I’ve never liked the jealous type. Some women might feel flattered that their men cannot do without them. Not me. To me, jealous men are insecure. Of the four great Shakespearean tragedies, I had the least affinity with ‘Othello’. I cried buckets while reading ‘King Lear’ and felt my heart break too when he held his dead daughter, Cordelia, in his arms crying, ‘Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, /And thou no breath at all?’

I could identify with Hamlet, caught up in his family problems and battling existential questions. I emphathised with Macbeth’s guilt and greed, and took it as a cautionary tale to never let my ambition get to my head. But Othello’s tragedy due to his jealousy and suspicious mind was simply idiotic.

With Caleb, it was his eyes that first melted my heart. They were deep and dreamy. When you look into those eyes, you forgot everything around you. Time and clouds stood still. He had the sunniest smile and the most affectionate hug. Our early days together were heaven. We always had fun hanging out with each other but he also knew how to have a great time with other friends and family.

Eighteen months into our relationship, the tell-tale signs stated to show. He started to get anxious when he couldn’t see me. Suddenly, he wasn’t interested in other people around him anymore except me. When I gave others more attention than to him, he would turn into the green-eyed monster and get into a jealous fit.

My dear Caleb had turned into THE CLINGY BOYFRIEND! My first instinct was to run and hide. Yet how could I run from the little being, who also happened to be my son?

No matter where we were—at home, in the sandpit, or on a play date—I was the sun. Caleb was a planet, revolving no further than a 2-meter radius around me. If I strayed off a little further, he was the metal detector, sweeping the ground, waiting for the ‘bleep bleep bleep’ signal of locating his Mummy. On the few occasions I was cruel enough to leave him with his Daddy, he was an emotional wreck. He would sob and whine throughout the time I was away. If I were out in the evening, he wouldn’t sleep and would mop around the doorway awaiting my return. Nothing could console him.

In the day, Daddy couldn’t feed him. Daddy couldn’t dress him. His big sister couldn’t shower him. Only Mummy could do anything and everything for him. I wondered if my husband felt hurt by Caleb’s rejection. Yet, I felt sorrier for myself for turning unwittingly into Caleb’s slave. I didn’t understand why he felt so insecure without me around.

Psychologists would advise patience, describing separation anxiety as a period that would pass. Moreover, a loving approach rather than a cold turkey one would help a child build up his sense of security better. So during that time, I hugged Caleb a lot, and said ‘I love you’ to him several times a day to build up his emotional bank account.

He followed me practically everywhere, like a Koala, since he liked being carried. He was at his most comfortable in the arms of his Mummy, preferring to do all his feeding, pooping and sleeping in the arms-formed pouch. But it was not always possible to stay in my pouch! When domestic duties beckon, he had to settle for hanging onto my leg when I vacuumed the floor or holding my left hand while I cooked with my right.

My showers became hasty affairs since Caleb would be pounding at the door, blubbering to be let in, if he realised that I was not in the same room as him. Either that, or I succumbed and he joined me in the showers and played in the bathtub. At night, Caleb held on tightly to me, one hand clasping mine, the other around my neck, before he could sleep. My poor husband was resigned to having a little man between us.

Night Terrors

Despite all my affection, Caleb’s insecurity still bordered on the mad extreme. The night terrors that year were traumatic. Somehow, Caleb would wake up in the middle of the night, sobbing uncontrollably. The first time it happened, I was completely taken aback and didn’t know what to do. He burst into tears, as if awoken from a nightmare. He started twisting and squirming his body like a snake being attacked. Speaking to him soothingly, I tried to calm him down but it was as if he was sleepwalking. His eyes stared ahead blankly, his ears not hearing anything I said to him.

Even as he resisted and struggled, I held on tightly to him, telling him ‘it’s ok, Mummy is here’ constantly. These night wakings happened several times a week, and the crying could last up to an hour, with him howling for Mummy even though I was next to him. The strange thing was, Caleb had no recollection of his night wakings the next day. There were no remnants of the shadows and fears that plagued his sleep. He was his usual, happy self in the daytime. For that, I was grateful.

Caleb was so loud at night that a concerned neighbour below our unit once called us up to find out what was wrong. He had heard the blood curdling cries. Being a light sleeper, my husband eventually self-banished himself to the adjacent room to get some proper sleep. Plus, it was impossible to predict when my jealous boyfriend would suddenly kick or elbow him in the night.

