It’s All Good, Mama

I am not a great mother. I am too selfish to be one. I often complain about the things I have to do. I lose my temper at times and run out of patience all too often. Goodness gracious me, I even entertain thoughts of running away from all this when things get too much to bear. All this coming from a woman who longed for a child, who has chosen to be a mother. I am not proud.

When we were planning for a baby, I wanted to be the mother to my child, like my Mama was to me. She took care of us all by herself, had no help and gave everything up for us. In spite of the challenges, she loved us unconditionally and never once vented her frustrations (even if she felt any) on us. My father had to work hard as the sole breadwinner, and my mother managed somehow. I didn’t know how she did it, but she was and still is a strong, selfless, deeply loving woman, and I wanted to be just that. I thought I could be.

I thought wrong.

Weeks into being a new mother, I couldn’t quite keep up. The fragmented sleep, the sudden lack of freedom, the prioritising of my daughter’s needs before mine, these almost did me in. I hated mothering the very being I love most…oh, the painful irony. That quickly gave way to despair, as I realised that I wasn’t cut out to be the parent I wanted to be.

Almost nine months on, I still doubt myself. I can’t go through what I set out to do. I still lose it when I am frustrated. And I get frustrated, too easily, one too many times. I hate myself for that. I didn’t expect to hit the bump on the road and NOT go over it; after all, my can-do personality has helped me emerge largely unscathed from most of the trying times in my life? Why can’t I stop whinging, suck it up and get on with things? Surely I know that parenting is hard work and that there are no two ways about it?

Yet, Faith grows, so beautifully. She is happy, healthy and brings so much joy to everyone around her. Damn, she makes me look good as a mother but you and I know that I haven’t done much to raise such a delightful, loveable bub. She just is. Yes, I cry in frustration when I feel breathless from keeping up with her needs, but oh, she makes me smile through my tears. I suppose I have done something right along the way, amidst tempers lost and harsh words unleashed…to still be here, to still be a mother to her, to be able to say that she is growing well.

I may never be the mother that my Mama is to me, or the mother that she is to my daughter. I may be selfish and weak. But I guess, I am what I am and what matters is, I try my best to do whatever I can, to be a mother to Faith, to love her as much as humanly possible. What matters is I am still trying.

…

A very happy Mother’s Day to all mothers, to those who struggle, to those who want to be, to those who let me revel in their joy and cry with them, to those who inspire me in more ways than one, to those who laughed and cried with me…you know who you are.

Most of all, Happy Mother’s Day to my Mama, who already is, who forever will be.

Lychee + Thoughts

I have been thinking a lot lately…about what I want to do.

I love to bake. I am that delirious, mad scientist who is in a very happy place whenever I step into the kitchen. I love stroking my cranberry KitchenAid when nobody is looking, devouring cookbooks, tweaking and making up my own recipes, making bakes look pretty, and I get such a rush from getting the thumbs up from family and friends.

Over the past months, my husband and father have been trying to talk me into selling my bakes. I did accept orders for my lychee chiffon cake not too long ago and I received pretty good feedback. But…I still lack confidence. An awful lot of it. I am terrified of putting myself, or rather, my bakes out there. The defeatist in me doesn’t think that I will ever be good enough to feed the masses, especially with so many stunning homemade treats that are available these days…I don’t think anything positive will come out of this.

But that courageous part of me wants to try. I am not sure if I have what it takes to make it work, or whether that faintest desire would blossom into something more tangible, but there is a tiny voice whispering to me, urging me to take a risk. That voice is so alluring, so persuasive, that I just might.

Just maybe.

Check out what I have been baking in my own kitchen.

So…You Know What They Say About Happiness?

Many moons ago, I was the poster girl for (fastidious*) go-getters. I did very well in school. I excelled at work. I never gave anything short of my best in everything I did. I was all about the results. *(why fastidious?)Yes, I was the type of person who didn’t bother to invest any effort in something I didn’t like to do or something that I knew I was going to suck at (PE for example, I couldn’t catch a basketball even if you gave me three more arms and seven more legs), and only spent time on things that I loved to do and on things that I knew I was going to be good at.

It sounds like I was an irritating blood-sucking tick, huh?

