Hey sweetie,

I could look at you all day, you know?

I love how you wear my tee, swathed to the toes. You like to pretend you are mommy, and you trail me round the house with your wooden food set, because “It’s time for breakfast, baby. You need to eat your eggs and drink your coffee, you know? You want to tabao or eat here?”

 When you hold my hand to bring me to your playroom this morning, I realise again how small your fingers are, wrapped around mine. How long will you be small? Will you ever mind being mine?

You still leave a moustache of white after you drink your milk (your favourite cups are always mine, you funny girl), you still need me or daddy to read you three stories and sleep next to you, you still leave Lego bricks around for me to step on. And you still think I rock your world. “You are my best friend, Mommy!”

You are mine too, you know?

Love,

Your BFF

The huddy doesn’t bring Missy out on his own very much. For short errands, yes, but little of those ‘hanging out moments’, if you know what I mean.

And while I was out on a thanksgiving dinner, the two of them had such a lovely time together – eating ice cream with ‘small small marshmallows’, trying out clothes at H&M, posing for pictures to show Mommy, smiling and hugging each other like a dream daddy-daughter combi. They look like best friends, don’t you think?

This is my favourite photo from the lot. It makes me grin from inside out. How sweet are they together!

Amidst it all, there was warmth. I know I’m blessed with much, but this year, this year beats it all. Friends send parcels from afar, packages big and small, presents they know I will love. They adorn me with food-primping gadgets, coffee-drinking pretties, handmade cards, the little odd things that I so like but always too reluctant to splurge on. So thoughtful, every little gift I’ve received. It always amazes me how well my friends know me, and how they care to indulge me. I have the most wonderful friends, I swear. And this space, oh this wonderful blog space that I’ve neglected so much. It brought me to the loveliest bunch of people, people I wouldn’t have crossed paths with if not for this. You know who you are – thank you.

The huddy and I made a pact to not exchange presents this year, because we’ve got so much it feels like a mini-sin to take more. So I took that sum to give a little. A little to the students who just have it harder. A little to children who need medical attention. A little to communities who could barely afford the basics. A little to a kid out there. There’s something magical about giving. It makes you want to give more, take less, and appreciate more the things I take.

So this is my Christmas. My heart is light, the homeland is bright. All is right.

Merry merry Christmas.

This season, this year, I’m blessed with much, and giveback shouldn’t take a backseat. Somewhere out there, I hope the kids and folks are happier with the little we have given. A little each person makes a difference, so let’s do what we can to make this season just a little better for everyone? This season, may there be warmth and love in every household, in every heart.

Blessed day, blessed holidays to you.

My favourite food things::

<3 Eating yoghurt with a cookie as a spoon

<3 Digging out of the ice cream tub with my massive pink spoon

<3 Eating a cake and knowing there’s another for later

<3 Sipping coffee and hearing the timer ring to say cookies in the oven are ready for popping

<3 Punching bread out of little cutters and moulds

<3 Biting into a heart-shaped boiled egg

<3 Sitting at my dining table with fresh flowers and my teapot (I don’t even need to eat)

<3 Seeing missy’s eyes widen with joy as she notices what’s on her plate

What are yours?

I’m loving this place. The slanting rain hammers on outdoors but there is always a wash of remaining sunlight slipping through the window. There is always a fat book open on the table, and more fat books waiting to be opened. There is always coffee in the jar, cookies to be eaten. The light is always soft, sometimes too dark for a book, but always inviting. Latte boy always warms my feet. This is my home, my little homeland.

Just like that, October passed us by.

This is she, all of three years and one month, a pretty little lady if you ask me.

At three, she is fabulous company who knows exactly how to strike up a conversation. At dinners, she does this, “Daddy, Mommy, I have something to tell you. Today, today, ah, Teacher Siti’s class is playing with toys, you know?” And just like that, we talk about her teachers, friends, toys, ribbons, shampoo, playgrounds, weather. And just like that, dinners take forever. Happily so. Most of the time, at least.