Once, Caleb slipped out of the bedroom and tried to unlock the main door to leave the apartment. Perhaps my Mummy antenna had sharpened over time, for when it happened, my eyes simply flashed open from sensing that Caleb has left the bed. Bolting out of the bedroom, I called out, ‘Caleb! Where are you going!’ He was caught, fumbling with the door lock. When he heard my voice, he started whimpering, sprawling flat on the floor. I carried him gently to the sofa and held him close to me for a long while…

After that harrowing experience, my daily goodnight prayer to God took on a pleading intensity. I prayed fervently that God’s angels would protect Caleb; peace would be in his sleep. I prayed that Caleb would not sleep walk. It took a whole year before those night terrors diminished in frequency, and two years before I could get Caleb to sleep in his own bed.

Two Years On…

To mothers out there reading this, it will be tough for a while, but separation anxiety will pass. Caleb will turn four in a few months. The koala is now more like a puppy. No longer does he demand to be carried around. He is able to wander off by himself a little further, dig in the sand, sniff the space around him, sometimes marking his territory. He likes romping about and wrestling with his friends. He can finally play by himself, or laze in a corner with a book without expecting his Mummy near him. He still likes to snuggle close to me though. When he is sad or scared, his first instinct is still to shout, “I want Muuuummyyy!” then to run back into my arms.

Looking at my little man, I can’t help but feel proud of his progress. I see him taking steps towards independence. I see him learning to socialize and doing things himself. I know that soon enough, he won’t need me anymore. Ironically, this thought makes me a little sad. Even though the two years of Mummyhood slavery was tough, letting go of my son is even tougher.

I pen this down to remember this romantic period. Twenty years from now, when my son becomes a grown man too embarrassed to hug or kiss his mother, it would be nice to recount how he used to be inseparable from me. When my son is a grown man whose friends and work become more important than his mother, it would be nice to reminisce how I used to be his sun, his moon, and stars. When my son is a grown man who finds the love of his life, it would be nice to relish the fact that I was his first love.

I hope my son grows up to be a romantic man—the kind of man who sends flowers, hugs and kisses; the kind of man who loves boldly and gets hurt bravely; the kind of man who would cross the desert to pursue love and wait years out patiently for love to bear fruit.

I should add, lastly, that I hope my son grows up continuing to love his mother. That’s the most romantic kind of man, don’t you think?

(First posted in April 2018)

Dear Sharese,

You are that gust of wind that blows the door open and as quickly blows it shut again. When you enter, there is always an element of surprise, a wonder at what mischief you might do—perhaps toppling over a vase—or what unpredictable turn you will take. Whichever the case, what is for sure is that your energy will move everything in the house. The curtains will wave hello and the walls will echo your laughter. There will be an uplifting of dust in our spirits and a rustling of mirth in everyone. This is how I want to remember you at six, going on seven—a whirlwind of joy that can spin every sadness in a room away, tossing every darkness in the way out of your vortex.

You are a happy child. I love how easy it is to please you. A pizza for lunch, an ice-skating trip, or a bubble bath is enough to make your day a good one.

Mummy: I bought you a cupcake for tea.
Sharese: Yeh! Yeh! (arms punching the sky) Thank you mummy.

Or this,

Mummy: Sharese, shall we go swimming tomorrow?
Sharese: Yes! I wanna go. I wanna go! Whoopee (jumping up and down in excitement.)

Even on your birthday, I don’t have to go big to get, ‘this is the BEST birthday ever!’ When you are happy, your voice and movement exist in exclamation marks, never full stops.

You don’t walk. You prance around like a colt. Or crawl like a cat when you feel lazy. When you greet daddy who just comes back from work, you leap up like a koala to hug him, then do a jiggle down his legs. Even when you sleep, you shift and transform into the most unimaginable animals—sometimes a brown bear with all 4 limbs sprawled out, sometimes a newborn bunny all curled up, sometimes a caterpillar balanced straight on a tree branch. But most times, you are halfway out of the boundaries of your mattress. You have tumbled off from a bed several times. So till now, a mattress on the floor seems like the most comfortable pod for you.

