would cost me an extra 50 cents. I asked if I could use the 50 cent-discount and was told that I could.

Then the stall assistant tallied up the total cost of my drink, laboriously punching on her calculator while murmuring to herself: "$1.90 plus 50 cents equals $2.40. $2.40 minus 50 cents equals $1.90."

"Your drink costs $1.90," she told me.

I wonder whether she was surprised by the amazing coincidence. "Hey, we're back at $1.90 again!"

Although who am I to laugh at this. I find myself doing things like this very often too. Mine maths no good lah.

2010-06-02T00:52:00.007+08:00

Me: I don't understand why our bedroom is so hot compared to outside. It's quite cool here in the kitchen what. But when I walk into the room, I feel a blast of warm air.

The Resident Bureaucrat: It's because you have too much junk in the room. It traps heat.

Me: You're bluffing me. Are you taking advantage of the fact that I didn't study physics to bluff me things?

The Resident Bureaucrat: Really, it's true. I studied it in physics. Those things in the room trap heat.

Me: I don't believe you. Next thing, you'll be telling me that those things in the room trap oxygen also. Then we won't have enough air to breathe.

The Resident Bureaucrat: That might be a possibility.

Me: I knew it! You were lying to me! You were taking advantage of the fact that I didn't study physics!

The Resident Bureaucrat: Well, you know, you arts people...

(which was when I kicked him.)

2010-05-29T10:17:00.025+08:00

Yesterday was a public holiday, and because I had to go to work, the Babycrat was left the Resident Bureaucrat's care.

Don't worry, this won't be a story about how he nearly ended up killing the Babycrat. This is not Three Men And A Baby. And besides, the Resident Bureaucrat is rather adept at babycare; he can not only keep the Babycrat entertained in between heating up bottles of expressed milk, he can even bathe the baby.

However, while changing the Babycrat's diaper, he found that the sticky tape on the diaper wouldn't stick. So he stapled the diaper shut*.

This is such a guy's way of solving problems - when in doubt, just bring out the weapons.

Most people would just use masking tape.

By most people, I mean female people, of course.

*No baby was harmed in the writing of this post. Fortunately, the staple never came into contact with the Babycrat's skin.

2010-05-26T01:02:00.002+08:00

In this house, when you ask the Resident Bureaucrat a question as simple as "what's the date today?", and it's past midnight when you ask the question, you will get this response: "The date before midnight, or the date after midnight?"

It makes me wonder how I have remained sane all these years.

2010-05-24T00:23:00.002+08:00

After reading my previous post, Ms M messaged me and said: "By the way, I thought you might want to know, I hate baby corn, but love adult corn."

Thank you, Ms M. This is the first straight answer I have gotten.

My twin supplied my second straight answer, saying that she likes baby corn, but hates creamed corn.

The preferences of the Resident Bureaucrat, however, remain unknown.

2010-05-17T23:32:00.008+08:00

Me: I've never got around to asking you this. I know you hate baby corn. But do you like adult corn?

The Resident Bureaucrat: I don't mind baby corn. I can eat it, I can don't eat it.

Me: If you don't mind baby corn, why do you always give your share to me?

The Resident Bureaucrat: You like baby corn, so I give you more.

Me: I don't like baby corn, I just don't mind it. I also can eat it, can don't eat it. So do you actually like baby corn?

The Resident Bureaucrat: The adult corn tastes sweeter.

Me: So do you like adult corn?

The Resident Bureacrat: I don't mind it.

Me: What do you mean by you don't mind it? Do you like it or not?

The Resident Bureaucrat: It's okay.

Me: I think you've been working in the civil service for too long.

2010-05-17T01:48:00.007+08:00

I couldn't decide whether to put this photo in my Pukesome Mummy blog or in this blog. But I decided that this photo is really about the humongous bao and not the Babycrat, with the Babycrat placed in the photo only as a point of reference to show how big the bao was - almost as big as his head, me thinks.

Another look at the fascinatingly overstuffed bao - only $1.50 from Chinatown. Yummy.

2010-05-14T22:21:00.010+08:00

After four months of maternity leave, I can now sing the entire How Much Is That Doggy In The Window? without referring to the lyrics. I can also rock a stroller with one leg while surfing the net or doing the dishes.

Not very useful, but a person's gotta have some skills.

2010-05-07T23:01:00.004+08:00

Like the sucker I am, I bought this mess of sashimi odds and ends from Cold Storage, and for an exorbitant price somemore. The label says sushi moriwase... I'm guessing "moriwase" means "discarded fish parts that no one else wants to eat".

2010-05-01T12:56:00.014+08:00

To my two readers, I'm sorry about the lack of posts lately. In between being a full time milkbar on tap, shit-cleaner, sedan carrier, entertainer and all round personal attendant to the Babycrat, I have also been busy with Project 365, something that I'm doing together with my twin and Ms M.

In this project, we each have to take a photo a day for 365 days, starting April 1. There is only one rule: No cheating allowed.

We will be posting the photos on facebook, and on the blog my twin, Ms M and I created. I will also be posting my photos, plus some other neither-here-nor-there pictures on my new photo blog.

So come on over and see what we are getting ourselves into.

2010-04-19T16:26:00.006+08:00

Just when I think changing evil-smelling radioactive-yellow poopy diapers is about as bad as it gets, something worse comes along - having to scrub exploding poop out of a white romper.

Life never fails to surprise you.

2010-03-26T01:38:00.004+08:00

I was at the Takashimaya food court when I decided to have a late lunch.

I went up to one of the stalls there serving Western food and placed an order with the cashier for a Chicken Penne in Cream Sauce. She turned towards the kitchen and yelled: "鸡丝面!"

Okay, that's another way you could call the dish, I guess.

2010-03-23T18:12:00.028+08:00

Once, when Ms C posted a question on facebook asking whether people would drink their own breast milk, I had responded that drinking your own breast milk is like spitting out your own saliva and then drinking it up again.

I never thought the day would come when I would drink my own breast milk. But it did.

I had gone for lunch with some colleagues and had taken the Babycrat along. I knew the baby was going to want a feed during my lunch, and while I was too shy to feed him in front of my colleagues, I didn't want to leave the table to feed him either. So I brought along a bottle of expressed milk which I intended to warm up by sitting the bottle in hot water, which I would ask for from the waiter.

Unfortunately, the well-meaning waiter misinterpreted my request and while I was distracted by something, he took away my bottle of milk and topped it up with hot water.

When he returned the bottle to me, I was devastated to find what was originally 120ml of milk is now 150ml of diluted milk.

The Babycrat refused to drink it, of course.

The thought of dumping the entire bottle of milk just about killed me. My colleagues started giving suggestions on what I could do with it, including adding it to a cup of teh-c, which I thought wasn't such a bad idea. The milk was, after all, supposed to be super nutritious.

Unfortunately, by the time I got home, the milk had taken on a strange smell. I went on the internet and found that the smell was caused by the enzymes in the milk breaking down the milk fats, causing a smell euphemistically described as "soapy".

I thought it was closer to what I would describe as "vomit".

However, milk that had taken on this smell is not spoilt and is perfectly safe to drink, said the websites. So I made a cup of tea and poured half the milk in. (I wasn't brave enough to drink the milk on its own.)

Unfortunately, the taste of the milk was so strong, it overpowered the taste of the tea. I had to force myself to drink the vomit-ty tasting tea.

I left half a bottle for the Resident Bureaucrat to sample as well, and he, the braver one, drank it neat. His verdict?

"Tastes like vomit plus stale sweat."

So, this is the end of a failed experiment. Maybe someday, when I'm feeling braver, I will try the milk again - and this time, I will make sure it's freshly squeezed.

2010-03-20T22:10:00.031+08:00

To compensate the crab dinner which I missed because I was busy giving birth to the Babycrat, I jumped at another invitation* to eat seafood in Pengerang** in Johor.

Intent on replicating our Melaka food trip, our first stop that rainy morning was for wanton mee and chee cheong fun that was freshly steamed and served up on the spot.

The wanton mee was not bad, and the chee cheong fun was great.

Then, we hopped to another coffeeshop for bak kut teh.

Our order of bak kut teh, which consists of not only bak kut in an aromatic herb-y soup, also came with beancurd skin, pig intestines and enoki mushrooms. We also ordered a separate pot of liver cooked "just right", and it was declared to be world class.

With a name like that, how could you resist ordering the drink just to try it? (It turned out to be a sour plum drink. Not bad.)

And then, it was on to our seafood lunch. But of course.

This plate of lala came steamed with garlic. I could not eat seafood***, but those who tried it swore the shellfish was done to perfection; sweet, with just a hint of the sea.

Salted egg yolk crab. While I did not eat the crab, I did lick the salted egg yolk of the crab shell. I like salted egg yolk very much.

Our poor lobster victims-to-be feebly waving their feelers in the tank, going "help me, help me!"

I guess help didn't come in time for them. This dish of steamed lobster was so good, even I had to eat it. Seafood ban be damned. (We also ordered a dish of butter lobster, but that one was disappointingly unbuttery. Sad face.)

And then, to top it off, our final bill came up to less than S$25 per person for the close-to-10-course meal, including beer. So it was a happy ending. Except for the lobsters.

*Thanks to MS, who organised the trip.

**To get to Pengerang, take the bumboat from Changi jetty, the same place where you board the boat to Pulau Ubin. Get there early, because there appears to be only two 12-seater bumboats plying the one-hour journey to Pengerang, and waiting for the next available ride can take more than an hour. Remember your passport.

On reaching Pengerang, catch a cab at the jetty into town. The fare should cost RM20 per vehicle.

I don't have the address for the chee cheong fun/wanton mee and bak kut teh coffeeshops, but Pengerang is so small, just ask the cabby about it. Ditto the seafood restaurant.

***I am not supposed to eat seafood because I had just given birth and seafood is toxic. So what was I doing on a seafood-eating trip? To eat the bak kut teh, of course.

2010-03-18T15:07:00.019+08:00

I had a Sony Ericsson phone that I liked pretty much, but it was starting to annoy me because it hung every now and then, and occasionally, my sms-es wouldn't get sent out. Besides, the battery had started to get run low very quickly. So when my phone contract was up, I bought a new phone, a sleek and snazzy-looking red-and-black LG New Chocolate.

But it was the crappiest phone I had ever used. Not only was it very user unfriendly, it malfunctioned to boot.

I began to miss my old phone. It felt like I had ditched an old lover for a new one, who looked really good but turned out to be bad in bed.

Eventually, the new phone gave me so much trouble, I decided to cut the pain and go back to my old phone.

When I turned on my old phone, I realised that I hadn't deleted any of the old sms-es in there. As I read them, a familiar nostalgia rushed over me. It was like reading old love notes from the old lover.