Today, I write this as I sneak time away from my sleeping baby girl. Yes, I am a mother. A stay-at-home-mother. It’s 1pm and I haven’t showered. Nope, I haven’t had the time to wash my face or comb my hair. I did brush my teeth but I’m still in my pyjamas. Such is the story of my life and it’s been going on for about five months now.

The old me would have frowned at my life today. Straight distinctions for O and A levels, a PhD, a high-flying job, all that glitz and glamour in London, and now, you give that all up for a baby who wouldn’t remember what you sacrificed for her? What about your career? What about your years of education? You’re Dr Tan, for crying out loud. All this gone to nought?!

Sadly, this is also what some people have said to me. But, I’m glad that I’m no longer one of them.

Yes, I have a PhD. Yes, I should be doing my post-doctoral fellowship now and I should be doing scientific research. I should be moving onto a professorship next. Ahhh, the I-should-be’s. But guess what? It took me 4 years of pursuing an honours degree, 2 years of working in academic research and 3 years of PhD to realise that I no longer want to do scientific research. To put it simply, it took me 9 years to realise that I was unhappy. It took me 9 years to realise that I needed to start being happy. So, I stepped out of science and dived right into a new career path. It was completely crazy, utterly unnerving…and totally liberating.

So you snagged a job that you really liked? Why don’t you head back now that your baby is a little older? Don’t you miss it? Don’t you miss being happy?

Yes, I miss my job. I miss doing something that I love, that didn’t have anything to do with my husband, my baby, or the neighbour’s dog. My job was mine and mine to keep. I miss it, yes, but that doesn’t mean that I am unhappy now. Motherhood is tough, of course; it breaks me down, spins me around, puts me up on the highest pedestal and exposes everything about me to every critic out there. Sounds really brutal on the being, and it probably sounds perverse to you when I say that I am, in spite of all that, happy most of the time.

There is absolutely no shame in giving up everything I had. Why (other than the fact that I am nurturing and caring for my flesh and blood, and she is so adorable and loveable that I can’t imagine life without her)? Because through all those years of toiling in the world out there, through all those lessons learnt, I now have answers. I know what makes me happy, and what doesn’t. I know what I want to do next to realise my new dreams. And that, is worth every distinction, every PhD, every high-flying job that I have turned my back on, and every step I’m taking into the future, my future.

Look Ma, I’m happy!

—

Read on for my new journey as a mother and for my thoughts on love and marriage.

2012: What A Year!

We welcomed 2012 in our serviced apartment in Boston. How? I, buried in all-day sickness,  M, hoisting my hair up whenever I heaved, us, watching the ball drop in Times Square and the magnificent fireworks display at the London Eye on telly. Our 6-week stay in Boston was nightmarish. I was plagued with nausea and survived on dry crackers and fish fingers. M woke up at 4.30am every day to work at MGH. We barely went anywhere as I was doing poorly. We did watch a live basketball game (Boston Celtics vs Phoenix Suns) and build a snowman when I was feeling better towards the end of our stay. That was nice.

After M’s elective at MGH, we flew back to London, met our friends for a Chinese New Year dinner, switched our bags out and I said a tearful goodbye to the city we have come to call home. We spent the rest of the New Year with our families in Singapore, our very first with them in five years. My obgyn told us we were having a girl and that she is healthy. We shared the good news with everyone who cared.

We celebrated M’s 30th in March. I baked him a strawberry and lychee shortcake after a long break from the kitchen. He was delighted to finally spend his birthday with family and friends in Singapore. A few days later, we hugged each other goodbye as M left to complete his degree in London, and I stayed in Singapore to prepare for the arrival of our baby.

It was a difficult time thereafter. I was missing M terribly, and feeling sad that I was going through pregnancy alone. M was stressed out with his finals and I really wanted to be there for him. We tried to keep up with each other on FaceTime. I often watched him have lunch and even cook his dinner, whilst he squinted at the tiny movements our baby was making across my growing belly. I exercised a lot to pass time and to keep myself fit for the delivery – yoga on Fridays and cardio twice weekly. M graduated in July; I was gutted to miss the ceremony but his graduation also meant that M was finally coming home. He took very good care of me and pampered me with lots of dinner dates and outings. We were determined to make up for lost time, and to enjoy each other’s company as much as we can before our daughter’s arrival and before he started his new job. We spent lots of time reminiscing the good ol’ times we had in London. We spent lots of time getting to know each other all over again. It was wonderful to be with my best friend.