We love watching you sleep. You have the expression of the moon– serene and distant. Your lips are relaxed into a pout, sometimes with a little drool on your cheek. I don’t know why watching your sleeping face makes us want to laugh. Maybe it is your look of total oblivion. You sleep easily. You sleep well. Ever since you were a baby, loud noises never scared you. The loudest drum beats of rock music or the shooting guns from Daddy’s war movies are lullabies to you. We always joke that a volcanic eruption cannot wake you when you are sleeping. This is so unlike your brother, who is a light sleeper, and wakes up every night crying, searching for Mummy. We can shake you, flip you upside down, and you would remain deep in sleep. You are one of those blessed ones who put their head on a pillow, then enter sleep in minutes, with not a care in the world.

And when you wake, you shake the magic of the world a little. The clouds seem to move faster, leaves impossibly grow bigger. Or perhaps, which I realise as I type, is that you make me notice the world and see its magic when I have not before. When you tip toed up to a squirrel, I was sure it was talking to you. A broken branch can be baseball bat, a scoop for your mud ice cream, or flagpole on a sand castle. When you were chasing the red leaves in the fall, I suddenly noticed the fine veins on them, blood flowing through still. When the sand on the playground became underground tunnels and forts, planets in the solar system, cupcakes and pies in your bakery, I understood a little better what it means to see the world in a grain of sand. To see your possibilities is to see the beauty of nature and the interconnectedness of all things around us. Through your eyes, I saw how much of life, goodness, and the universe we needed to protect.

“This stone is different,” you said one day of a stone you picked up.
“What is so different?” I asked.
“It has got little black dots on it but this one doesn’t.” You showed me another one.

Each stone is special to you. Rocks, stones and pebbles are unique beings in their own kingdom. As usual, I dismissed your childish imaginations and ignored the signs till one day, I discovered a big handful of little stones in your bag pack’s side pocket. The pocket had been muddied and grey-stained at the sides. There I stood, shocked at the mess I would have to clean up.

“Sharese! What’s all these stones doing here!” I shouted at you.
“That’s my stone collection. I play with them on the school bus when I’m bored,” you said coolly, as if that was the most normal collector’s item in the world.
“Why did you put them in your bag pack? Your bag is so heavy and dirty now.”
“I don’t have anywhere else to put it.”

That was another turning point in my motherhood journey—learning to hold a child’s imagination respectfully, carefully. So I found you a little clear bag to carry those stone fairies, not before adding some adult pragmatism that you should ask Mummy how best to store your belongings should you wish to collect other things. And am I glad I did, because leaves, twigs, marbles, scrap coloured paper would soon make their way into your bag too.

It is not just nature. Even ordinary objects take on new life. A piece of fruit carton becomes a girl’s face. A plain white jar with a black lid can transform into a snowman with a hat. The dining table is a shelter to protect you from the wolves out there. Making a spaceship out of popsicle sticks is not enough. You had to paint a dark universe, stars and planets for the spaceship to traverse through too. You are creative. You exhaust many rims of paper because of your love to draw. Each time I see you draw or work on some new craft, I am reminded that I used to like art and craft when I was a child too. My mother told me that I loved to draw, sing and dance. But I am not like that anymore. Years of adulthood, hard experiences and the drudgery of the daily grind must have knocked whatever is whimsical out of me.

You spent your six-year-old life in Ottawa, the capital of Canada. This place is known for its long and cold winter. I am so glad to be able to explore this new place together with you. I hate cold. Before coming here, I worried for months about whether I could cope. I did struggle, but you were made for winter. You never felt cold. While I was huddled in layer after layer of clothes, you could run out into the snow with just a T-shirt. There is never a dull day for you in winter. There could be snowball fights, tobogganing, snowman dress-ups, snowflakes catching competition (with the tongue!), skating, skiing etc.

Even in the worst of blizzards, you could enjoy the music of the howling winds and draw on windowpanes. Or cut out snowflakes and stick them on the ceiling. You showed me that we should embrace winter like a dear aunt who has come to visit, not fight against like a wicked witch. Even though I never really got the hang of winter, because of you, this season was bearable, even romantic, when I was well enough to appreciate a world in white.