My Sony Ericsson, I repent. I will never cheat on you again.

Till death do us part.

2010-03-16T00:51:00.014+08:00

Today I realised with a start that for the past two-plus months, the things I say to the Resident Bureaucrat go along these lines:

"Today, I managed to pump 120ml from the left side alone! Yesterday when I pumped, I got only 30ml from the same side. That day, the right one produced more though."

"Ah boy pooped today. Quite a bit."

"He peed on me when I was bathing him. Then, he farted into his bath water. Can see bubbles coming out. Then later, he peed into the bathtub!"

And the best part is that the Resident Bureaucrat listens with rapt attention to all the mundanities I spew.

I'm sure before this, we had lively conversations and intellectual debates about world and social affairs, politics and economics, culture and the arts. Okay, maybe not. But still...

2010-03-10T22:41:00.035+08:00

I've read and heard that many young babies do a poop after every feed. The Babycrat, on the other hand, does one on an average of every ten days and sometimes longer. (We checked with the pediatrician, who said that's fine for breastfed babies.)

Which means there have been not that many poopy diapers to be changed. And the Babycrat had been cooperative for a while and pooped only when the Resident Bureaucrat* was around to help change the poopy diapers, which means I didn't have do any cleaning up.

But my luck was bound to run out.

One day, when I was alone at home with the Babycrat, his face suddenly took on the strained expression of a baby trying to poop. I tried to implore the Babycrat to "hold it until your father gets home, okay?".

He paid me no heed, of course.

He then proceeded to do a very big and a very smelly one and since no one was around at that time, the job of cleaning up fell on me.

When I opened up his diaper, I gagged at the fumes that hit me.

But the worst was yet to come.

His bottom was all smeared with poop. How does one begin to clean that off? What do I rest his bum on when I go get the wet wipes? Back on the dirty diaper? Or on the clean changing mat? In the end, using one hand (and an elbow and a leg or two), I lined the changing mat with toilet paper while keeping his butt off the mat by pulling his legs up in the air like he was a trussed up chicken.

The next problem. How to clean off smeary poop? I tried using more toilet paper, but it wasn't getting the job done. And the smell was still making me gag.

Then I thought I would just put the Babycrat under the tap and wash away the poop.

Carrying him gingerly and very away from my body, I took him to the bathroom and tried to put him under the sink when I realised he didn't fit very well under the tap. And the sink was slippery and I found it hard to stop him from sliding around the washbasin.

So I tried to hose him down in the shower instead. As I turned on the tap, a spray of water hit the Babycrat at the same time that I suddenly remembered some babies were scared by sudden gushes of water. Fortunately, the Babycrat seemed to be quite hardy and appeared unfazed.

The shower spray worked, and soon, the Babycrat was clean and diapered up again.

Unfortunately, while spraying at the Babycrat, I sprayed half the water on myself. (It is not easy to hold a baby away from my body while making sure I didn't drop him, while trying to hold on to the shower hose while turning on the tap, while testing the temperature of the water, all at the same time.)

And I have well and truly been broken in as a mother, I think. What are round the clock feeds and hours of walking up and down carrying the baby coaxing him to sleep compared to the changing of a smelly diaper?

And those who say that a breastfed baby's diapers are not smelly should come and change one for me.

*He volunteered for diaper duty. Because he is anal.

2010-03-01T18:19:00.008+08:00

Night feedings can be a killer, but I found that it helps to have the Babycrat's cot right next to my bed, so that when he cries, all I have to do is lean over and carry him into my bed, where I feed him lying down.

Unfortunately, one drawback of this position is that it is so comfortable, I often fall asleep feeding him. And then when I wake up in the morning, I can't remember where I left the baby and my first panicky thought will be: "Where's the baby!?" while first scanning his cot, then my bed.

And if it turns out he's sleeping next to me, my next thought will be: "Did I roll over him and kill him?? Is he still alive??" while pressing his stomach and pumping his arms to make sure he's still breathing.

I is bad Mummy!

2010-03-01T02:02:00.006+08:00

No baby squealing to be carried is going to take me away from my ramen.

2010-03-01T01:33:00.008+08:00

I had sworn that I was not going to turn this blog into a Mummy blog. In fact, I was so afraid of coming off as looking like a proud Mummy that I have tried to keep my uploading of the Babycrat's photos to a minimum.

But I was talked into starting another blog for the Babycrat. The same people who talked me into it also promised they wouldn't laugh at me in my face (and only snigger at me behind my back).

So I started one. Come on over and see how I eat my words.

2010-02-27T23:15:00.021+08:00

One day shortly after he turned one month old, I took the Babycrat back to the office. We were immediately swarmed by colleagues squealing "so cute!" and "he really looks like his father!".

I was totally ignored in the melee.

No one asked after me. No one said "hey, you're looking good" (although in all likelihood, it was probably because I wasn't looking good. Late night feedings do this to you.) For that matter, I'm not sure anyone really knew I was there.

And as further proof of my deposed former status, all the photos that were shot of me and the Babycrat that day showed me as a headless and bodyless something-or-other, the sedan carrier, the mere vehicle of conveyance for the Babycrat.

(Photo by MS).

Wrinkly old milkbags, stand one side!

2010-02-27T02:28:00.007+08:00

An important observation of motherhood: She who produces the milk will be the one with the power to command - and hold - the baby's attention.

On another note, the Babycrat is now drinking so much milk, I should have asked for contributions to buy him his own cow.

2010-02-22T19:41:00.016+08:00

Cheesy lines from low-budget Taiwanese drama serials:

Scene #1
A boss visits his secretary at her house. He wants to bed her, and she is trying to play hard to get.

She invites her boss into her house for a glass of wine.

Boss: Are we going to drink the wine in your living room?
Secretary: Where else can we drink wine? Don't tell me you want to... (throws a sultry look)... drink it in the bathtub?
Boss: (Lecherously stroking her shoulder) Excellent idea!

Scene #2
A man and a woman are in a KTV room.

The woman says to the man: "Do you want to sing Casanova Dog?"

Scene #3
A husband and wife are at the breakfast table with the wife's parents. The parents are urging them to have kids. The couple explain that it is not time yet.

The man then receives a phone call on his mobile phone. He turns pale with shock after hearing what is apparently very bad news.

In-laws: Who was that on the phone? Is it your parents bugging you to have kids?

Scene #4
Conversation between a couple undergoing IVF to have a child in order to wrest ownership of the man's parents' 猪脚店 from his sibilings.

Woman: I must have a child just to show that woman!
Man: Fine, after all, you'll be the one suffering.

I love Taiwanese shows.

2010-02-19T01:48:00.004+08:00

The Resident Bureaucrat coaxes the Babycrat to stop crying: "Baby, stop crying. Even the dogs in the opposite block are scared of you. All the cats also run away already."

2010-02-13T11:37:00.005+08:00

The Resident Bureaucrat: Prune juice doesn't taste very good.

Me: No one drinks it for pleasure.

The Resident Bureaucrat: How do you know?

Me: Do you see people going to the bar and ordering a prune juice? It's not pink champagne, you know.

The Resident Bureaucrat: Then what is the purpose of prune juice?

Me: For constipation.

The Resident Bureaucrat: That's very sad.

Me: Yes, it is.

2010-02-12T21:40:00.007+08:00

The Babycrat is one month old and I have officially been demoted from my former status of she-who-must-be-revered-because-she-is-with-child to my current status of His Excellency The Babycrat's personal attendant cum milkmaid-in-waiting.

Ah, how the winds of fortune have changed!

2010-02-09T15:46:00.002+08:00

A burning question: Why is that that I have no qualms about drinking litres of the stuff that comes out of some cow's udders (and I don't even know that cow personally), but the furthest I dare to go when it comes to tasting my own breast milk is licking a stray drop off my wrist?

2010-02-07T23:21:00.008+08:00

Our first family portrait (and my first attempt at shots involving full frontal nudity.) The nude model didn't pee on the sheets, which is good, considering that his current favourite pastime is peeing on his parents' bedsheets the moment his diaper is removed for a change.

2010-01-26T19:07:00.008+08:00

At slightly more than two weeks old, the Babycrat has developed the most annoying eating pattern. After feeding for about 5 or 10 minutes, he will fall asleep at the breast and nothing I do will wake him and make him continue feeding. Not tickling, not changing diapers, not taking off his mittens and booties to make him cold.

I can think of far more drastic measures to rouse him, but they border on child abuse so I don't think I will be resorting to those.

The only thing that wakes him, really, is taking him off my breast and putting him back into his cot. He will wait for me to go and start doing whatever I want to do (such as showering, eating a much-delayed meal, going to the toilet to empty the bladder I have been holding for the past hour while attending to him), then he will burst into loud, rowdy crying, signalling that he wants to continue feeding.

As you can imagine, this is driving me crazy, especially when it happens in the middle of the night and all I want to do is to go back to sleep after feeding him.

I have no idea where he inherited this sleepy trait from; it's true that both his parents like to have a lie in on weekends, but at least we don't fall asleep while eating a buffet and then cry when our plates are cleared away.

I was so frustrated one day, I thought about taking the Babycrat back to the hospital and asking for a refund. But I was sure the hospital staff would laugh in my face and say: "Caveat emptor!"

So I'm keeping him for now.

And they tell me things will get better. I seriously hope so.

2010-01-25T17:29:00.033+08:00

Two days after delivery, the Resident Bureaucrat looked at me and said in a not-meant-to-insult way: "You don't look like you have delivered."

I have been warned that my stomach will not deflate even with its huge inhabitant out of the way. But it is one thing for me to live in denial about the size of my tummy, it is another to have someone blatantly point it out to me.

Thank goodness, then, for the Malay massage lady, who came to my house armed with a bottle of essential oils and a deadly pair of thumbs to give me a rubdown that would "realign the organs", "push back the womb" and "fix problem areas" such as sore shoulders. And of course, hopefully, slim down my stomach.

As you can guess, manipulating your internal organs involves pain. A lot of it.

As she pressed very hard with her deadly thumbs on where I think my bladder is, I almost squealed out: "Okay, I'll confess! When no one is looking, I..."

(But I'm not telling you what I do when no one is looking. You don't have a pair of thumbs that can maim a person permanently.)

Then as she pressed around other vulnerable areas, she told me that "your womb has moved to the left." How scary. I had no idea my womb had legs and was capable of scurrying around. But according to her, the womb had migrated to the left not because it was restless but because, in utero, the baby was fond of sleeping on the left side (which is true!). How uncanny. But anyway.

Afterwards, she wrapped metres and metres of cloth around my mid-section (think foot binding, but applied to the waist. In fact, I think she may have broken a few of my ribs in the process.) It was hot, it was yucky and so tight, I couldn't even bend at the waist. For hours, I was walking around looking like a person encased in a body cast.