She tells us, “Wow, the clouds are so beautiful! White! Wow, so fluffy!” When we laugh, she goes, “It’s so funny right? The clouds are so fluffy!” We laugh more, and witness the changing colours of the sky, right in the middle of the sidewalk where people pass us by with a look of bewilderment. The moody colours of dusk – the perfect prelude to bedtime, to more chatter of the non-important yet grand variety.

With grateful wonder, I’m embracing November, that step closer to December, the month of jingle bells and all things red and gold and starry.

Our tree is up. She wants the fairy lights on all day – “Mommy, our house is so pretty. Tomorrow I want to tell Teacher A we have a Christmas tree that is SO pretty!” She’s house proud, I see.

Cheers to a pretty November.

So when dearest May got me The Hummingbird Bakery’s recipe book gift set (complete with sweet pink and chirpy birds cupcake cups and ducky confetti sprinkles!) with an easy lemony recipe, I did a little jiggly dance, and got down to work on those sweeties the following day.

That morning, I sat a yellow block of butter on the table, watched it blur at the edges as it melted under the heat. I bake really slowly, if you must know. That process must be savoured and measured (pun not intended), it can’t be done in a jiffy, really. The kitchen was warm, but just nicely so, a good sign that the oven was prepping up nicely for the cuppies. My hands all batter-filled (is it just me, but I love tasting the batter!), I wiped off the perspiration with the knob of my wrist. And there was this glee in just knowing, my cupcakes would soon be ready.

I go for the prettiest cakes on display at the stores, but when it comes to my own bakes and feeding my folks and friends, I hate the lavish and saccharine sweet fondant and over-the-top decor. I like mine a little burnt at the edges, a little mis-shapened. To me, they are perfect only when they are imperfect. It’s what makes them home-baked, no? I’m no baker, never will be, so this perfect imperfection, is good enough for me.

And they turned out sweet and light, good enough for Missy. She had two, asked for more, and in her playroom, requested for me to teach her how to bake. “I like your cupcakes, Mommy. Can you teach me?” (Yes, she talks like that sometimes. So proper, it’s almost Enid-Blyton-ish.)

And so I tried to repeat the hummingbird magic for her birthday celebration, this time in smaller portions, in yellow polka-dotted cups, and unfortunately and rarely, in a hurry. So they weren’t as good as they were in my first attempt, but the folks were kind enough to eat their share and had seconds. Raeann was thrilled to blow out the candles and eat her cupcake with some picks I saved for her special day. She held out a forkful for me, all lemon and love. More love than lemon.

So every birthday, I bake her cake/cupcakes,  for at least one celebration. And I like this tradition. I hope she, too, always will.

The sweet man surprised me with a giving-birth present, all wrapped up. Missy was thrilled, “Daddy has a present for you, Mommy.” I immediately corrected her, “No, it’s for YOU.” Then I turned to the huddy, “My goodness, you bought her another present?” (He had got her a huge Lego set a month earlier.)

Happy giving-birth-day to mommy, he said.

I couldn’t say anything for a while.

I’m all Glee-ed out.

I’m so loved. I am.

Dear Raeann,

It’s been so long since Mommy last wrote to you. I haven’t forgotten about writing, in case you are wondering. It’s just that so much is happening – there’s always your hand to hold, your songs to sing, your warmth to embrace, your playdates to attend, it’s getting harder to sit down proper to compose this. But sit down I will, write I will, short as it may be.

You turn three today. Three years ago, you were pink, a big mush of fragile softness. Now you are caramel-coloured, light flushes seeping through your cheeks. Your calves are dotted with mozzie bites from Chiang Mai, testament to your sweetness, I always say. Your hair, still those light brown waves, I’m envious as always. And that voice – no longer soft and girly, but loud, sharp and crisp clear. Those cheeks are still munch-worthy, a distinct trait you inherited from me (I’m not proud of my cheeks, just yours). You are beautiful, to me, to your daddy, to those who love you truly.