Before we knew it, our baby girl was born. Nothing quite prepared us for parenthood, let alone that in the week when M embarked on his new role as a doctor. There were lots of laughter and lots of tears. There still are.

The next months were and still are trying. Four months into parenthood and we are still trying to find our footing. It has been a steep learning curve and we evolve with our baby girl everyday. We have had to dig real deep to stick to the kind of parenting we feel is best for our daughter in the face of a constant barrage of unsolicited advice. We learnt to sleep less and love more. I didn’t think this is possible, but it is.

So….yes…

This is the year when time sped up and slowed down at the same time.

This is the year when emotions swung like a pendulum on steroids. 

This is the year when I became a mother.

This is the year when I had the most and least sleep.

This is the year when I learnt to love a little more.

This is by far, the best year of my life.

—

I hope 2012 has been good to you too. Here’s to a better 2013. Happy New Year, guys!

Christmas Past, Present, Future

On Christmas Day last year, we were huddled together in the emergency room of MGH in Boston, heads down in fervent prayer and hands wrung in an odd mix of hope and despair. The ER was eerily quiet. An elderly woman was waiting anxiously for her husband. I just had the nth vial of blood taken from me since we arrived in Boston three days ago. The doctor had trouble looking for a spot on my arms that wasn’t already bruised by all the blood-taking they did. But that didn’t matter as much as what the doctor was going to tell us when the bloodwork was ready.

Two hours later, the resident on-call told us that our pregnancy looked to be progressing much better than it did a few days ago, but that’s only from the bloodwork and we won’t know for sure if our baby was going to be okay until a few weeks later. I was told to return for further tests in two days’ time. We took whatever that was positive, heaved a strangled sigh of relief, and stepped into the first snowflakes that fell that winter. Better was the best gift we could ask for.

This Christmas…the tree is up, the fairy lights are twinkling and the presents are waiting to be opened. Baby Faith joins us for her first Christmas. We are delighted and beyond thankful to be her parents, to love her the way our folks love us. We take nothing for granted and we are happy. She is our gift, as with faith, which inspired her name.

I don’t know what the future holds for our little family. But I know this…that I will treasure every single moment I have with my loved ones, and that I will thank the high heavens for every tomorrow.

Happy Christmas, everyone.

Love,

Us

 

 

An Open Letter to My Mother

Dearest Ma,

The clock struck at midnight and the first thing you did was to come into my room to wish me a Happy Birthday. You have done so unfailingly for many years, even when I was in London, even when there was a time difference. I could always count on you to make my birthday special.

Ma, little do you know that this year, I feel somewhat different on my day. I am now a mother, and you, a grandmother to my daughter. For years, I have wondered about childbirth and what it would be like to raise a child. For years, I watched you care for each one of us, not knowing how tough it is for you. For years, I have taken you for granted. I have only been a mother for three months and boy, has it been a challenge! I finally have the faintest idea as to what you went through in the early months of our lives. I say faintest, because Ma, I am only just coping because I have help. You, on the other hand, toiled and slaved through motherhood without any. I don’t know where and how you find the strength to do so, but I am glad you did, because without you, I wouldn’t be who I am today.

On my birthday, Ma, I want to thank you for giving me life. For feeding and making sure I am healthy. For putting up with the sleepless nights. For singing nursery rhymes and hymns to me when you shampooed my hair. For keeping the suds out of my eyes when you did so. I want to thank you for all the breakfasts, lunches and dinners that you made. For taking me to school and taking me home afterwards. For bringing me to the playground and the EPB bookshop to pick up classics like The Little Women, and The Prince and The Pauper even though we were cash-strapped. For teaching me right from wrong, and for putting up with me when I talked back. For teaching me how to love, to always look within myself and do some soul-searching instead of blaming others when things go awry. For kissing my forehead and taking me in your arms when my world came crashing down, and for sharing my joy when I achieved something in school, at work, and in love. I want to thank you for doing all that and more, and I am still amazed that you love me without any resentment.