But miracle of miracles, after only two days of binding, I was able to fit into a pre-pregnancy skirt (which was, admittedly, a bit loose to begin with, but still!).

Now I look forward to fitting into my jeans again. The massage lady told me I won't be able to do so for at least another six months, but I live in hope.

2010-01-16T23:22:00.007+08:00

I was in the middle of writing up this post when I got called away by labour. So here's a post-dated post.

My amateurish attempt to document our preparations for the baby.

And I finally took down the two awful looking photos of the two of us which were hanging on the wall side by side like they were the President and the First Lady's formal portraits.

We replaced the portraits with these paintings. So much nicer looking than my own mugshot at any rate.

2010-01-16T12:55:00.005+08:00

Meet the Resident Babycrat (thanks, Alfie!), who totally resembles the Resident Bureaucrat and nothing like me at all, much to my dismay. But I hope he doesn't inherit my brains.

I sometimes can't believe he's out, especially when, one day post-pregnancy, I was still feeling phantom limbs moving around in my tummy, like he never left.

2010-01-15T14:44:00.044+08:00

The baby finally arrived on 121001, missing 110110 by only 2 hours.

I wish I had a humorous account of the birth story involving me yelling out words that must now be censored, and/or threatening the Resident Bureaucrat with grievous bodily harm (the pregnancy books had said that this might happen, so I had warned him beforehand). Unfortunately, I have no funny story to tell.

This is not because impending motherhood transformed me into a kinder and gentler person, but because everything happened so quickly, I had neither the time nor the energy to do anything.

The day had started off pretty uneventfully. I was woken up at 4am on 110110 by the baby's head pressing on my bladder - as usual - but this time, I also had mild cramps.

They were the same crampy feelings that I had been experiencing for days before that, so I thought nothing of it. Labour was the furthest thing on my mind then. In fact, during the days of waiting for the baby, I was pretty sure I was going to be pregnant for years, sort of like Nezha’s mother, and that the baby was never going to arrive.

When I woke up again at 7am - by the baby's head pressing on my bladder, of course - I discovered I had a show*, but again, I dismissed it, because my pregnancy books said having a show didn’t mean labour was going to start straightaway and things could, in fact, drag for another three days to two weeks. I sms-ed my doula to be on the safe side but she didn't seem overly concerned, so I went back to sleep.

Later, I spent the day chatting with my twin and trying to write a post lamenting how late the baby was, and then I answered a phone call from my mother querying: "You still not giving birth yet? You got to hurry, you know. It's almost Chinese New Year."

Okay, I'll send that feedback in writing to the baby.

It was not until 5pm that day that I realised I had been having those early morning cramps all day (I'm a bit slow on the uptake), which was when I thought maybe I should time them to see if there was pattern to it.

They were 7 minutes apart and 30 seconds long each time.

So those cramps were really contractions and I thought that they might be for real. I sms-ed the Resident Bureaucrat, who was at work, and my doula again.

The Resident Bureaucrat called me in a panic, wanting to know how I was. My doula was a lot calmer. "We want to wait until your contractions are 60 seconds long," she said. "In the meanwhile, eat dinner."

I like that. Eat dinner, that I could do.

So I ate dinner (and a lot of other stuff, but I'm too embarassed to list down what I ate), then I sat down to watch the crappy Channel 8 drama Together, while the contractions got more intense.

So, naturally, the gravity of the situation didn't hit me and I tried to log on to facebook after the programme ended. But every time I tried to sit up to sign in, I would be hit by contractions so intense I had to go lie in bed to ride them out.

In the meanwhile, the Resident Bureaucrat had rushed home, eaten his dinner in a hurry and then worked himself into a panicked frenzy, packing last minute stuff such as my specs and his shaving kit. He quickly took a shower and poured out half the bottle of shampoo by accident, shaved, cut himself, brushed his teeth and snapped his toothbrush in half.

It was amusing on hindsight.

Because I was still in a semi state of denial and couldn’t believe I was really going into labour, I told him not to hurry. But he was sure the birth was going to happen tonight "at 4am". On hearing that, my first thought was whether I could pop by the 24-hour McDonald's at my house to buy a Fillet-O-Fish before moving on to the hospital. One always needs breakfast.

Although, privately, I thought it was going to take much longer and drag until the next day. Also, I didn't fancy giving birth in the middle of the night, which would certainly disrupt my bedtime. So it would be better if it happened only the next day.

As it was, things never go the way I want them to. At 11pm, the contractions were coming 4 minutes apart and were 60 seconds long, which showed delivery was probably not far off. So I called my doula, who came to my house, sat with me and helped me breathe through the contractions for the next half hour. But when they got even more intense, she suggested we leave for the hospital.

Before I left the house, I asked the Resident Bureaucrat three times whether he had taken my handphone along with him, and then insisted that he turn back to get my watch and refused to move when he didn’t want to do it. I also tried to change out of my pyjamas into a nice dress so that I would swan into the hospital looking presentable, but my doula, probably the only person with her wits around her, told me to just go in my sleepwear. It’s amazing the petty things I can be concerned about when faced with bigger issues. Labour? What labour?

Leaving the house in the middle of the night in my pyjamas and mismatched shoes and making a dash for the hospital felt like I was embarking on a big adventure. (I need to get a life.)

On the way there, whenever I was hit by contractions, my doula would tell me to “visualize your cervix opening” and all I could think of was “**** my cervix! What a drama queen! Couldn’t it just open quietly with a whimper instead of shouting ‘Look at me look at me look at me!! I’m opening!’!?!”

Anyway, by the time we reached the hospital at 1.10am, the drama mama cervix had fully dilated and at 1.58am on 12012010**, the baby was out***.

The birth happened so quickly, I didn't have time to do anything I had planned, such as hand out copies of my birth plan, eat my chicken biscuits, use the relaxation techniques learnt in my hypnobirthing class****, listen to my relaxation CDs or use the massage oils and rice sock heat packs I had packed into my labour bag. For that matter, we didn’t even have time to see to the hospital admission and it had to be done later.

My doula had also made an attempt to fill up the bath tub in the labour room that I was in, when, midway through, she abandoned her efforts because the way things were going, she saw that I wouldn’t have time to enjoy the tub. (Although I wouldn’t have minded soaking in the tub after the birth.)

It was a good thing I forgot to take the chocolates I had wanted to pack in my hospital bag, because it would have meant just another thing to take home later.

Anyway, it was a good birth; I didn’t have to be induced, it was quick, I didn’t cave in and ask for an epidural (not that I would have time), there was no cutting involved and I got to deliver in the position I wanted (not lying down).

But I suppose if I had to do it all over again, I would eat my chicken biscuits the moment I recognise the cramps as contractions, because now, they sit, on my kitchen counter, mocking the fact that I’m unable to eat them. Thanks to that wonderful period called confinement.

*If you want to know what's a show, go google it, because it's too gross to explain here.

**Come to think of it, 12012010 is not a bad date either. 4D anyone?

***I have deliberately omitted an account of the birth itself to protect those with a delicate sensitivity. Also, me thinks a retelling of the event will act as a pretty good birth control method, and I don't want to be responsible for making people decide not to procreate after reading my story.

All I will say is the birth involved a lot of loud animalistic grunting and enough blood to resemble a murder scene. And resulted in a baby who looked like he was a cast member in the Night Of The Living Dead (blue, covered with blood and gross waxy stuff. Fortunately, he did turn pink shortly after.)

****Even though I never got to use the techniques learnt in hypnobirthing, I still highly recommend the class. And definitely engaging a doula.

2010-01-10T23:07:00.007+08:00

It is calm before the storm. And I don't know what to do in between waiting for the action to start, so we did the natural thing and went to eat dim sum at Victor's Kitchen (91 Bencoolen Street, Sunshine Plaza #01-21). Highly recommended because it's yummy!

(And after all, who knows how long it will be before I can eat junk again.)

Gratuitious food shots coming up:

Hong Kong-style chee cheong fun is nice enough already, but when it's pan fried till it's crispy and fragrant, mmmmm.

Custard milk buns, which actually look better than they taste.

This tastes like soon kway filled with chives except that its transclucent skin is chewy and soft and so different. When topped with the home-made XO sauce served there, can die one lor.

Water chestnut kueh, sticky, chewy, sweet and with a tinge of fresh lemon fragrance. I like!

2010-01-10T00:16:00.008+08:00

100110 and no baby.

I blame it on our campaign to get him to stay in over the new year, which is, with the benefit of hindsight, obviously overenthusiastically done. And now he doesn't want to budge.

He is so going to miss the 良晨吉日*.

On the other hand, I have been invited to a crab dinner this coming Wednesday, where we will indulge in salted egg yolk and black pepper crab. I have promised to turn up if the baby does not make his appearance by then.

I can't believe I am actually making plans for crab-eating, when, by then, the baby will be overdue.

Ms M says: "It's so comforting to know that motherhood has not changed you - yet?"

Motherhood change my love for food? Never!

*I guess I could settle for 110110 as a last resort, if the baby were to cooperate. But honestly, I have an aversion to the numeral 11, for no particular reason except that it gives me bad vibes. I also don't like 7 and 9, and any other numerals that contain these digits (17, 19, 27, 29 etc). Figures I like: 8, 10.
Figures I'm neutral to: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6

2010-01-06T22:53:00.009+08:00

Today, I received a Mummy-to-be gift pack from the clinic.

Besides the usual milk powder samples (ugh), it also contained a free diaper sample and this:

An inflatable facsimile of what is supposed to be a baby's buttocks complete with stubby legs which have apparently been amputated mid-thigh. The baby is also transparent, giving new meaning to the phrase "吃玻璃长大".

The purpose of this blow up doll is for you to practice diapering a baby.

Tell me this is not the most bizarre thing you've seen.

2010-01-02T14:57:00.004+08:00

The Resident Bureaucrat was eating cookies, some of which he handed to me and said: "These cookies are yucky. Try them."

Me: Dowan.

The Resident Bureaucrat: I took them for you. Try lah.

Me: (Reluctantly taking a bite) Yucks, they taste terrible!

The Resident Bureaucrat: Bad right?

Me: Bad you still ask me to eat!

The Resident Bureaucrat: So that you will know for yourself how bad they are mah.

Like that win already lor.

2010-01-01T22:03:00.012+08:00

"Dem, me thinks I had one too many buffets."

010110 and no baby.

While waiting, I decided to take stock of things and asked the Resident Bureaucrat to help measure my waistline.

He said: "Where's your waist?"

Which was my cue to launch into my "it's-all-your-fault" tirade, where I blame him for everything from stretchmarks to the 4am treks to the loo to there being nothing good showing on TV. After all, it's always the man's fault, right.