Turning three has made you a wonderful helper. The playroom is kept tidy, wooden food toys in place, cupcakes in their trays. Even the Lego pieces are no longer hazardously placed on the mat for all to step on. You choose little pressies to give to your friends (“So-and-so likes this, I want to buy for him”). You keep the laundry, peg on your own clothes, get the jammies for Daddy, wash your own shoes, shower and even dry and clothe yourself. Things I certainly did not do when I was three.

You correct gramps when they speak bad English. You remind us of tasks we haven’t done, promises we haven’t kept (“You said you would give me a marshmallow after I wear my shoes. Remember, Mommy?”). You comfort us when we have tiffs. You tell me, ever so gently, “Try not to be afraid of cats, Mommy. Cats are nice. But they don’t like to smile.”

You were a trooper in our first trip overseas. In a week, your routines were rocked upside down, inside out. But you adapted ever so readily, even willing yourself to take supper with us at 2.30 am SG time. Nary a whine, always a smile. You rock. You do.

I try not to be amazed at every little thing, but the truth is, I really am. Sometimes, I forget you are only three. Yes, you are three, but only just three.

I had the best three years of my life, with you. The moments are amplified, every day a surprise. How is this possible, I don’t know, but this love, it aches. In the most intense, best way possible. Mommy’s tearing as I’m writing – I’m so blessed to have you, baby. May the years ahead bring you more confetti moments, more lessons, more love. Be a blessing to others, as you have been to me. Happy birthday, my dear dear missy. We love love love love love you. Love you so.

Love,

Mommy

Life has been pretty peachy these days, I would say.

First up. An old friend has just opened a coffee joint Smitten at the laid-back Robertson Quay, serving up cups of rich, smooth brew I so love. I’m no coffee connoisseur – I just know when I like that cuppa, or not. I like coffee that doesn’t leave that sour aftertaste. I like coffee that doesn’t leave me nauseous. I like coffee that is served with pretty latte art (yes very shallow of me, yes). I like coffee that perks me up just enough to smile at and forgive the person who just cut my queue, but not that much of a caffeine high that I can’t stop talking. I like coffee served by people who drink and appreciate coffee. Smitten does coffee like that. Even more awesome that everything in the cafe is so pretty – the sugar rack, the water jug, the white bricks, the wooden table, and the lovely lovely couple. Day makers, this place really is.

And there’s walks aplenty these days. The missy and I talk (mostly she) while walking across the field, the early morning sun behind me. I’m a little more tanned now, and a little lighter, both physically and figuratively. Sometimes I walk Latte boy and the missy together, and we go for breakfast picnics in the estate, stopping when we want, when we could. I pack us little blueberries, carrot sticks, croutons, frozen juices, cherry apples, muesli and yoghurt. We stop by the slide and she waves bye while I run Latte round the playground for a bit. She invites me to her ‘home’ and says she will drive us. She has even invited random strangers to her party (which we are not really having). We make up stories, we find Latte doggy friends, we get darker shade by shade every day. It’s fun, this little thing we have going.

The huddy and I had some run-ins over the week, but all’s good now. Very good actually. I like how we grow as a couple to discover more about each other, our dreams, our peeves, our differences, our connections. Not so fond of the way we got there, but we made a pact to live and let live, love and love more. So yes, life is good in the homeland. The daddy, mommy, missy and doggy.

I’m smelling the roses, one by one. Some are thorny, some are wilting, some are just bursting into blooms, but they all smell good in one way or another. I’m gonna take my time. To a beautiful weekend, my friends.

If there’s one thing you have to know about this girl, she loves giving things. She would shop, stop, then shout “I want to buy this for my friends. For …” And she would rattle non-stop to the amusement of the other shoppers with her lists of to-buy and who-to-give-to. Just two nights ago, as a reply to my preach on not wasting resources, she declared “I want to give our fan to the country. The children have no fan and will be very hot. We give our fan, ok?” My heart warmed ever so gently.

Back to today. She armed herself with her polka dot backpack, raisins and cake to the classroom. I tucked a stray hair behind her ear, gave her an embrace, and expected the tears to fall, as usual. Today, there was no tears. No longing, no tugging. Just that glowing tinge of excitement on her face on giving presents she had picked out herself.

