for some time now. i have been wondering what it means when i speak of life to my children.

and less commonly, loss.

or when we try very hard. to be, and more often than not, trying not to be.

as christmas walks closer,  so many variations of the same old same old, i find myself looking at the same old memories, holding them with different people. holding the space. holding that time.

this is one of them.

may we all, not be alone.

are you, well?

may 19. 2015.

know what giving up looks like? i do. today i did.

Mr R. not going to the gym? you ok?
fever again. and the pain. nothing works. i rest ok?
can. you can rest. don’t say we torture you everyday. but tom we start again. ok?

the root of gratitude is gratus.

and the root of Gratus En. begun 21 years ago.

what will you do sweetheart?

my dad asked my brother and i this question when i was 15.

and i was mad. i was so mad, i stood up and left the dinner table.

unheard of in my family. before my very loving but strict chinese father.

my father, the man who toiled days after he was made head of the family when he was in his teenage years when my grandfather suddenly departed. weary because he worked endlessly, as many do, serving the community as a council manager. my impressions of him, rushing to make calls when the lifts broke down, sitting in the car waiting as a child while he attended meetings. studying in his office on the weekends while he typed out documents and replied mails.

my father who said with worldly weariness,” it’s hard to count on anybody sometimes. when you hear the stories the older generation tell you”

stories of abandonment. days spend wondering why they ended up destitute and alone. nights, those long nights, wandering. inside memories. inside their 50m2 rooms. alone.

i was mad. and righteously so. where are their children. where is the government. where are the people who should be caring and listening to this.

and rage that my father would, and could, count us into the probability of being one-of-those.

21 years later.

with a few of my favourite words. it begins.

Coalesce

mid 16th century: from Latin coalescere ‘grow together’, from co- (from cum ‘with’) + alescere ‘grow up’ (from alere ‘nourish’)

Gratus 

the latin root of grateful. gratitude. pleasing. thankful.

and then wikipedia tells me it goes deeper and further back

Etymology[edit]

From Proto-Indo-European *gʷr̥Htos, *gʷerH- (“to welcome, greet, praise”). Cognates include Sanskrit गृणाति (gṛṇā́ti, “to praise”), Old Church Slavonic жрьти (žrĭti) and Old Prussian girtwei (“to praise”).

and it also means beloved.

En 恩

the chinese word for gratitude. the anchor word in our children’s names.

the basis of our hope.

of all that we can ask in their lifetime, is that they would serve in gratitude.

this begins the journey of Gratus En.

i cant protect my kids anymore. not in that way.
Like, nietzsche’s god, i feel my death.

D found out about nuclear bombs today. he found out that we probably can’t run fast enough from it. And he cant hold his breath long enough not to breathe in poisonous air. No sunscreen can confer enough protection. Yes, it has been used before and it wasnt to fight aliens. And no, we cant outdrive it no matter how fast papa claims we can go.. And we cant just carry S and R and him and run off. Even if we try very hard. And we pray very hard. Even with our lives.

we stand at the edge now. slowly. Sometimes i feel fatalistically fatally. How we decide to speak to our oldest. And our younger ones. Every day. How the day plans and pans out. They are reminded of what is important. And today my oldest reminds me suddenly. And painfully. That they are aware, how our plans wishes and quiet expectations are felt. Imprinted. Pressed upon. Embossed.

If i cant do it it will be ok?

Cant do what sweetheart.

Finish lunch on time at the big boy school.

Phew. Yup.

In my head i laughed.  In mirth. In relief. Is that all he is worried about. Whether he can finish his lunch on time..

Yet that is what i have been telling him abt. School. Finish up on time. Keep to time at school. We have never worried abt whether he is able to learn. Or learn well. But increasing, i am aware most parents arent worried abt life habits after 3 or 4 years of age. People worry. Really worry and prepare their kids to learn. To be ready.  To BE.

We have had good advice from folks who love us. Prepare them otherwise they will get a shock when they start real school. No one is allowed to read anything they want. They wont have time to read a book from cover to cover. They have homework.

