Dim Sum Mum - Tess' Little Pieces

what's coming out - part two

and you thought you weren't going to have to worry about what is coming out of 75 per cent of my child population for three months.

so did i, actually.

carys vomitted in the playground today. for no good reason. but you know, she had been running alot, eating a lot...vomit happens. we KNOW that.

but the spidy senses weren't violently banging against my tired brain...surely we weren't going back into vomit land were we? WERE WE?

apparently i wasn't, but good old carys yakked all over herself and my mother today in the taxi.

we were on our way to watch sebastian play football. the babies were with us, we were giving them a chance to play on the pitch. just as we were pulling up, little lulu opened her mouth and spewed. once. OH MY GOODNESS. twice...OH WAIT! third time...she's crying, sebbie is bawling, (she had vomitted all over his leg) and the taxi driver is cursing. (do'nt blame her).

i give mum money and tell her to take carys home. i yank sebastian out of the taxi and he is still whinging about his pukey leg and shorts. wah wah wah, cry me a nauseas river. i take jasper and pass him to a mother i sort of know. bark to take him with her but to be careful, he has some vomit on his sleeve. she starts clearing him up and does a bit of a job on sebbie.

i take sela and the taxi driver's phone. call lita and say, "im sorry, i know i wanted to give you a break but ..... mum returning...and could you please help the taxi driver clear up the vomit." remind me to give her an extra bonus.

have i told you that the chinese word for smelly is pronounced "chow chow" ? every morning while we wait for the school bus the bin lorry comes to collect the garbage. and i taught the kids to say smelly, and so now every morning they wave their hands in front of their noses and say, "CHOW CHOW!!!" when the lorry comes.

the taxi was chow chow. the driver was mad mad.

i am dragging sebbie along and he has vomit on his shorts and leg. i am carrying sela and where is jasper? oh right, with the other mother. good. everyone is accounted for.

sebbie decides he can't play footie with chow chow beginning to crust on his leg and the chunky bits still clinging to his shorts. in despair, i stop a man walking in the same direction as me. his son is about the same size and age as sebbie, a bit older i think.

"excuse me, do you have another pair of shorts in that bag?" i ask.

and he does. and i explain (not that i need to explain much, it is all there to witness), and he asks his son if sebastian can wear the shorts, the son agrees, and i have sebastian stripped down in seconds.

people are so kind. really kind. the son needs the shorts tomorrow for pe and i will get them to him no matter what.

so, i am glad the toilet training was put on hold, because if this stomach flu is as rampant as it is meant to be, the competition for the toilets in the house is going to be intense. oy.

potty training x 3 attempt #1 ended at 11.34am today.

will try again in three months.

it just wasn't worth the frustration. i would rather spend five days training and older child who is ready than five weeks training one that isn't.

there we go.

puddles and piles

in celebration of both my father and my father in law's birthdays, today was day one of the triumverate's introduction to toilet training.

last night i brought out the elmo knickers i had purchased while in the us. sela and lulu (and jasper) were very impressed to see elmo and i solemnly explained that tomorrow we would be wearing our knickers and bobs and they weren't to get them messy. basically it was the same speech i gave young sebastian at 18 months.

except, oh right, with sebastian it worked.

i don't remember the baby whisperer's guide to toilet training too well, but i do remember that toilet training sebastian was easy. he was 18 months, pooping every night at 6.43, and so we started putting him on the toilet one night and gave him a sweetie when he did his poo. i can remember calling our relatives (it was easter) and we were so excited and told them we had the best news EVER and they said, "oh! you're pregnant again!" and we replied, "No, we're too broke for that, but even better, sebastian did a poopers in the toilet!"

today, same thing. i had the timer out, and although i was not around during the beginning of the morning (up late working on deadline), i know that the timer was set and every 15 minutes the kids were on the toilet.

except nothing was going in the toilet (or potty) except for the occasional foot.

by 10.30 we had already gone through six pairs of knickers and two bobs. one poo, five wees, and that's not even counting the stuff on the floor.

why did we start toilet training? magnificent thinks they are ready and he tends to have a good eye for these things. but i have promised myself that by tomorrow if it doesn't seem that they have caught on, i will stop. i think the book said that you have to give it two days at least. i just don't want to drive myself crazy. i would rather spend five days training kids who are ready, then five weeks training kids who aren't.

jasper is full of false advertising. he will walk up to you, and say in his best gravelly urgent voice,

wee wee.

if you don't immediately respond, he will repeat weeweeweeweeweeweeweeweeweeweeweeweewee until you hustle him into the bathroom.

once there, the thrilled ginger boy he helps kick off his pants and plaintively requests, "book"

this is going so well, you think, but instead jasper stops his toilet training ways and uses the opportunity to fiddle with himself. he could sit on the toilet for hours and if i gave him his meals there, he would.

sela, is very earnest about using the toilet, she will tell me that "poopah in the toyet". but except for a few renegade wees, she is not following through on her lingo. but she is very happy to sit on the toilet and sing and read and basically do everything except bodily functions.