Anyway, here at the latest stats.
Bust: 40 inches
Waist: 40 inches - or a shocking 1 metre.
Hips: 41 inches (measured using an industrial 5-metre tape measure, given that the Ikea tape measure taken from the store stops at 1 metre.)
The widest part of my tummy: 42.5 inches (Ditto)

Quite the bikini beauty.

2009-12-31T22:24:00.027+08:00

Today, on New Year's eve, a colleague said: "Countdown? I'd rather be counting sheep!"

When you find yourself agreeing heartily with this statement, and even laughing out loud, you know you have officially crossed over to becoming a crusty old fart. And I agreed heartily with this statement, and I laughed out loud, so it kind of gives away my age (hint: not 20).

Which is why I'm now sitting at home blogging instead of being out there engaging in hedonistic activities (drinking, dancing, smoking, drinking, puking, then passing out. Fun!). And then I'm going to get ready to turn in soon because I'm already nodding off at the laptop.

In other news, only 1 1/2 hours to midnight and no sign of labour*, which means January Baby, not December Baby. On the other hand, this also means the baby won't be getting his free supply of milk powder, and I won't be getting a $2,010 cheque from the milk powder company. Oh well, you win some, you lose some.

*Unless I have a super quick labour like what I once saw in a Hong Kong drama. In a scene in that show, a pregnant woman who was sitting in the office cafeteria happily drinking a cup of coffee suddenly developed contractions so severe, she couldn't be rushed to the hospital in time and had to give birth on the spot. It must have taken half an hour from start to finish. Fastest birth ever. If only.

2009-12-25T22:48:00.050+08:00

The expected due date for the baby is Jan 10, 2010, which I think is a great date (100110), but I'll also settle for 1st Jan (010110) and 11th Jan (110110) and if he is really born on any one of those days, I will name him Binary.

No, I'm just kidding. People will probably mash it up and pronounce it as Bee-nah-ree. And anyway, I belong to the school of thought that does not believe in giving weird or meaningless made-up names. (Amadeus anyone? Pokoi? Kynaston?)

However, now, at 38 weeks incubation, I suddenly realised the baby could arrive anytime he likes, expected due date be damned. It has caused me great anxiety, namely because I would much rather a January baby than a December one. This is for purely idiosyncratic reasons such as: I like January because it feels much fresher and nicer, and I don't like December, which carries an air of staleness and reeks of endings.

It is with bated breath that I count down the days to the new year, hoping that the baby will be most cooperative and stay in for just another few days.

My level of fretfulness fluctuates according to what people have been telling me, eg:
"First babies usually come early."
"First babies usually come late."
"Boys usually come early."
"Boys usually come late."

Also, I was told the Resident Bureaucrat arrived a whole 20 days early, which made me get into a frenzied tizzy, because if kanjiongness is inherited, my dreams of a January baby will all be over. On the other hand, I myself was 10 days late and had to be induced. So I live in the hope that, taking the average of the both of us, the baby will come just at the right time.

To compensate for his kanjiong genes, which could jolly well be passed down to the baby, the Resident Bureaucrat has been trying to coax the baby to come out only in January by telling him things such as:
"Baby, you must come out only next year okay? You know what is next year? It's when people say Happy New Year! And then they will sing Auld Lang Syne. You know? Happy New Year! Happy New Year!

"When you hear Happy New Year, then you can come out!"

Which was when I told the Resident Bureaucrat that he'd better stop saying Happy New Year now, or the baby may think it's really the New Year and that now's the time to come out.

Another of his attempts to persuade the baby to stay in goes like this:

The Resident Bureaucrat: Baby, you can't come out now, or else you'll have to sleep in the street, you know? Your bed is not ready.

Me: That's not true. The bed is ready wat!

He: Shhh (with a wink). Baby, there are dogs in the streets. And cats. And rats. And the dogs are much bigger than you. So you have to stay in until your bed is ready, okay? The bed is nice and big and comfortable. You will like it.

Me: (Rolls eyes)

So anyway, I will breathe much more easily the moment we cross over to 2010. Please fate, please don't make fun of me by letting the baby arrive at 11.55pm on the 31st of December.

And if the baby is really so kanjiong as to want out, like, in the next few days, please let him be the first of 2010 as opposed to the last of 2009. Milk powder companies never sponsor babies born on the last day of the year.

So baby, be good.

2009-12-15T22:19:00.004+08:00

Don't play play. These chic peas are the latest in cutting edge fashion, okay?

2009-12-12T21:41:00.009+08:00

So the Resident Bureaucrat aka Shah Rukh Khan went and did his dance during the staff night last night.

During the dress rehearsal two hours before the performance, the choreographer, realising his bunch of untrained dancers couldn't cut it, decided to simplify the dance steps. Which resulted in more confusion because not only was the quality of the dancers suspect to begin with, they couldn't remember the new steps as well.

So it was utter pandemonium when the motley crew were pushed onto stage and started writhing away to their own rhythm. It may or may not be a Bollywood dance that they were performing. It could have been a funky chicken dance, as far as everyone was concerned.

But it made people laugh, and I guess to that end, it achieved its aim.

And then, as a bonus, Shah Rukh Khan, who was wearing a Punjabi suit loaned to him, won the Best Dressed award at the end of the night, and a $30 voucher.

I pointed out that the Punjabi suit was not his, so strictly speaking, he didn't actually deserve to win the prize. But he told me to shut up, so I changed the topic and clamoured to see a video clip of his dance, which I heard some brazen staff had actually videotaped with a professional video camera despite being given strict orders not to.

However, I was denied the watching of the video clip. Apparently, Shah Rukh Khan issued a gag order after the filming.

Drats.

But fear not. I will try my very best to get my hands on that videoclip, even if it means impersonating the Resident Bureaucrat and emailing the videographer for it. Watch this space.

2009-12-08T12:17:00.025+08:00

A while ago, I went for a prenatal class held in an intimate small-group setting, during which we were made to share with the group our fears about labour and our emotional motivations for being in the class. Emotional motivations, mind you. It was not enough to just say I wanted to take this class to learn how to have a smooth labour. It had to be about my innermost heartfelt reasons for wanting a smooth labour.

All that deep sharing with strangers made me feel like I was in an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, except this is Pregnant Women Anonymous.

(Me: "Hello everyone, I'm K and I'm a pregnant woman!"
Everyone: "Hello, K!")

That session was hard. I have no fear of labour (at least not that I know of. Maybe I'm in denial). My only fear, really, is that I will go hungry during labour.

But during the class, I found myself caving in to group pressure and blathering all sorts of stuff peppered with words such as "empowerment".

(Actually, after that scary session, the class turned out to be really quite useful after all.)

Anyway, I've decided that I'm going to eat during labour*. How is one supposed to do such hard work on an empty stomach anyway? As it is, if it's nearing lunchtime at work and I don't get food, I get cranky and my productivity plunges to near zero.

I haven't packed my hospital bag yet, but the first thing that's going in a box of chicken biscuits, which I bought a few weeks ago, and which sits temptingly on my kitchen counter now. I've stayed off chicken biscuits for a good three years (yay, me!), but I figure being in labour is a special enough occasion to warrant such a treat. Not a wise thing to do, of course. But then, I'm not a wise person.

Other assorted food items that will be going into the bag will be a six-pack milo, and probably some chocolate.

I know I'm treating this labour thing like I'm going for a picnic. But might as well make the best of the situation.

And you never go wrong with food.

*I may or may not have an appetite come labour day, but my motto when it comes to food is: "Be prepared".

2009-12-07T11:04:00.035+08:00

After I read Ms Crummb's post about her luscious Earl Grey Pound Cake, I begged for a taste of it, so she gave me a loaf last week, which I took home and had for breakfast the next day.

After I ate one slice, I licked up the crumbs on the plate.

The cake had a delectable fragrance of Earl Grey, and was, in fact, speckled with bits of the tea leaf, which not only explained the aroma, but also gave the confection an intriguing texture. It had just enough butter to scream "decadent" (but not hedonistic, mind you). And don't forget the secret ingredient, which, alas, looks set to remain secret. But you just have to know, whatever that magic potion is, it makes the cake mind-blowingly moist despite the fact that it had been refrigerated overnight.

I could have told the Resident Bureaucrat the cake sucked and kept it all to myself, but being the extremely nice person I was, I made him have a slice instead. While I had another one myself. What, I couldn't leave him eating alone, could I?

By the next day, there were only two slices left for the both of us. Two slices cut unevenly, one slightly bigger than the other.

As I eyed the two pieces with a greed that was teetering on the edge of lust, I hoped that the Resident Bureaucrat will do his usual thing of insisting that I take the bigger portion.

He did, and I, struck by a bout of gluttony-induced loss of decorum, didn't even try to demur out of faked politeness. I grabbed the bigger piece and gobbled it up before he could change his mind.

Good cake does this to you.

Afternote: Just when I was wondering where my next Earl Grey Pound Cake fix was going to come from, Ms Crummb informed me that she will be open for business from the second half of next year! Hooray for my taste buds! Watch here for details!

2009-12-03T15:50:00.013+08:00

The Resident Bureaucrat's one-sided trans-uterine conversations with the baby:

"Baby*, father caught a cockroach just now."
(Father? What are we, in the 18th century?
"Better than saying 爹and 娘", says Ms C.)

"Violence is prohibited."
(Said when the baby kicks.)

"Baby, it's midnight now, can you please sleep? You make me very scared, you know."
(I did point out to the Resident Bureaucrat that it's certainly not helping the baby's sleep pattern to have someone talking to him every day at midnight, is it?)

"Baby, father ask you to sleep, why don't you sleep? See, now your mother is scolding me because you don't want to sleep. If you don't want the both of us to get scolded, can you go to sleep now?"

"Baby, father is going to sleep now. Father is very tired from working."

"Baby, next time we go and play soccer together, but we bluff your mother say we go and revise homework okay?"
(See, this is the kind or person I married.)

Things I say to the baby:
"Baby, your father is going to dance Indian dance**"."

*Imagine the identity crisis the baby would have when he realises his name is not really Baby, but something else.

**The Resident Bureaucrat and a few other colleagues have been arrowed by the powers-that-be at work to perform an Indian dance on their staff night, presumably solely for the amusement of the other non-dancing colleagues.

The dance involves a choreographer and real Indian costumes and a proposed three practice sessions of 2 hours each. Don't pray pray hor.

It has been suggested that the Resident Bureaucrat aka Shah Rukh Khan hurry up and volunteer to be a tree, which is way better than having to dance but he didn't get around to doing it, for reasons best known to himself. So dance, he will.