Mommy’s pride, however small.

And blessed Teachers’ Day to all the educators out there. Thank you for loving and inspiring my little one (she’s been saying “I want to be a teacher when I grow up, Mommy.”).

And I want to be my bubs’ first, life-long, most loving teacher.

One of my favourite things to do in the mornings is to watch her sleep. Her brown hair spreads out like a fan over my pillow. Her upper lip forms a small ‘m’, very kissable. I resist removing that stray eyelash. Today, she mumbled something about ‘carrot, sticker and sweet’ as she struggled to open her half-lidded eyes. I laugh and pull her in for a morning hug. Then I breathe in – the scent of her thick hair dampened with sweat. This girl perspires even in our air-conditioned room, with a fan blowing no less.

I can’t remember mornings without this familiar routine. I don’t want mornings without this familiar routine.

She looks utterly adorable in her ‘morning face’. Me? I look like I have had nightmares all night long. Thankfully, no one I love judges me by my morning face.

Happy things::

:: Slanting rain over the meadowy greens in the campus that lifted a shroud of heaviness in the air. ::

:: Baby candy pink in the watermelon smoothie I made today for the huddy and the missy. We slurped it up and had cute little pink moustaches after. ::

:: Sketching new Missy Messy designs with my kikki.k pencil and gel pen (and our new shopping-friendly website to be launched SOON!). ::

:: Conversing with the missy in Mandarin and hearing how comfortable she is with the language these days. ::

:: Falling asleep at night with a less heavy heart, and having big faith in what the day ahead would bring. ::

:: Packing fresh cold blueberries in new Rice‘s snackboxes that missy and I utterly adore. ::

Breathe in deep, this is the smell of the weekend.

This weekend, we are going to pop fresh dough into the oven, collect the gifts I’ve ordered for the October babies, go for long walks with Latte boy, and drink lots of smoothies and coffee. What are your weekend look-forwards?

I love how she loves.

She skips when she’s happy. That thud-a-thud sound on the hollow of the ground is a joyful sound.

I love when she pops her head to the side, swings on the bar right above before she goes a-whooshing down the slide.

These days, she CANT.STOP.TALKING. One minute, she’s the mommy. Thirty minutes later, she’s the teacher and she has us all sitting on the floor, clapping and singing along to her medley of songs. Do you know there’s a sequel to “Baa Baa Black Sheep”? She sings it this way::

“Moo moo, Jessie Cow,

Have you any milk?

Yes mam, yes mam, three bottles full.

One for my mommy, one for daddy,

And one for the little Raeann who lives down the lane.”

Life has been so much brighter with this little girl.

But more often than not, I am at peace. It wasn’t easy to come by, but it has. The huddy indulges me in long chats after the missy has turned in. He keeps me grounded, this man. He says the truth, unvarnished, because I need to hear it. Then he says nothing and lets me soak his PJs with my tears, slows down the rhythm of my heaving shoulders with his tight embrace. He is there, always.

I take much comfort in words my dear friends say to me, or have not said because you know, some things are better left unsaid. I feel the support, I do, and thank you. You know who you are.

So yes, I am healing fast and well. There is always a place in me, for him – love, pity, regret, obligation, that bittersweet cocktail of emotions for someone once so close, and now so far.

Well, I don’t know how to end this entry, so I’ll just say…bye.

I was barely ten. Twenty years on, most memories have faded. Some have stubbornly stayed on, the worst ones inclusive, as much as I have tried to will them away. But I think I want to remember you as a man who was my everything. For that ten years, you really were.

So this is goodbye. It came faster than I had expected, but no time is a good time. I wish you happiness, free of pain, both physical and emotional, and most of all, love. Bye, Pa.

Three more months to her third birthday. The girl can’t quite wait. She’s the youngest in class, and almost every other day, she comes home with a goody pack (seriously, why do people give candies and Calbury chocolates to toddlers?) and asks, “When’s my birthday, mommy? I’m three years old.”