however, after emerging dry after her nap (during which they all wore nappies), i led carys to the toilet and by sheer coincidence, she did wees. oh i praised and praised and even better, took out the little packet of m&m's i had in the bathroom. jasper and sela saw me hand their little sister one, and they took up the chorus

ooohhh, sweeties!

sare sweeties!

sweeties!

i tried to explain that sweeties were only handed out to those who made deposits in the porcelain, but the crew was less than compassionate.

by the end of the day the girls were wearing sebastian's bobs, and no pants. they looked ridiculous, and very very cute. little butt cheeks hanging out of the bobs, that look of surprise when they feel the wees running down their leg.

ohh ohh, wee wee!

wee-wee will give it one more day. if by tomorrow it doesn't look like they are making a connection, wee-wee will stop the training for a couple of months.

it is official.

i am old.

the news did not reach me via registered post, epiphany or teenage kids asking if i am a senior, rather by a rude little hair that i believe is trying to take up residence around my chin.

i think it is there, i have not found it yet.

i have seen the future, and it is not pretty. i am going to be a whiskery old trout and my grandchildren will not want to kiss me because my jawline is dotted with wiry hairs.

even though i will have a goatee, my grandkids won't think me cool. you can't win with young people, can you?

i am appalled. i think i would have preferred grey hair. but no, the women in our family don't get much grey hair. then again, they don't get facial hair either, while i am apparently harvesting a fine future growth.

i haven't located this wayward misplaced eyebrow yet, in fact i do not have concrete evidence that it is in existence, but i suspect it is. and that is enough to make me paranoid.

you know i don't mind aging in itself. i love being practically 36. so much cooler than being in your 20's. because my body has done great things for me, (carrying children, recovering from children, recovering from some pretty violent seizures, infections, healing broken bones, good eyesight, no cavities) i can forgive it's betrayal in the little issues of you know, oh, having to work harder to keep arms toned, less muscle definition in my back, etc.

but for some reason this HAIR thing has me, well, bristling with righteous indignation and horror.

and now i am paranoid. i know some very nice women who have hair dotting their jawlines and chins. i am not good enough friends to mention it to them. there are boundary issues. and these aren't women who have "given up on themselves". one of them has just had a revival in looks and attitude and is dressing in low rise jeans and fitting sweaters. but for some reason, renegade eyebrows are not easy conversations to have. sort of on par with, "um, i think you need to go to the bathroom." killingly embarrassing.

because i have a deadline looming i will only dwell on the concept that i have been sporting the wolfman jack look for a small while, just to indulge my paranoia. but i know that i haven't been trailing around hair on my chinny chin chin because i do have good enough friends, and relatives that would tell me if this were the case. i know this because my sister and mother and i have promised that if one of us ends up in a home, the others will come round and take care of facial hair, paint toenails and rough skin. peace of mind is so important.

but in the meantime, who will have the courage to tell me if i do indeed have that rogue illegal immigrant?

would you tell someone you knew if they had a stray eyebrow on their chin?

when i am on an airplane visiting a country where my political views and occupation (freelance journalist) might cause me problems if i were to accidentally get arrested, i always tick that i am a "housewife". and, i say smugly to myself, it's not even a lie.

should i be smug about that fact? or should i be mortified? did i ever see myself as a housewife? why does the term housewife have such negative connotations anyway?

women don't get it easy.

working mothers are seen as women who want to have children and then aren't their primary caregivers.

stay at home mums, housewives, are seen as women who have stopped using their brains and are content to be nothing more than a mother.

who gave us these labels and do we subconsciously buy into them or are they just generalisations?

for the record, i think and have always said that while i have no desire to work in a traditional job, i have muchos respect for women who work outside the home. it can't be easy. there has to be guilt involved. i read the book "I don't know how she does it" and while i understand that not every woman's job is at that level and that demanding, i believe many of the principles of the book are true. i don't believe women are discriminated in the workplace as much as mothers are discriminated against. and that is sad. and so many women do it so well. and have a great home/work balance, despite their ambitions and workloads.

and i also have incredible respect for "housewives". because i know and you know that life is busy. bosses and colleagues can be reasoned with, small children cannot. any working parent who has spent a weekend with their child knows how tough stay at home parenting is. i dont need to justify that the sahm is a chauffeur, chef, mediator, housekeeper, shopper, personal secretary, etc...that's known. and if the job isn't as mentally stimulating as working outside the home, reading the paper, having a book club, running, getting out...they all get that other side of your brain working.

i don't like that mums feel the need to defend themselves. i have heard several times working mums say,

"there is no way i could be happy being a stay at home mum, i have to use my brain."

or

"i want to be a role model for my children saying that women are equal to men."

and stay at home mums saying,

"i didn't have my children so someone else could raise them."