Oh dear. My heart has been sinking over the past few months. As our latest baby settles into our lives and i am embracing this “last baby” phase, i am slowly but surely realising, what about all the inpromptu visits to wherever-we-fancy. Afternoons of making feet and hand prints to give to whoever. To write stories. To read all the comics and listen to instruments and decide which ones shld have never been invented or which ones make the world happy.

My childhood. Our childhood. Our beloved days. Is this grieving.

How can my kids know how much they are celebrated for who they are in this world if we are “gearing up” or amouring up for tests and “education”. School isnt bad. What we want from school however, or the purpose of it. Scares me. Me. I worry it hurts.

Life isnt easy and a cup of chocolate. They know that. But this instinctive swell of “god makes you who you are!” resonates loudly. It isnt binary. I know that. Sometimes tho, i cant see it. Best intentions. Best parents. Parenting. I feel like a small quiet voice. Quivering. Uncertain.

I think it hurts. Them. Us.

Not topics subjects or exams define you. Not your intellgence. Not your perseverence. Not your heart. Not the song you are made to sing. Hum. Or whisper. We all hope this. know this. Just look at all the facebook n instagram feeds. Yet. the same amount of prologues. about best intellengence courses. Summer camps. Holiday preps. Everyone IS A CHAMPION!

My head hurts.

We dont mail to clouds. We work. We do our sums and what holidays we can afford. Yet. As i watch the little ones his age march pass in their bags and serious waterbottles, i find myself wanting to repeat over and over again.

This will not be a mistake.

We choose not to believe in more preparations. more advancements. More achievements. More ahead-ness.

The good book says. Learn to serve. Before aspiring to be a leader. Find what you love to learn, and discover the depths and wonders of learning. Or perservering. And if you try and it isnt enough, we celebrate it. Because like love, even if its not all meant to be, that love was true.

playgrounds. Bored lamentations. Making you wash the turtle tank. The same 7 main toys over 7 years and 3 kids. Reading on the sofa together about lands and beasts and lives and sorrows as a 6 year old.

Maybe we risk this. Your days ahead. They call it your future. We. Risk. It.

My beloved. Forgive me for believing in these days. Stubornly. Preciously guarding. Against the world. The recommendations from people, people who write, who are paid to write, the messages about this season.

I bank this in. Our defient. Cold quiet rock upon to rest against this relentless tide. This childhood your father and i wish for you. Our beloved children.

Surgeries need sterility. My husband would be the first to write a thesis on the mulitude of dire and death conspiracies as dusk falls upon his long fridays

For almost a decade, on and off. I might have been one of the first persons standing by as people awaken to their new lives. Groggy and sometimes googly eyes. Welcome bac and i pat their hands. That was a good landing. Patched up kidneys. Transplanted vessels. Knocked in spiffy metallic knees. Teased or torn out malicious tiny cells that jaunter ard and about. And then we walk, literally, together to bring them home, hopefully.

Because of that, i see a lot of bare naked hands. And i have come to realise, as i had written somewhere else, bare hands tell stories. Witnesses. The rings the creases the smurged thumbprints. The hands that are cold when i hold them, then hands that find mine as though we go way back beyond the 15minutes of therapy.

if we all had to choose 1 thing we can bring into surgery with us, if we could what would it be. A precious ring that ruled them all. A ring given in promise. Or in my children’s cases cars or toys in case they are bored i asked?

I want to hold your hand.

Dont let go ok. Chirpped the 2 yr old. I might get lost.

Maybe we can bring a turtle too. They are patient. And they dont die.

Time loses us. Then we wander back as i watch them play.

it always begins with the 8.36am bus 63. or return trip at 9.30am.

like most, i assumed i have missed the peak crowd hence the journey of 8 stops would be less hectic and, well, less inefficient. after taking this ride over 4 years, and after this morning’s ride:

i vehemently and absolutely declare

this is the MOST inefficient bus ride!