There are things about you that make you uniquely you. You like to practice the royal princess walk as well as climb on monkey bars and jump from high walls. You don’t just cry but hyperventilate when you feel hurt or get upset. Princess Elsa blue was your favourite colour until you told me one day it is turquoise (you are growing up too fast!). You are a terrible daydreamer and a sore loser. You need a story every night before bedtime.

You are a chatterbox with friends but hate talking on the telephone. A big grin with your eyes shut tight is your favourite photo pose. Designing tents with blankets, chairs, and broomsticks is your favourite game and can provide you with many hours of fun (and a big headache to tidy up for mummy). ‘Paw Patrol’ and ‘Peppa Pig’ are probably the most watched TV dinner programmes. Having mac and cheese or pizza every dinner would be awesome.

Talking about food, your peculiar eating habits drive us crazy. It can take a millennial for you to finish a meal. Just to chew and swallow a bite of rice with vegetables would take an age. To make matters worse, eating is play too. A piece of cheese can be divided up into a dozen pieces, each one savoured slowwwwly. Ice cream is tastier when it is all melted and enjoyed drop by drop. What would banana cake in milk taste like? Would it taste like banana milkshake? It is always too late for me to stop whatever food experimentation was taking place. At this age, we insist that you eat by yourself instead of being spoon-fed, because otherwise, how would you learn to finish your lunch in school?

However, Daddy often grows exasperated by just looking at the food go cold and resort to spoon feeding you himself. Even then, he has to remind you to chew every minute. After what feels like a lifetime has passed, you have the cheek to run to me with pride and say, “Mummy, I’m all done! See? I finished my food.” On some of such days, it is also almost time for bed, leaving you not much time for anything else. What can we do? Despite much threatening, encouraging and cajoling, you remain the same when it comes to food. I can only pray that as you grow older, you get on faster with eating.

As far as a YouTube addict goes, you don’t watch that many channels other than a few favourites– ‘cookie cupcake’, ‘the engineering family’ and some other craft channels. I find them brainless and honestly thought they would make you stupid over time. But these reflect your interests too and I allow you to indulge in them every Saturday morning. Until the day we baked our first Christmas cookies, I didn’t know they make you feel like you were an expert in your hobbies. When I wondered why my dough stuck to the tabletop, you could tell me that I did not sprinkle flour on the table to prevent the dough from sticking. Wow!

I wish I could bottle your adorable ways in a snow globe and enjoy the mini snowstorm with a little shake whenever I want to. Recently, however, I feel like I can no longer enjoy you the way I used to. Ever since you started Grade 1, we started to have shouting matches, which we never had before. Sadly, it is usually over homework. Five months on, I knew Grade 1 was still on rocky grounds when ‘Recess’ is your favourite subject in school followed by Art. Learning used to be so easy. Teaching you to tie shoelaces, how to sing a new song, how to fold an origami crane was met with relish. Now, learning is hard. Everyday, I am combatting-

“Writing is so boring!”
“I don’t want to read myself! I want you to read to me!”
“I don’t want to do Math homework! I want to play nowww!”
“I hate I hate I hate spelling!”

Our shouting matches grow amidst the backdrop of homework, tests and competition. Yes. Competition to see which kid will be smarter, faster, better. The long road to making you a doctor, or lawyer, or any occupation that makes lots of money has officially began. On top of that, you need to be an all rounder, a musician, an artist, a do-gooder, and a model citizen. There is so much good advice and confusion about what is the best way for you. Should I be a working mum or stay-at-home mum? Which enrichment centre is the best? Or should I get a private tutor? Be a strict disciplinarian or encouraging friend? Sometimes, I could barely breath with the anxiety and the frustration with an uncooperative daughter. We have so much to do!

It is not just you who have crossed a threshold when you entered Grade 1. I have too. I feel like I need to refashion myself as a mother to help you towards a successful future. Otherwise, I would have failed you. Yet, all I want is to treasure your innocence, your free-spirited day dreaming one more day. All I want to do is to while the time away at a playground in wild imaginings. But there seems to be no time. You need to memorise your spelling list. You need to do your math sums. Play later.