Between two and three years, her milestones are more than we could ever have imagined. She spins her own tunes with her own lyrics, some sweet, some funny, mostly random. She tussles between Mandarin and English when she’s in the mood, and has taken to calling us “bao bei” (darlings). She has learned to lock the bathroom door from the outside with her ‘key’ (a toy coin or a milk bottle cap), and has me heaving in madness when I can’t go into the loo when I really have to. She has learned a very important concept of focusing on the issue not the person, so declarative statements like these are abundant these days, “I don’t like you to open the brownies, but I still like you, Mommy” or “I don’t like Daddy to scold me, but I still like Daddy”. So precocious.

The little one’s got a sunburn now, her face flushed, the exposed skin looking a painful hot red. She was out in the playground with her classmates when we came to fetch her, and with the late-afternoon sun hot on our faces, we trudged the long way home. Bad move, so now she’s all hot pink and red and getting way too many “oh-so-rosy-like-Japanese” comments from everyone on the street.

Some days, I’m ready to laugh and reason. Some days, I have meltdowns and I yell in her face. Other days, I’m over-emotional. Last night, she uncharacteristically stood and walked on the bed (it’s a big taboo for us), and almost fell off the edge. The daddy was stern and scolded her. I went down the slippery slope fallacy and found myself in tears because of the sheer pain in thinking of those nasty possible consequences. The missy was upset (and very shocked) to see big drops on my face and hugged and kissed me, all the time saying “It’s ok, Mommy. It’s ok.” She looked at the bed, shook her head gently, then put her head on my shoulder, holding my left hand. Then she wiped off my tears, still warm and running awry, with her little hand. We snuggled up to sleep that night, her hand still in mine. All so dramatic, I know. I’m thankful I have a girl. My tears are no good, no good for any boys. And actually, for any girls. I lack self-control sometimes.

So, three months to three years. I’ll get better as a mother. I’ll learn. Love gets me there. That, I know.

And there was Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. We held hands, ate raisins coated with milk chocolate. I love how he squeezes my hand tightly just before I do – because he knows this scene is going to be exciting or sad and I would love that feel of his hand. He just knows.

Beneath the 3D glasses, I teared when Snape wept upon finding Lily’s body. This whole series is nothing short of awesome and I’m glad the little Missy will inherit my books and we’ll explore the twists and turns of the intricate plots together, mommy and missy.

We hopped on a bus, he had supper and we had ice cream on freshly made waffles. I felt like a girl – his girlfriend, not a mommy. I ate without thinking of the stubborn flabs round my tummy. We talked, little of the Missy. It was me and him, him and me.

The smell of after-rain lingered lightly in the air. That mix of concrete, grass, cars, leaves that makes for a washed out sort of air. The smell of a cool, quiet night.

That’s our night.

“My angry face!” she says. She’s so me here – just check out her double chin. Sigh.

Missy’s sentence structures are getting more sophisticated these days. She is in full command of conjunctions, much to our amusement. While the huddy and I were contemplating whether to send her to my in-laws for half a day, she bursted out, “No, you must bring me along, otherwise I will get very angry!” And with that, she locked arms with me to cafes and bookstores in the quietest of lanes on a lazy Sunday.

Then at the bookstore, she found her Laura Ashley pouch where I kept her extra set of clothes. Swinging it chicly over her shoulder, she said, “Mommy, I’m going home first. I’ll wait for my car to come, then I’ll go home and eat one sweet. Then I’ll come back and look for you, ok? My car is not here yet. When my car is here, I’ll go home first. I will only eat one sweet. One sweet.” Now, we don’t have a car. What car?

Before leaving the bookstore, she grabbed a few postcards and announced to everyone present, “I’m taking these papers for my students. I want to give them to my students.” She has no students, I have. But in her own make-believe world, she has. She says she has five classes, and she has ‘finished grading all five classes’. “Have you finished grading, Mommy? I have.”

I love love love her at this stage, in this age.