I have been trying to wrangle an invitation to the staff night, but have been flatly turned down. I hope someone YouTubes it for posterity.

2009-12-02T13:53:00.009+08:00

My twin and I do a detailed analysis on the science of the appetite:

Me: Can you believe how nuah i am. im hungry but i cannot get up to go buy food! and i cant even decide wat to eat!

My twin: hahahahhaha yes, sometimes i will try to imagine eating various foods to see which will whet my appetite but nothing works! then i just feel hungry and disatisfied!

Me: ya!!!!!!! hahahahahahah i do that all the time!!!!!!!!!!!!

My twin: the best thing to do in situations like these is to watch some food porn then you will wanna eat whatever was on tv

Me: muahahahahaahhahaahahahahaha. you are so right, you know!!!!!!!!!!! everytime i watch those food programmes while eating dinner, suddenly my food will seem not appetising at all! and i want to eat what's on screen!

My twin: ya!!! discovery travel and living has these programmes where one whole episode is devoted to one food, like the best steak in US or the best pizza and then all i want is steak and pizza!!!!

Me: ya!!!!!!!!!! hahahahahahaha

Foodies united!

2009-11-29T10:44:00.007+08:00

I asked the Resident Bureaucrat to take a close-up shot of my tummy, and this is what he took.

What is this?! A giant felt mothball?!

"You wanted a closeup shot wat," he said.

Trust these civil servants to take things so literally.

2009-11-27T19:22:00.003+08:00

The Resident Bureaucrat: This Tommy Train, is he a human being?

Me: You just called him a train!!!

2009-11-26T19:11:00.018+08:00

I am very cheong hei and like to use 10 sentences when 5 words will do. But maybe this meme will force me to be succint, me thinks. Tagged by my twin.

where is your phone?
table

your hair?
short

your mother?
singapore

your father?
also

your favourite food?
fattening

your dream last night?
food

your favourite drink?
soybean

your dream/goal?
sharp-shooter

what room are you in?
office

your hobby?
blogging

your fear?
paranormal

where do you want to be in 6 years?
bliss

where were you last night?
bed

something that you're not?
wise

muffins?
no

wish list item?
none

where did you grow up?
singapore

last thing you did?
eat

what are you wearing?
clothes

your tv?
love

your pets?
none

friends?
good

your life?
non-existent

your mood?
restless

missing someone?
nope

vehicle?
feet

something you're not wearing?
jewellery

your favourite store?
Kinokuniya

your favourite colour?
orange

the last time you cried?
emo

your best friend?
rb

one place that i go to over and over?
dreamland

facebook?
love-hate

favourite place to eat?
home

2009-11-25T12:30:00.015+08:00

More random things about pregnancy and babies:

1. Suddenly, everyone around me is pregnant. At last count: four current and one former colleague, two close secondary school, two JC and one NUS classmate, the wife of a former school mate and at least five other people whom I know are pregnant but don't know so well.
Grand total: 15.

Even more coincidentally, one colleague is due two weeks before me, another, two weeks after. And one of my JC classmates is due two weeks after me, the other, one month after.

I suspect the government has put something in the tap water. If you are not planning to get pregnant, buy bottled mineral water.

2. We have a list of names for the baby, but we cannot decide on one. So we resorted to the highly unscientific method of reading the names out to the baby and when he kicks, we take it that he approves. This method doesn't work. The baby liked the name Ah Zhu, which we threw in to act as a control.

So we asked him to 托梦to me, but all I dreamt about for several consecutive nights was food. (One particularly vivid dream had me eating from a buffet spread.)

3. I was sure I would not get all pregnancy-emo. But I found myself choking back tears over a soppy MediaCorp Channel 8 advertisment one night. And it was not even an ad that featured babies (human or animal) or pregnant women. Fortunately, it was a one-off event. Now that you know this, I will have to kill you. I have a reputation to maintain.

4. That day, I had to take a blood test and had to brace myself for the pinprick on my finger because as we know, nothing hurts more than having your finger poked. I am so well prepared for labour.

5. I will not go into smug pregnant woman/smug Mummy mode and simper endlessly about the wonders of motherhood or preach with evangelistic fervour to child-free couples about the joys of babies, or bug them by incessantly asking: "When is it your turn?"

6. I was asked whether I was going to let the baby sleep on my bed. I don't know. I nearly suffocated the Resident Bureaucrat in his sleep one night; I had carelessly tossed some pillows in his direction, which ended up covering his face. He was so tired, and so deeply in sleep, he carried on sleeping. Another 10 minutes, and he might have been a goner.

Thankfully, I was having a restless night and was tossing and turning when I discovered my little accident and removed the pillows in time. Bad person! Bad person!

7. I detest baby clothing/accessories printed with words such as "Daddy's Darling" or "I Love Daddy" or "I'm so cute" or "If You Think I'm Cute, You Should See My Mummy".

Okay, I get it. The kid's cute and Daddy/Mummy is such a wisecrack.

But anyway, I propose these alternative wordings:
- "I Love My Mummy (yeah, right)" (for Sarcastic Baby)
- "I Didn't Ask To Be Born" (for Emo Baby)
- "Not having teeth sucks. All they feed me is mash" (for bibs)

And then, believe it or not, that day, at Cotton On Kids, I found baby tops with the words "I'm A Tits Man" and "I Love Boobies" emblazoned across the front. Classy.

(Don't worry, I didn't actually buy those risque tops. I say say only. I did buy two shirts that said: "Spit Happens" and "Milk Junkie" though.)

8. The Resident Bureaucrat says I should take the kid to go watch Thomas and Friends live perfomances when he's older. Except that the Resident Bureaucrat calls it "Tommy Train". He has a lot to learn.

9. I told a colleague I had only six more weeks to go. She replied: "Six more weeks and your life will be changed forever."

It sounded like a gypsy curse to me.

10. Ms M says: 孕妇大过天. True or not, never mind. This, I like.

2009-11-24T22:43:00.004+08:00

I was reading my twin's blog with her latest post and left it open on the screen when I walked away for a while. The Resident Bureaucrat walked past and happened to read it, and he thought he was reading my blog.

Never mind that I'm not actually living with the sister and the parents mentioned in the post. Makes you wonder what alternate reality he is living in.

2009-11-15T12:21:00.021+08:00

To add to my previous post about being stalked by milk powder companies, shortly after, I received an email from one of those companies inviting me to join as a member of its online mother and baby club. I was provided a log in name and a temporary password, so I went into its website out of curiosity.

The moment I logged in, I was taken to a page where all my personal particulars were flashed on the screen. My address, my mobile phone number, my IC number, my date of birth. What else do you know about me, evil milk powder company?? Do you know my bra size too??

To add to this, three minutes after I logged on to the website, I received an SMS from evil milk powder company thanking me for logging in. I is very scared. Big Brother is watching!

(I know I probably filled up all these details somewhere or other, which I now dearly regret, but seriously, evil milk powder company, like, leave me alone already.)

If you do not hear from me again, you can assume I have been abducted by evil milk powder company and may have been bound and gagged in an abandoned warehouse and forced to drink its milk every day until I agree that its milk tastes good and is nutritious and that I will order a lifetime supply of the vile formula.

Help!

2009-11-13T13:42:00.091+08:00

Random thoughts about pregnancy and babies:

1. I will not address the baby as "my prince*". As far as I know, I neither have blue blood flowing in my veins nor is the Resident Bureaucrat from a pedigreed lineage. Sorry boy, you have no claims to the throne.

*Feel free to prefix the word Prince with various pukesome terms of endearment: Precious, darling, beloved etc.

2. Any water I drink will make its way to my bladder in no more than 5 minutes, and then demand to be released immediately. The process is accelerated when the baby bounces on my bladder with his head. The problem is exacerbated 10 times when I wake up at 4am with a bladder so full, it hurts. But it hurts even more to get up and go to the loo because any movement will mean compressing my bladder even more. So I lie in bed, willing myself to get up, but not quite willing to move. Truly one of the greatest joys of pregnancy.

3. I no longer have to suck in my stomach after a meal. Heck, I'm supposed to have a tummy. This, I like.

4. If I turn into one of those proud mummies who go around insisting people watch video clips of the baby sitting on a potty, please feel free to slap me. I will not retaliate.

5. I will miss being pregnant. I love to feel and see the baby rolling around inside me, looking like an alien's about to burst through my belly button. But I can't wait to get back to my former life of debauchery consisting of daily caffeine abuse. Okay, it's not exactly illegal or even close to being hedonistic, but I need a vice, and since I don't smoke, drink or go pubbing, this is it.

6. I am sorely disappointed that I have been and still am unable to eat for two, because as you know, food is the highlight of my life. I completely lost my appetite in the beginning (no morning sickness though, thank goodness), slowly gained it back only somewhat and now that I'm beginning to want to eat again, the baby is squashing all available stomach space and giving me a natural gastric bypass.

7. That night, I lay down on the floor, then I couldn't get up. I tried rolling from side to side and rocking around but I couldn't get up. The Resident Bureaucrat? He laughed.

8. Pregnancy brain? Not me! My brain was already conked even before I got pregnant.

9. The Resident Bureaucrat says I remind him of a panda.

Which part? I asked.

"The tummy."

Some people have a death wish.

10. I have been pelted with free pregnant women milk powder samples left right and centre. The milk powder samples are disgusting. The powder never really dissolves, leaving lumps floating in my mug, and the taste is truly vile too, like a very watered down version of a McDonald's vanilla-flavoured milk shake. Don't even get me started on the chocolate flavoured milk powder.

I have tried giving the samples away, but no one wants them. I dont like to waste food, so every now and then, I reluctantly take out one packet and drink it. But I'm not sure milk powder laced with artificial flavourings and sugar - second on the ingredients list, after milk - does you any good. Hello, milk powder companies, do the words gestational diabetes mean anything? Not that I have it, but I don't think it's exactly right to encourage pregnant women to drink sweetened stuff, even if it's milk.

"Is it supposed imitate the taste of breast milk?" asked the Resident Bureaucrat. In the first place, why would a pregnant woman want to drink breast-milk flavoured liquids? And since when does breast milk come in vanilla and chocolate flavours?

Milk powder companies stalk you too. Besides the usual advertising mailers consisting of things such as a booklet of baby names, pregnancy charts and more milk powder samples, one night, I found a hand-delivered milk powder promotional brochure in my letter box. It felt a bit like a kidnap-ransom note. "Buy our milk powder, or we will continue to stalk you."

And then there are the weekly SMSes that exclaim in bright cheery tones that "time flies, you are now 32 weeks! Remember to eat healthily!" This, I find scary, because I can't even keep track of how many weeks I myself am, and here you are, milk powder company stalker, you know how many weeks I am. Who are you? Why are you keeping track of my pregnancy? What else do you know about me? Are you reading my blog too??