There are so many hard questions to ask and find answers to. Yet I know that if I do not get the vision right, my house will not be built right. The whole of this year, I have been researching online, reading expert books, watching and consulting other parents. One day, I would feel confident, armed with newfound skills and knowledge. Another day, I would feel utterly defeated, especially after another session of shouts and tears with you. I began to pray for you regarding this school business, earnestly asking God how best to help you. I don’t have any specifics to pray about, just that since God loves you more than I can ever love you, could He please show me some Godly principles I could follow so that I know how to help you (and me!) deal with school?

A few days ago, someone told me the story of how the vine produces fruit. It is a familiar story of Jesus telling his disciples to be like the vine. I have heard it a thousand times and understood it as how a Christian should live right and bear good spiritual fruits. However, the story suddenly had a new voice and spoke to me about our mother-and-child relationship.

Did you know that almost all of the vine’s branches needed to be cut back (75% of it) in the winter in order to get the most fruit production in the new season? Sounds brutal? But fruit is only produced from one-year-old canes. Therefore, healthy new canes must be produced each year if the farmer wants to keep having grapes from the plant. What this means is that the branches that have produced lots of fruit this year will have to die in order for new branches to grow.

Did you also know that in the first few years of life, the plant would not bear any fruit? The farmer first needs to train the vines on the trellis or some other strong structure to help the plant climb up correctly. This will help the plant get enough sunlight and prevent the vines from getting tangled when the grapes start to grow.

I came to a realisation about why our shouting matches may have to continue. As a young shoot, your natural inclination is climb freely in whatever direction you desire. But unless you are put under the tension of the trellis that is shaping you, you will end up crawling aimlessly on the ground, never bearing fruit, never living up to your potential. You will require pruning many times, and that will hurt (sometimes, I think it will pain me more than it pains you). But loving you right surely cannot be to shield you from all the pain and struggle of growing up. I see the school years roll ahead, with things getting more difficult to learn, with expectations getting more demanding. And the journey does not end with schooling. There are still years of working life ahead into infinity… An image of my Sharese, crushed, beaten by the pressures of this world, made me shudder.

I still don’t have the specifics of what to do as a mum, newly matriculated from the preschool years. But a few things began to be clearer to me, to strengthen my resolve with regard to schooling. I want us to hang out with my good friend Jesus more. Only by knowing him will you know your true value and worth. In Him, no grades, peer pressure or societal expectations can shake your identity because you are always the grape vine He designed you to be. Only in Him will you find reason and purpose in learning, in being. Jesus is your biggest fan, your best cheerleader. He knows that learning your letters and numbers may be hard, but you can count on Him to be there for you always.

I also want to instill discipline in you. The fruits of patience and self-control can only be reaped with the sacrifice of immediate gratification. That means expecting you to sit still for a time and focus on those math sums. That means hardening myself to sweep aside your wailing, complaining, or pleading each time it happens to make sure you put in your best effort even if it is just handwriting practice. That means not letting you give up when things are hard and when you fail.

I need to do this because I hope this discipline will grow into perseverance, and perseverance into tenacity, tenacity that will one day see a passion through, or help you pick yourself up when you face setbacks. I pray you will have the tenacity to keep living life fiercely even when you are overwhelmed by tears at losing people you love, at bitter heart breaks, at witnessing the wars, terrors and sadness in this world.

Perhaps my mothering mantras and approach will change later on as you grow older. But for now, I cannot go easy on myself. I remember the day you mastered riding the bicycle. You were just five. There was so much fear in you each time I let go of your handle bar and called out to you to peddle hard. We had practiced for days and you had fallen many times. You had given up a hundred times. I had wavered a thousand times whether I should wait another year before teaching you to cycle. But when you suddenly found the balance, when it suddenly clicked in your body how that machine on wheels was supposed to be fitted to you, you couldn’t stop peddling. You couldn’t stop wanting the movement. Soon, you were flying down the road, your long hair drawing calligraphy in the wind, gleeful laughter leaving me in the dust. You have unlocked the magic of cycling.

I cling on to the faith that at some point, you will also find your balance with schooling. At some point, the jumbled up letters and words will fit in your head and suddenly, you will unlock the magic of reading to enter different worlds, and different kingdoms in books. Suddenly, you will unlock the magic of writing and create stories of your own. Then, learning will take flight and you discover that you never want to stop flying.

But for now, my faith has to start with plodding through the reader with you. It can start with holding your hand and memorising those spelling words with you.

I love you.

(First published in June 2016)