Ma, 30 years ago, you suffered much pain to bring me into this world. Today, you love my daughter deeply, as much as you love me. I have much to learn from you in the years to come. I aspire to be the selfless and loving mother that you are and I hope that I can give Faith the kind of life that you have given me.

Today is my day, as much as it is yours, and I have never ever thought to thank you till this day. So, Happy Birthday, Ma.

I love you.

Always,
Your baby girl.

—

Read on for my new journey as a mother and for my thoughts on love and marriage.

When I Turned 10, 20, 30

So, I am turning a big, fat, smelly THIRTY in a few hours’ time and surprisingly, it isn’t as nerve-wrecking as I thought it would be. The sun still rises from the east and sets in the west. I still have two eyeballs and a pair of ugly feet, so everything seems pretty okaaaayyy.

I celebrated the occasion with some friends and my family this weekend, and all the feasting, candles and cakes got me thinking about how I’ve come to be three decades old. I mean, thirty years seem like a pretty long time, eh? I was once a newborn with a head full of hair. I was once ten years old. And I was once twenty. How did I get from the size of a tiny tyke like my 3-month old daughter to the giant with ugly feet and bushy hair? Amaaaazing!

I thought it would be fun to take a walk down memory lane…to revisit the times when I was born and when I was 10, 20 and now 30.

{When I was a couple of months old} I remember nothing, but of course. I looked like I had a lot of hair. Wait…I still do.

{When I was 10} I was definitely bo-geh (toothless; refer to photo). That year, I remember visiting my dad who was on a work trip to Hong Kong and Shen Zhen. We toured Ocean Park, got stuck in the cable car, got trampled on in the MTR, and I received my first fashionable bag – a Hello Kitty purse from Sogo. When we were in Shen Zhen, we also ate the sweetest lychees I’ve ever had in my life. I also did pretty badly in the first quarter of Primary 4 – my grades shocked me enough and I took my schoolwork more seriously thereafter. I was prescribed my first pair of glasses at the health check in school. I recall skipping my way out of the school gate to meet my mum at the nearest void deck, and I happily announced that I was FINALLY short-sighted only to see my mum turning purple. She blamed it on me playing too much Digger (does this sound familiar to anyone?) on the floppy disk and watching too much TV. My parents got me ugly pink-rimmed plastic glasses and I tried not to wear them unless I couldn’t make out the words on the blackboard – oh, the irony. Twenty years later, I regret not taking care of my eyes back then. My mum was right, I did play too much Digger, didn’t I?

{When I was 20} My eyebrows were too thin, ewwwwww. That year, I was single, thinking about but not looking for love. I was working hard in the Science Club on an ad-hoc dinner and dance project. I wore baggy tees and ugly neon board shorts to the university for lectures. And yes, I wore slippers too. I was pretty much a loner and enjoyed having quiet lunches in the most secluded and eerie corners of the NUS Science Faculty. I didn’t like going out with friends and loved taking long bus rides back home…alone. I adored spending time with my family. I was the least interesting person you could ever meet. Woohoo.

{Today I am 30} This is me, with M, and the little lump in the bottom right corner is my baby girl, who was fast asleep in the sling when I celebrated my birthday on Sunday. I was a student for the most of my 20s and worked for 3 years in total (2 locally, and 1 in London). I met my best friend at 18, but didn’t know it until I was 23 and  decided that he is the love of my life. He asked me to marry him and I said yes. We moved to London and shared the most amazing adventures for 5 years. He taught me to cook and encouraged me to pursue my interests in baking, food styling and photography; that explains the existence of this blog. We exchanged our vows in my dream Glass Pavilion, in the presence of our closest family members and friends, and had a small banquet the next day. We travelled to at least 25 cities in our lives together and decided to finally set up a family last year. I spent the last of my 20s heavily pregnant. Our baby girl arrived 3 months ago. I became a better person because of my new little family.

So much has happened in the last 30 years, as my parents testify, but it feels like life has just begun. I have so much to work on, plenty to learn and ample love to give. Here’s to hopefully a couple more of these entries, for when I turn 40, 50, 60 and maybe, if I’m lucky, 70. I reckon I might still have two eyeballs and a pair of ugly feet then.

———–

I would love to hear about your 10s, 20s and 30s! Comment or blog about this, will ya?