However, I think I will be using the free changing mats and bibs that the milk powder companies handed out. I'm shameless (and cheapskate) in ways like these.

2009-11-13T11:03:00.014+08:00

I'm back at it again, culling ridiculous letters from the online forum of a local newspaper. Check out today's offering:

Fire and the danger of having multiple locks
MOST homes are heavily secured with multiple locks. As in the case of the Balestier fire ('Maid rescued from burning flat', Sunday), most people panic, cannot find their keys in the dark and find it difficult to get out.

Blocking or padlocking an exit door of a public facility will surely attract a penalty from the authorities as it will hinder escape in the event of fire. Yet in many homes, the main door, which is the only exit, is secured with multiple locks.

If there is a blackout in a flat due to a fire, anyone trapped inside will first have to locate the keys in the dark, then fiddle through the bunch to find the first one and insert it in the keyhole. This is followed by the other keys. By then, the person may be unconscious or suffocated by smoke.

We should not rely on multiple locks that may prevent us from getting out alive in the event of a fire. If one invests in a good quality lever door lock, one may need no other lock or padlock.

I hope the authorities will look into the real danger of homes heavily secured with multiple locks.

Name withheld

------------------

That's right! The authorities should form a government committee to look into this! Institute laws to ban people from locking their front doors if need be. Think of the countless lives saved if your house catches fire, which, as we know, is so common, it's almost like an everyday occurence.

L says: "Everything also want the government to do for you. Do you want the government to clean your backside for you too?"

That's a brilliant idea too! The government should form a task force to look into that! After all, it's our privilege as mindless, unthinking citizens to call upon the government for help for anything! Tis good to be a citizen here.

2009-11-03T13:45:00.015+08:00

While concurrently following a Channel 55 Hong Kong drama serial, Moonlight Resonance aka 家好月元, and Heart Of Greed aka 溏心风暴 which was showing on Channel 8 at the same time slot (we taped it), the Resident Bureaucrat and I had this conversation:

Me (pointing to man on screen): This Guan Jia Gong. What's his name in 溏心风暴?

Him: Alfred.

Me: Ah yes, Alfred! And his girlfriend leh?

Him: Chang Zai Xin.

Me: Oh ya, and now she's Yu Su Qiu in 家好月元. Haha, and now they're together again in this show.

Him (pointing to woman on screen): This woman, is she Shui Bai Bai in 溏心风暴?

Me: No, this one not her. Shui Bai Bai was Madam, aka Xiao Rou in Forensic Heroes.

Him: I thought this one is Shui Bai Bai.

Me: Haiyah, this one is another person lah. (Pointing to another woman on screen) Then this Xiao Yue is Ah Hua, you know in the PTS show last time. She's Jackie in 溏心风暴. The married model, you know?

Him: Ya okay. What PTS show?

Me: You know, Li Sir! And got Zhong Liwen and Li Boqiao! Li Boqiao is Li Sir's son! Oh ya and this Hong Jie in 家好月元 is Zhong Liwen's mother in the PTS show!

Him: Can't remember lah.

Me: (Pointing to man on screen) Jiao Jiao!

Him: Who's Jiao Jiao?

Me: That guy who fooled around with Jackie in Tang Xin Feng Bao!

Him: Can't recognise leh.

Me: Look carefully! There, look, he's this doctor lor, Zhi Xin! He's Jiao Jiao in 溏心风暴! How come you're so lousy one. How come I can keep track of all the characters of the show, you can't?

Him: Who can watch as much TV as you?

2009-10-22T16:25:00.019+08:00

Someone pointed out to me a Danish website about a Christmas fair, whose text was translated into English by Google.

Hidden among the gibberish of translated text was this sentence: Elves really hump this year. At one point they even had to shorten their nap a few hours to get everything.

And the subhead for this paragraph was: Behind Santa Claus stands elves.

Oh those naughty elves. And Santa, you really should know better at your age...

And then after I read those naughty sentences, everything in the text seemed to be brimming over with innuendoes, even if none was to be found.

Sentences such as: The elves actually managed to make the rest of the garden even more adventurous. It is the elves who make things happen at Christmas. Everyone knows that. Why do you now that if there sits an elf in Tivoli and hang around with your head, so it is not because it's bored, but because it takes a well deserved nap.

I truly have a gutter mind.

2009-10-20T16:55:00.030+08:00

I've read in books and forums that when you first detect your baby moving, it feels like "flutters of butterfly wings", "bubbles bursting", "popcorn popping", or some other cute terms to describe gentle little movements.

When I first felt my baby moving, there was nothing cute or gentle about the way it felt like he was punching me with as much strength as he can muster in those 5cm-long arms and legs of his. It was as if he was attempting a jail break by trying to bop his way out.

And then when he grew bigger, things got even more violent.

Now, on days when he's feeling restless, he sends tsunami waves surging across my tummy, making it contort into peaks and troughs. My belly crests, and then it comes crashing down, sending ripples all around. Like the perfect storm.

To add to that, he is fond of using my internal organs as his punching bag. There goes my bladder.

On other days, the calmer ones, it merely feels like someone is rolling a bowling ball around, or sometimes, doing inline skating inside me. And when I lie in positions that the baby does not agree with, I feel this scrabbling motion, like he's trying to dig his way out of rubble.

My baby is an angry, Stewie-esque sort of tot.

When told about the restless kicking, the Resident Bureacrat went into proud father mode and said: "The baby has character," to which I retorted, "character your head lah."

Oops, did I just say that? What I meant to say was: "Have a nice day!"

2009-10-13T10:06:00.010+08:00

Ever since he went to Club Med almost two years ago, the Resident Bureaucrat has been hankering to go back. Whenever Club Med mails us brochures or special offers, he will cling on to them lovingly. That day, we received another mailer, which he read, and then deliberately left where I could see it. When I ignored it, he said: "Don't you want to read it?"

So I told him: "Whole day want to go Club Med. Lu eh tou lah, got baby coming in January, want to go what go!"

He replied that Club Med has got an Infant Club to which I retorted: "Infant Club your si lang tou lah."

Speaking of which, I think it's time we cleaned up our speech. No more saying things such as "your si lang tou", "you think this is your grandfather's (fill in the blanks)" or "把你打死".
I have to also stop calling a feckless former boss "the f*ckwit".

I must stress that the Resident Bureaucrat utters a fair bit of uncivilities too, but to protect his reputation, this is as much as I will reveal.

That day, when we were having another of our mini squabbles, I saw him open his mouth to say something unpalatable again, when I reminded him that the baby can now hear what we say.

He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, searching for something nicer to say.

When he was unable to find the words, he decided to settle for "have a nice day."

I think we are doomed. It's going to be such an uphill battle.

Maybe if we whispered, the baby won't hear.

2009-10-08T16:50:00.047+08:00

I went swimming with the Resident Bureaucrat one night, and whenever we swam past each other, he would shout "Baby!" at me, very loudly, just to annoy me.

Picture this scene: A man stripped down to his swim trunks shouting "baby!" at a passing woman, who is, by the way, so submerged in the water, no one can see she's pregnant.

What does that look like? Like he's a horrible lecher and I, a victim of sexual harassment, that's what. This is so not good for either of our reputations.

Speaking of sexual harrassment, the Resident Bureaucrat had a narrow escape at the pool last week when he went to take a shower after his swim.

He had hung his clothes and toiletries on the clothes hook right outside his cubicle and after he soaped, he stepped out to get his shampoo when he noticed that someone was occupying the stall right next to his. That person had also disturbed his belongings, causing them to drop to the bench below.

He realised that the entire bathroom was empty save for him and that other person, and began to feel a little suspicious about that person's choice of cubicles right next to his. But he carried on with his shower, when suddenly, a hand slid under the partition dividing the two cubicles, and beckoned slowly and deliberately, palm up, to the Resident Bureaucrat.

Alarmed, he pressed himself against the opposite wall of the cubicle.

When the hand could not elicit a response from him, it retreated, and a pair of legs took its place, sliding menacingly towards the Resident Bureaucrat from under the partition. (For the legs to be sliding that way, that person must have been seated on the ground on the other side.)

This made the Resident Bureaucrat really annoyed, so he shouted loudly at the pair of legs, which hurriedly retracted along with a muttered "sorry sorry!" from next door. Not content with just shouting at the legs however, the Resident Bureaucrat stepped out of the shower stall to see who the legs belonged to, and he came face to face with a pale bespectacled young man who couldn't have been more than 20 and who apparently wasn't in possession of very good taste.

Luckily for the young man, the Resident Bureaucrat is a pacifist, and so he got away unscathed.

Nonetheless, I blame this on the Resident Bureaucrat's bad habit of taking very long showers - both at home and at the swimming pool. He claims he likes to take things leisurely, but I think he is really secretly doing facials in there. Anyway, maybe this might teach him not to linger too long in the bathroom next time.

2009-10-07T11:07:00.013+08:00

I think I'll go mad if I see the phrase "baby of love" or "product of love" one more time.

How come no one calls their offspring a "baby of a night of drunken revelry"? Or a "product of that time when someone was too lazy to go and fetch the birth control but the couple just went ahead anyway thinking that you don't even get this lucky buying 4D"?

Seriously.

2009-10-05T22:13:00.009+08:00

Random conversation #1:

Me: My back hurts. And it's becoming very tiring to walk long distances now.
The Resident Bureaucrat: It will get worse.

(Truly comforting words in my times of need.)

Random conversation #2:

Me: I was reading this person's blog, her husband took her out for a buffet to celebrate her entering the third trimester. How come you never take me to a buffet?
The Resident Bureaucrat: You are eating all the time anyway what.
Me: Then they went on the Singapore Flyer.
The Resident Bureaucrat: You never sit the Singapore Flyer before meh?

I think this is why I love this man but sometimes feel like bashing his head in.

2009-10-02T17:26:00.005+08:00

This is a real letter from the Dear Abby advice column. The letter's not meant to be funny, but I find the reply is hilarious.

WOMAN'S SHOCKING DISCOVERY PUTS MAN IN UNMARKED GRAVE

DEAR ABBY: For 15 years I was a happily married homemaker with a wonderful husband. "Duncan" and I attended church together, frolicked through the fields, even exterminated rodents together. He was my best friend. It was bliss.Last year I found out my father had had an affair with Duncan's mother the year I was born, which makes him my half-brother! The news was too much for my husband. He had a fatal heart attack not long after.What should I put on his gravestone -- "Loving Brother" or "Loving Husband"? -- GRIEVING IN MASSACHUSETTS

DEAR GRIEVING: Neither. How about "He was 'Everything' to me"? That should about cover it.