"there is no job more important than raising my children."

yes, these are beliefs, and that is fine, especially when i write them, but when spoken can almost come across as judgemental or defensive. if you chose to stay at home or to work, then more power to you. be proud of your choice. you don't have to justify it. it's yours.

most mom and pop shops have a cat in residence.

this cat is the hardest working employee in the shop. you can tell if they are good at their job, because the cats eat their profits.

rickety old mom and pop shops have many ways for rats to enter, and shops that sell food, herbs or provide shelter and low deep dark hard to get at areas for rats to nest are very popular with the vermin crowd.

in 1998 mc and i were at our favourite noodle place when a rat zipped through the shop. it was broad daylight. we were all so stunned we didn't shriek. the owner smacked at the rat with a broom, and then screamed at her husband. a friend told us she said "CAT!" several times during her red faced diatribe. message obvious: time to get a cat.

during the daytimes i walk into shops and i see the cats lazily attending to their preening. they could be sitting at your feet, stretched lazily across beams above you, in a curled up ball near the warm insence, or determindly facing the wall, having a, no pun intented, catnap. 

the cats come in a wide variety of colours, some have tails some don't, but the chubby cats all have one thing in common: huge ears. usually with not a lot of hair around them. those ears are their meal tickets. their tenth grade secretarial arts teacher was wrong: fast typing skills and high word accuracy are not the key to a good job...big ears are. to kill or frighten away the rats that would be only too happy to eat a freshly typed report. rats seem happy to chew through anything.

although someone said you should treat cats in a shop like you treat guidedogs...as at work employees who must not be interrupted, i sometimes to make the cats acquaintance. not often though. for a couple of reasons:

1) fleas. shop cats usually are carting about fleas and i have no desire to have fleas. i once had to pull one out of my eye (transferred to me by a kitten we found on the street, kitten little, whom we found a great home for...he was a cute little gaffer). fleas are hard to kill and the shampoo you need to kill them is vile.

2) they're not so friendly. i consider myself a bit of a cat whisperer, and if a cat is giving away "m just fine" vibes, who am i to not respect them?

some of them are rumbly and purry, and so i risk glares from their owners and give them a quick rub and cuddle, while hoping their breath isn't too appalling.

cats are part of the hong kong life. they are to mom and pop shops what videocameras are to banks. they protect the premises and the assets. and they add character. and relief. it is scary to be flipping through a barrel of clothes and see something off in the distance moving. the relief of realising it is just a cat is amazing. the cats have this proprietorial air, they move about the shop if they wish, and are treated by the shop owners with respect. no one kicks the cat.

it is also a bit pathetic in a town where domestic helpers from the philippines, sri lanka, india and thailand are treated like crap, that cats are treated well. what does that say about hong kong?

my amazing race

we have established that i am not a weepy girl. i'm no automated toe-cracking robot, but tears aren't my way of expressing joy, sorrow or regret.

but i believe in an earlier post i commented on how i always cry at the final episode of THE AMAZING RACE (even the family series, and that was seriously lame).

i had a minute the other day (while waiting to pick up a prescription at the hospital, sebastian was racing around me) to wonder and analyse why the tears.

and just before i got to the cashier i realised that i see THE AMAZING RACE as a parallel of sorts. a parallel to my own life.

AMAZING RACE participants start out the race as we start out life. with a group of people, some of whom exit as you keep going, others who stay with you almost to the end. you learn, you cry, you fight, you excel in ways you never thought you could. sometimes you miss the obvious. sometimes you lose simply because of timing, or luck. you choose the wrong option, and it is a terrible error that changes your luck for the worst overnight. even worse, your partner might not have wanted to do it. you disappoint your partner, yet on other days you exceed their expectations. and each step you travel, your experiences together mount, whether good or bad. you realise that although other teams are faster, have won more, that there is no one else you would want with you on this incredible journey. you help your friends when you can, you make the choice to either appreciate the world you are witnessing, or to exclaim in horror over a culture or life that doesn't make sense to you.

and finally, finally, weary with new wrinkles around your eyes, tiredness seeping from every pore, you see the finish line. you start running. and you get closer. and you see the people you started on the journey with, and they're clapping for you. cheering you on to the finish. some are faces you haven't seen in so long...others you mourned just the other day when you had to say goodbye to them. but they're here now, healthy looking and smiling, encouraging you to the finish of your race.

i have my ideas of heaven. you know they include animals. and goodness knows i don't think God looks anything like phil (although i like the idea of the new zealand accent), but the concept of approaching death with anticipation...to meet God and have him confirm not only is my earthly race finally completed but that i have done it well...is overwhelming to me. and to have my loved ones and friends welcoming me to heaven, well that's where the tears start.

despite the mistakes i make on my amazing race, despite the clues God gives me and the challenges...i don't always finish first. or well. but i know my race will end at some point, and when that day comes, the thought that God will be there, and i will see loved ones, makes me realise again that death is not to be feared. it isn't about what i am leaving behind, it is what i am going to. it is about what i have learned on the way. how i reacted. who i let myself become.

i can hear the cheering now.

i want to be tired when i jump triumphantly on to the finish mat. when i see the finish line i hope i have dumped my baggage...necessary for the trip, but not important anymore. my eyes will be on God, but i will hear the voices, and my tired smile will expand.

what fatigue? what aches? what disappointment that i didn't rest more and see more and enjoy more of my race? forget the regrets. my race is over. my amazing race. i don't know who will get there first, but i will see you there.