(and i say this with 30 years of experience across the island)

it stops. without fail at almost every stop. and when i say it stops. it stops.

by the 3rd stop, the engine warranty might have expired. 3 times over.

the driver, without fail, gets out of his seat, meandering through the peak marketing crowd, to board JUST a single passenger. occasionally two. (SBS bus driver: “for the good of the majority” KPI fail)

these old people that no one sees. no one waits for. holds time for.

these passages of time that we crowd out with our hour glass urgency

discussing immigrant and migrant issues are beyond me. and i can’t blame it on my pregnancy. or my kids. in this backyard. there is little to discuss. and there seems no place to debate about the big picture, when this is what my ride is like:

when i see either one of the 2 chinese national bus captains stopping for all his people to board, to stand up, to walk to the nearest exit or seat. and before you think i am judgmental, how do i know they are chinese national?

because they have shouted in their accent (no hush hush hannah stickers in SBS bus).

in chinese. or broken hokkien. and malay once. “take your time!” (interestingly, i haven’t heard them said it in english before). so in this backyard, i am grateful for whoever it is. stopping. waiting. looking after OUR old people. don’t people who care belong together?

self reflecting, i am aware i am part of this “you will get there when you get there and it’s the journey that matters” – i.e. bus is so slow, pacificers.

when i travel with R, my 2 month old. i am THE queen. i trump the aged. the old ones with groceries. i even trump people who have limited mobility.  like the old auntie with walking stick wanted to give me her seat because i was carrying R and my marketing. she may have poor balance but she can see very well. and as i learnt. shout well. and shout quite long. (being a good negotiator (just ask my husband) she compromised when i put my marketing down beside her seat).  and then using her hand that she holds her walking stick, she pats my hand that is patting R.

what about grumpy old men? well. a gentleman remains a gentleman. notwithstanding age. inconvenience. wheelchairs. grumpiness.

the uncle who has diabetes and discoloration on his amputated limb wanted to move his wheelchair so i can stand closer to the side. note: never reject a gentleman’s adroit maneuvers. especially on a public bus. and when he is grumpy.

so i trump. i trump so often i move to the back (just like mike!) so that the ah gongs and ah mahs cant see me and threaten to make me sit down. or make me tear up (hormones)

so i contribute to the inefficiencies. these inefficient drudgery that makes stacey standing up synthetic, mike moving in a mockery. glenda giving way… if glenda is here, she would give up. this ride will never get faster.

… and i want my boys to be this. so much. more than Ps and Qs. than finding their passion. or being their best. Or Whether they will get into law. Or medicine. Or study overseas. Or get an A for their better subjects. Or speak so eloquently abt why people with different learning abilities may not benefit from being placed together in a class. And being on national TV. I digress. Long bus rides do this to me.

but this. this daily kindness. If my children value these, in my naive mind, they will be ok. ok people. ok men. ok decency. ok come what may. Even if their english is not power. Even if they dont know the right people. And they will make awesome bus captains.

Incidentally, they love bus 63.

Who am i to valuate what they value.

and from what we read, What God values.

where would i like to be when i am old.

i would like to be one of those loud old aunties. who is thankful i can afford fish. and my mee pok man still pours vinegar as part of his recipe.  and i can shout about it across these slow bus rides to my friends just sitting beside me and repeat something i just said.

and poke someone with my fluorescent purple walking stick when they wont take my seat.

side note: even if SBS decides to place hush hush hannah stickers, she will never fit in. this crowd discusses the stockmarket-ing prices of fishes and prawns, the “real” local vegetable and fake imports, also the mee pok seller has a new helper while the ban jiang kueh peanut tastes different. gossip never sounds right quiet

• my daily ride

he was so frustrated he cried and cried when he misspelled a word and ruined a drawing he had just spent hours on.

If 10 is the worst thing ever, what bad would breaking a leg be?

10 thousand! he shouted

Feeling sympathetic yet resisting laughter

What about getting lost?

So bad. Especially if it is at night.

So what about you screaming for an hour over the mistake on your painting now?

3. its not so bad. but i hate it

So it makes you really sad?

Yes. And angry. I hate it. I will never draw again. It is all spoiled.

And if mama helps?

Its still spoiled.

If mama is not there to help?

He paused. And said slowly.

If you are not there, or if u die, it is a 10. That is the worst thing that can ever happen. That is a 10.

2h on the way out. as we ran in the rain and i squat-ran under the umbrella he held, he turned about and said

i will always be here to hold your umbrella. and i will hold your hand when you cannot jump over the puddles. And i will tell people you are so old so you cannot jump so well and splash water on them.

That is a 10 for me too my dear son. if you are ever not around