2009-10-02T10:56:00.016+08:00

A random conversation:

Me: Dem, I have to go for office fire drill.
L: You are pregnant, you don't have to go wat.
Me: You think pregnant women are fireproof izzit??

In a related incident, after a successful office fire drill, staff received this mail from the security manager:

--------
On behalf of the Fire Safety Committee, I must thank all staff for the fine efforts in response to the fire drill held this morning.

To all the Fire Wardens, thank you too for doing a wonderful job.

In the after-actions report, the committee members were pleased that the fire drill was successfully carried out. The SCDF officers from the fire station commented too that the drill was very well executed though they did noticed that some staff were already at the Main Lobby before the alarm bells rang. Due to the full cooperation from everyone, we were able to complete the entire drill in about 20 minutes.

The last person to leave the building proper was 7 minutes after the alarm had started ringing continuously, compared to 7.5 minutes last year. This is a commendable achievement !
Once again, "Thank You" to all staff for making today’s fire drill, a success !

Cheers !

Security & Safety Manager

--------

Yay!!!!!!! Half a minute shaved off! None of us will turn into BBQ fare!

2009-09-21T23:58:00.019+08:00

I was at some shop that sold baby stuff when I came across a shelf loaded with baby enrichment CDs and DVDs.

One of the demo DVDs was playing on a TV screen, which showed a red square against a white background, while a woman's unusually placid voice (it is possible that she had been heavily-sedated) intoned: "Reddddd" against an audio backdrop of Mozart's horn concerto.

A second's pause.

Then she went: "Gooooood."

The image switched to a blue square, while Sedated Woman droned on: "Bluuuuuuue."

"Gooooood."

The sedative voice coupled with the flashing coloured squares on the screen was starting to seem too hypnotic. It felt like a Hotel California situation where a voice subliminally tells you to worship the devil, or like a brain-washing video probably not unlike those used by cult groups to induct new believers.

At this point, I had to walk away because I didn't want to be inducted into the Cult of the Brainy Babies. I suspect my IQ does not qualify me for membership anyway, which would be a crushing blow to my ego. So better not to know.

2009-09-20T22:21:00.024+08:00

The Empress Dowager got out of the wrong side of bed one Sunday morning.

Feeling hungry and grouchy, she ordered her serf aka the Resident Bureaucrat to go to the kitchen, get her a muffin for breakfast and serve it to her in bed. And to please warm it beforehand.

He did so, and presented the warmed-up muffin to her on a plate with a fork so she could eat it without dirtying her fingers. So she yelled at him for not peeling off the muffin wrapper before serving it to her. He respectfully pointed out that he did. She took a closer look, and he was right, he did peel it off, and she needs to get her vision fixed.

But the Empress Dowager never admits that she's wrong, so she dismissed him with a "退下!"

As he backed out of the room, the Empress Dowager's auntie, who comes and helps clean the house, was outside the room. She had heard the shouting, and she drew the Resident Bureaucrat to one side and said to him in a consolatory whisper: "Pregnant women are like that one, they have very strange tempers."

What? Talking behind the Empress Dowager's back? Off with her head! And off with his!

2009-09-17T18:02:00.005+08:00

I'm not one to coo over babies, but meet the cutest baby in the world...

2009-09-16T16:38:00.048+08:00

Besides being the land of sausages, beer and speeding, Germany is also the land of smokers. (According to Lonely Planet, a horrifying one-third of Germans smoke.)

While the air was okay in the countryside, the pollution in Munich was bad enough to choke a horse.

Second hand smoke was everywhere there - in the smoke-free train station, with smoke drifting in from outside; in our hotel, where smoke from the poorly ventilated reception area spired all the way to the lift lobby on the sixth floor; on the streets, any street; in al fresco dining places; in the parks; and - get this - in petrol stations (yes, people actually smoked in petrol stations. Watching them, I feared for my own life.)

People also smoked while driving, cycling and around babies.

It is possible they subscribe to a national philosophy that too much fresh air is bad for you.

But I kind of like it that fresh air is odourless, so I was slowly asphyxiating in Munich. Until I arrived in Salzburg in Austria and encountered people smoking under no-smoking signs in restaurants, and waitresses who give you strange looks if you ask for a non-smoking section.

(And oh yes, the people in Salzburg smoke at petrol stations too).

Then, I was actually glad to get back into Germany, where at least people didn't smoke in restaurants and that I could eat a meal that smells like what it's supposed to smell like.

My last souvenir from the country was a lungful of nicotine-laden smoke, courtesy of a Frankfurt airport shuttle bus that lingered with its doors open for 10 minutes right next to a smoker's area.

Truly, this country takes my breath away.

Afternote: I have been traumatised so badly that until now, I cannot think of Munich without experiencing an increased heart rate accompanied by a gnawing sense of anxiety. The horror.

2009-09-14T18:23:00.006+08:00

Random Berchtesgaden photos:

Raindrops on the window and of our rented car.

Reflection of the hotel we stayed at.

Our hotel, with an almost unnaturally pretty sky that day.

Plants and fruit on sale at shops in the town centre.

We also spotted many of these small stalls around the Bavaria selling pumpkins, squashes and gourds of all kinds. Suaku Singaporean, had to get out and take photos because never see before.

Near the Berchtesgaden town centre is a 500-year-old underground salt mine which you can visit. First, you don a miner's overall, then ride a train deep underground, where you slide down this very steep wooden slide to even deeper underground. I was determined to slide down, pregnant or not, but when I saw how steep it was, I lost all my guts and decided to take the stairs instead. I'm too young to die.

This photo shows a salt lake in an underground cavern. This man-made lake was created by pumping in water underground to dissolve the salt, and then pumping the salt water out to harvest the mineral. The water in this salt lake was so calm, so glassy, what you are seeing in the water is actually a reflection of the cave roof.

2009-09-14T00:27:00.022+08:00

The stupid Asian tourist resurfaced on a trip to Lake Konigsee in Berchtesgaden, armed with her trusty fold-up umbrella, which won quite a few smiles of bemusement from the other ang moh tourists there. (It is also possible that they thought they thought they were being baited on Candid Camera.)

But in my defence, the sun was heatstroke-inducing that day. Those ang mohs were probably not used to the idea of an umbrella being used as a sunshade, but what the hell, they probably don't live in a country where the sun is a killer all year round and shade is a luxury.

At Lake Konigsee, the cleanest lake in Germany, you could take a cruise around it and get off at two islands - St Barthaloma, and Salet Alm.

St Bartholoma.

Outdoor beer garden/restaurant on St Bartholoma which serves fish freshly caught from the lake. The stupid Asian tourist sat indoors (but of course) surrounded by empty tables - everyone else was outdoors basking in the heat.

Ducks at St Bartholoma.

Salet Alm, the other island, was less developed and consisted of a gorgeous lake Obersee which you had to hike 15 minutes under the blazing sun to reach. Which was when the umbrella came out. Did I mention that while all the other ang mohs were appropriately dressed in hiking shoes and gear, the stupid Asian tourist was in a flouncy dress complete with pretty shoes?

Lake Obersee.

An alpine cafe on Salet Alms.

Little girl who looks like she's got the weight of the world on her shoulders.

2009-09-11T19:11:00.052+08:00

My baby is vegetarian and will not allow me to eat meat, although God knows, I still try to sneak some past him. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

What works: Thin slices of charsiew, wantons, shredded chicken breast and hamburgers from fast food chains (because as we know, what passes for a meat patty is really ground up sawdust and other unidentified non-meat substances.)

What does not work: Pork knuckles, sausages and schnitzel. The baby knows when I attempt to eat large quanties of meat and he makes his disapproval known by activating my gag reflex when I try to swallow my food. Bad baby.

And then as Murphy's Law would have it, I end up travelling to meat-loving Germany (but of course), where I nearly die of starvation. (The trip was planned way before the baby was even a glint in his father's eye, by the way, and I couldn't cancel it - the trip that is, not the baby. Unless I forfeited my air ticket, which I didn't want to, because I am currently in the throes of extreme poverty.)

The main reason I didn't die in Germany was the one-Asian-meal*-a-day routine we kept to every single day of the trip, but that didn't mean I wasn't hungry a lot though.

I often woke up at four or five in the morning, Germany time, with horrible gnawing hunger pangs. The first two nights, I survived on the cheese and crackers and the buns and little tubs of butter and jam pinched from the plane and stuffed surreptitiously into my carry on luggage when the flight attendants weren't looking. But when my pilfered food ran out, I had to raid the supermarket, and the most nutritious food I could think of buying was milk.

It was surprisingly hard to buy milk in Germany though, because all the milk came fresh and needed to be refrigerated, which is hard to do when travelling. None of that 250ml Tetra Pak Daisy milk that you get in Singapore.

So when I finally found some Tetra Pak packets of chocolate milk, I swiped six packets at one go. Those didn't last long though, and soon, I was back at another supermarket looking for more Tetra Pak milk. No luck this time.

But I did find a whole shelf of these attractive looking glass bottles containing what looked like milk. I can't read German, but I saw the words "kondensierte vollmilch" on the label, and I recognised the word "milch", which means milk. And I took the words "17% fettfreie" to mean "17% fat free", which I guessed meant the milk was either full cream or low fat. One of those.

And I figured (with some help from the Heidi-lookalike ang gong kia on the label) that the word "alpenmilch" referred to "alpine milk" - that is, milk from cows reared in the Alps. (So clever, right, me).

All these clues point to the fact that that white stuff in the bottle was milk, right? Right?? So I bought it.

But when I opened up the milk, it tasted weird. It was a tad too sweet and had the thickened consistency of milk that had gone slightly off. It didn't taste sour though, just slightly too concentrated for milk. Like supercharged milk.

The Resident Bureaucrat took a sip and said, has this milk gone bad?

And I said, surely not; I just opened it and it looks fine what. And it doesn't taste sour.

So I drank it all up because I was so hungry. It did taste funny though.

The strange milk was always at the back of my mind, and I had this vague suspicion that what I drank wasn't really milk. So I took the empty bottle home and when I was back in Singapore, I went onto online translation webpage Babelfish and translated the German words on the milk bottle label.

"Kondensiert vollmilch" turns out to be condensed milk.

Who would have known, really.

It wasn't the type of sweetened, thickened condensed milk that we get in Singapore. Even I wouldn't be foolish enough to drink that. But I think what I drank that night was evaporated milk. You know, like the canned Carnation brand type that we get in Singapore.

It could have been worse though; I could have bought six bottles of that stuff at one go. I should be thankful for small mercies.

*In Germany, you can find Asian restaurants even in the most obscure of regions - all run by Chinese people, of course. And no matter which Asian restaurant you go to, the fare tastes like Chinese food. Japanese food tastes like Chinese food and Thai food tastes like Chinese food. The only exception is Chinese food, which does not taste like Chinese food, but like something that the Chinese whipped up to bluff the ang mohs.