I Just Called To Say…

I don’t know about you but some of the best conversations I’ve had with my husband happened over the phone. It doesn’t really come as a surprise, given that we spend a lot of time apart in our 7.5 years together; after all, we were separated by more than 6000 miles in the early years of our courtship, and owing to M’s hectic work life now, time is once again a luxury that we cannot have.

We started our relationship with lots and lots of love letters sent via the good-old postman from London to Singapore, and from Singapore to London. Yes, we were the old-school sorta couple.

We also racked up sky-high phone bills and stayed up till the wee hours just so we could catch each other with the time difference. Yes, we were the insatiable sorta couple who couldn’t wait till the next time we checked our letter boxes.

We did very little of video calls on MSN. Yes, I was the shy girl who denied her boyfriend of the opportunity to see her face, who felt too embarrassed to smother him with tender words ‘face-to-face’ (read: my parents were probably lurking round the corner from the family PC and I really didn’t want them to know that their daughter was a lovesick puppy. HA!).

And so, we spent the very best times with each other on the phone in the early years (barring the letters which took forever to arrive).

When I was pregnant, we spent much of our time apart again; M had to return to London to finish off his medical degree, and we decided it was best for me to return to Singapore for the delivery. Those months are by far, THE toughest times of our lives. We were due to accomplish some of the biggest things we could ever embark on, and to do it without the other was…insane. I still can’t believe that we pulled through but I know exactly how we did it. We stayed up in the wee hours and talked whenever we could…only this time, we did it without racking up crazy bills, thanks to FaceTime.

Then, M returned to Singapore. Both of us felt relieved to be finally together in the same time zone, in the same place. This was short-lived, for 7 weeks later, we were thrown a curveball when our daughter arrived in the same week as when M started his new job as a doctor. Things were immensely stressful and complicated. They still are. We can hardly catch our breaths, let alone catch up with each other after an intense day of caregiving and saving lives. We see each other for less than half a week every Monday to Sunday. This has been going on for three months and we know it isn’t going to let up soon. So, what do we do?

We try our very best to talk. I could be in the loo as our daughter takes that rare nap (or damn, she could be in the middle of a wonder week and in that case, she is likely to be strapped onto me in the loo) or he could be sacrificing precious sleep during his crazy 32-hour weekly call at the hospital, but yes, we do what we can to call each other. As with the past 7.5 years, our conversations on the phone are always insightful, heartbreaking, loving….intense.

Just this weekend, I was feeling down in the dumps over the crap that is part and parcel of motherhood. Our daughter was extremely fussy and clingy for the past three days. She cried whenever I didn’t hold her. She fed poorly. She slept awful and I had only four hours of sleep in three days. She was going through her third mental leap and it was the worst one thus far. I was beyond shattered and feeling delusional about how this motherhood thing was going to work out in the next twenty years (cue EMO music). It didn’t help that I have been heavily criticised for not giving my daughter the care that others think I should be giving. It didn’t help that my daughter has often been swept away in others’ arms when she is all fine and dandy, and shoved back in my face the minute she screams murder; on top of that, I get blamed for her cries even if it wasn’t my fault, even if that’s what babies do, they cry. And I was upset because I was really looking forward to the recent weekend; early birthday celebrations were pencilled in and I CRAVED for time off to enjoy the company of family and friends, to grow older with my little girl in tow. I was close to cancelling the celebrations but I knew that if I rained on my parade, I will be worse off. I was also feeling shite because my ex-company suddenly called me up on Friday and offered me a job without me applying for one, and I knew I couldn’t go back to my career anytime soon because my daughter needs me now. I felt too much in too short a time. After lunch with my family on Sunday, I broke down in the car when M sent me back to my parents’ (he was starting his on-call and I usually head back to my parents’ when he’s not at home).

I couldn’t see myself pulling through this thankless, selfless thing that is motherhood. Because, maybe, I am selfish, and I want to be thanked, and I want to be acknowledged, and I want to be the one who steals love and affection, and shies away from the cries and angst of my daughter, without sifting through the crap.

M was speechless in the car as I cried in the backseat whilst looking after our baby girl, who was also wailing. He held me close in the lift and wiped my tears away before giving our daughter a kiss. He said a reluctant goodbye as we shut the door.

Then he called.