2009-09-10T01:00:00.044+08:00

Photo of alpine lake Eibsee taken on a family holiday to Germany. Lake Eibsee is situated halfway to the top of Zugspitze, Germany's highest mountain.

Reaching the top of the Zugspitze is an adventure in itself which starts off with a ride on a packed train that chugs past verdant pastures with grazing cows against a backdrop of stunning mountains. Then, at Eibsee station midway up the mountain, you change to a cable car which dangles and swings precariously over a steep - and very scary looking - gorge before you finally reach the summit, which is so cold, there were icicles hanging over the edge of the buildings up there.

An LED display sign told us it was -4 deg C. In summer somemore.

At the top, you can gawp at the scenery, chill out in the cold (hur hur hur) at the open air beer garden, or eat at the many restaurants there, all with a view. It is said that from here, you can see the alps of four countries - Germany, Switzerland, Austria and Italy (but they all look the same to me no matter which direction I'm looking at). By the way, since Austria and Germany share the same peak, you can enter Austria here by going through a door that says "Welcome to Tirol". Talk about being borderless.

Oh, and you could also climb the highest highest peak in Germany (below), which is a rocky protuberance jutting out from the top, with a huge golden cross planted on it.

When the Resident Bureaucrat saw people doing the climb up to the cross, he decided to dice with death too. It probably escaped his attention that the majority of people who were attempting the climb were dressed like professional mountaineers - walking stick, hiking boots and a lot of other intimidating mountain-climbing paraphernalia that I cannot name. He, in the meanwhile, was wearing a pair of Doc Marts, a G2000 denim jacket, and was without gloves, walking stick, or for that matter, any other equipment that would have at least ensured the slightest modicum of safety up there.

As he made his way to the bottom of the rocky outcrop waiting his turn to scale it, my mother (the only one with sense, me thinks) kept shouting at him to "Don't do it! Come back!"

I pooh-poohed her and yelled at him to carry on.

Foolish me. My yet-to-be-born baby nearly became fatherless.

It was a climb that appeared deceptively easy while being, in reality, a precarious, life-jeopardising adventure. If anything, this warning sign should have signalled the dangers lying ahead.

(What this sign really means if that if you fall to your death, your insurance won't pay for it.)

The climb.

When the Resident Bureaucrat finally made it back safely (by sheer luck or because someone up there was watching out for him, we'll never know), he revealed that the other side of the rocky protuberance was a steep cliff with a sheer drop.

He was not lying.

Finally, at the top! Okay, so touch the golden cross already. Now what?

It was very cold at the peak, of course. But no matter how cold his ungloved hands were, the Resident Bureaucrat clung on to the guiding rope for dear life.

I now refer to the incident as the "Resident Bureaucrat's close shave with death". Although he insisted that he didn't "nearly die" as I liked to put it. But he keeps saying he "死里逃生". If that does not translate to "nearly died", I don't know what it translates to.

To get down from Zupspitze, you can go down by another way, which is to take a cable car to a Zugspitzeplatt, a glacier platform, then take the train down from there.

Another open air beer garden at Zugspitzeplatt.

One last photo: We spotted this cute little boy at the top of Zugspitze gleefully preparing to kill people below the railings by throwing huge chunks of ice over.

"Die, people below, die!"

Singapore Seen

2009-08-28T19:45:00.006+08:00

There has been a spate of stupidity in the past few days, and I feel it my job to document all instances of it. So I present, from my favourite* website Stomp.

Girl attacks BF in the groin over and over again - and he just stands there and takes it
This woman was seen standing outside her car, hitting her boyfriend in the groin repeatedly with her shoe, and he just took the hits without retaliating. She was also seen hitting him on the face. STOMPer James, who took videos of the incident, said: "This woman was seen stopping on the road shoulder, pounding her BF and causing a major traffic jam. I hope that LTA gives her a ticket."

For the video, click on this link: Singapore Seen

It was speculated that the guy had cheated on this girl, hence the slippering on the groin. This girl is obviously someone who believes in delivering punishment directly to the offending member of the body. So if you steal, you get your hands chopped off. If you lie, your tongue gets pinched and if you peep at things you shouldn't be looking at, you get chilli powder rubbed into your eyes. Brutal.

*By favourite, I mean I hate it.

2009-08-28T14:12:00.010+08:00

More stupid questions from book customers:

"Are there any freebies?"
The offer of my first born son still stands.

Customer: "Where did you buy these books?"
Me: "Kinokuniya."
Customer (with an expression on face that suggests enlightenment): "Ah!"
(What I really wanted to say was this: "Well, you know there's this place where you can find lots of books which you can take home if you pay money? That's called a bookshop. No really, people do go to such places to buy books."

"Do you know where I can buy The Time Traveller's Wife?"
7-eleven got sell. (This one suggested by my hidden co-seller, for whom customer service is not her forte either.)

2009-08-27T23:30:00.008+08:00

Tick tick tick tick BOOMS!

2009-08-27T17:59:00.012+08:00

While holding an ad hoc book sale at work to clear off my old books, I received the weirdest email queries from would-be customers.

"Are the books $5 each or are they $5 for all?"
I've got about 50 books on the list. Sure, take the lot for $5. I love doing charity.

"Are the books second hand?"
No, I"m a first-hand books importer, and I'm selling you this bunch of brand new books for only $5 each. Cheaper than warehouse sale even!

"Can you hold the books for me? I'll come and collect them in two weeks."
Sorry, but my fly-by-night shop may not be around in two weeks' time.

"I want this, this, this and this book. Can you make me an offer?"
I'll give you my first born son if you promise to take these books off my hands. I'll also throw in my husband.

"Where did you get all these books from?"
Shoplifted lor.

I think customer service may not be my calling.

2009-08-21T11:18:00.011+08:00

This CNN article is hilarious and totally accurate. It's such a good article, I feel compelled to reproduce it here, for my own keepsake.

The 12 most annoying types of Facebookers

By Brandon Griggs CNN

(CNN) -- Facebook, for better or worse, is like being at a big party with all your friends, family, acquaintances and co-workers.

Facebook can be a great tool, and an occasional annoyance. What kind of Facebooker are you?

There are lots of fun, interesting people you're happy to talk to when they stroll up. Then there are the other people, the ones who make you cringe when you see them coming. This article is about those people.

Sure, Facebook can be a great tool for keeping up with folks who are important to you. Take the status update, the 160-character message that users post in response to the question, "What's on your mind?" An artful, witty or newsy status update is a pleasure -- a real-time, tiny window into a friend's life.

But far more posts read like navel-gazing diary entries, or worse, spam. A recent study categorized 40 percent of Twitter tweets as "pointless babble," and it wouldn't be surprising if updates on Facebook, still a fast-growing social network, break down in a similar way.

Combine dull status updates with shameless self-promoters, "friend-padders" and that friend of a friend who sends you quizzes every day, and Facebook becomes a daily reminder of why some people can get on your nerves.

Here are 12 of the most annoying types of Facebook users:

The Let-Me-Tell-You-Every-Detail-of-My-Day Bore.
"I'm waking up." "I had Wheaties for breakfast." "I'm bored at work." "I'm stuck in traffic." You're kidding! How fascinating! No moment is too mundane for some people to broadcast unsolicited to the world. Just because you have 432 Facebook friends doesn't mean we all want to know when you're waiting for the bus.

The Self-Promoter. OK, so we've probably all posted at least once about some achievement. And sure, maybe your friends really do want to read the fascinating article you wrote about beet farming. But when almost EVERY update is a link to your blog, your poetry reading, your 10k results or your art show, you sound like a bragger or a self-centered careerist.

The Friend-Padder.
The average Facebook user has 120 friends on the site. Schmoozers and social butterflies -- you know, the ones who make lifelong pals on the subway -- might reasonably have 300 or 400. But 1,000 "friends"? Unless you're George Clooney or just won the lottery, no one has that many. That's just showing off.

The Town Crier.
"Michael Jackson is dead!!!" You heard it from me first! Me, and the 213,000 other people who all saw it on TMZ. These Matt Drudge wannabes are the reason many of us learn of breaking news not from TV or news sites but from online social networks. In their rush to trumpet the news, these people also spread rumors, half-truths and innuendo. No, Jeff Goldblum did not plunge to his death from a New Zealand cliff.

The TMIer.
"Brad is heading to Walgreens to buy something for these pesky hemorrhoids." Boundaries of privacy and decorum don't seem to exist for these too-much-information updaters, who unabashedly offer up details about their sex lives, marital troubles and bodily functions. Thanks for sharing.

The Bad Grammarian.
"So sad about Fara Fauset but Im so gladd its friday yippe". Yes, I know the punctuation rules are different in the digital world. And, no, no one likes a spelling-Nazi schoolmarm. But you sound like a moron.

The Sympathy-Baiter.
"Barbara is feeling sad today." "Man, am I glad that's over." "Jim could really use some good news about now." Like anglers hunting for fish, these sad sacks cast out their hooks -- baited with vague tales of woe -- in the hopes of landing concerned responses. Genuine bad news is one thing, but these manipulative posts are just pleas for attention.

The Lurker.
The Peeping Toms of Facebook, these voyeurs are too cautious, or maybe too lazy, to update their status or write on your wall. But once in a while, you'll be talking to them and they'll mention something you posted, so you know they're on your page, hiding in the shadows. It's just a little creepy.

The Crank.
These curmudgeons, like the trolls who spew hate in blog comments, never met something they couldn't complain about. "Carl isn't really that impressed with idiots who don't realize how idiotic they are." [Actual status update.] Keep spreading the love.

The Paparazzo.
Ever visit your Facebook page and discover that someone's posted a photo of you from last weekend's party -- a photo you didn't authorize and haven't even seen? You'd really rather not have to explain to your mom why you were leering like a drunken hyena and French-kissing a bottle of Jagermeister.

The Maddening Obscurist.
"If not now then when?" "You'll see..." "Grist for the mill." "John is, small world." "Dave thought he was immune, but no. No, he is not." [Actual status updates, all.] Sorry, but you're not being mysterious -- just nonsensical.

The Chronic Inviter.
"Support my cause. Sign my petition. Play Mafia Wars with me. Which 'Star Trek' character are you? Here are the 'Top 5 cars I have personally owned.' Here are '25 Things About Me.' Here's a drink. What drink are you? We're related! I took the 'What President Are You?' quiz and found out I'm Millard Fillmore! What president are you?"

You probably mean well, but stop. Just stop. I don't care what president I am -- can't we simply be friends? Now excuse me while I go post the link to this story on my Facebook page.