And every wound that stung so badly started healing inside me. He told me that he sees how hard it is for me to give up my career and freedom to be a mother. He told me that he sees how strong I have become ever since I became a mother. He told me that he doesn’t know how I do it but he is in awe at me for being a patient, loving mother to our daughter even when she is screaming in my ears and all I, or for that matter anyone, wanted to do was to muffle her screams in ways that loving mothers shouldn’t. He told me that he respects me for finding my will and staying strong in spite of criticism. He told me that he respects me even more for always being there for him, on top of caring for our daughter and dealing with negativity because it takes a selfless person to do all of that and more. He told me that he didn’t know why he didn’t tell me all that sooner, but he wanted to and he needed to.

I am glad. That someone finally sees how painful and rewarding motherhood is for me, that someone finally sees how it tears me up and yet, makes me complete, how it makes me stronger and weaker at the same time. And I am glad that this someone is my best friend.

One phone call from him was all it took to make me whole again.

Now that M is busy during his call at the hospital, there is nothing more that I want than to catch him at the right time, and call him just to say, ‘I love you’, even if my parents are lurking around the corner, eavesdropping on the lovesick puppy that is their daughter. Yes, even that.

—

Read on for my new journey as a mother and for my thoughts on love and marriage.

I Don’t Wish That My Baby Came With A Remote Control

Maybe I do. At times when I am up in the middle of the night, rocking my daughter to sleep until my arms (and eyeballs) fall off. Or at times when she screams in agony for no rhyme or reason, seemingly inconsolable and incredibly unhinging.

But, there is a rainbow after the storm, a light at the end of the darkest and frightfully long tunnel. I am always, eventually, comforted by the fact that my daughter wants to fall asleep in my arms before she decides to grow up and be all independent, and that she calms down and flashes the sweetest of smiles at me, just as I reckon the crying will never stop.

I used to be a child who didn’t know better, a woman who lost and found love, a scientist who relentlessly pursued the truth and the anti-truth, and then a researcher who stood up in board meetings telling people in suits what they should and shouldn’t do to make millions in the next quarter. In all these roles, there were a fair number of highs and lows.

Today, I am a new mother. I have only been so for slightly more than two months and whilst I don’t proclaim to be a know-it-all, motherhood is by far, the most challenging and rewarding role I have taken on.

The euphoria of finally meeting my daughter on her birthday quickly gave way to the blues. The broken sleep, the hours spent figuring the ways of breastfeeding, keeping at it despite the difficulties and the naysayers who kept pushing for formula for their convenience, the torrent of unsolicited advice unleashed with people’s mistaken rights of authority with MY child, the sudden absence of communication with my husband just because we were so darn tired, all these did NOTHING for my soul and I dare say, zilch for many women who thought they were 100% ready to be mothers. I felt depressed, angry, frustrated, ugly and most of all guilty for feeling all of that; after all, I did want a baby, didn’t I? And all these mothers, whom I know personally and whom I follow on social media, they seem to adore their babies and embrace motherhood unconditionally, don’t they? So, what is this that I am feeling? Do I not love my daughter? Am I fit to be a mother? These doubts gnawed at me and would have spat me out in disgust if not for prayers with the husband and my mother, and wise words from my wiser mummy friends (Y, P, F, QY and the wonderful ladies from this incredible online mothers’ group that I have had the privilege of joining).

Through them, I realised that I wasn’t the only one who was feeling gravely deflated. I realised that most mothers, if not all, sifted through that same pile of crap. I realised that not all mothers are forthcoming about the challenges because they fear being judged. I realised that people tend to gloss over the difficulties and focus on broadcasting the positive because that helps them cope…and come on, we all know that the audience isn’t always ready for social media diarrhoea on baby-cuteness (hell, I BET I’ve been struck off the news feeds of many friends after terrorising them with photos and videos of my daughter), let alone unrestricted whining on poop, vomit, crying and lack of sleep. My giving, non-judgmental and supportive friends let me in on the good, the bad and the ugly that motherhood brings; because of them, I am now brave enough to tell the world this… That the first month of motherhood was HELL. That it was the toughest shit I’ve ever done. That it was crippling. And somehow, I made it out in one piece.

Caring for my daughter still drives me batshit crazy sometimes, but my 24/7 spent with her has evolved to include more than a few redeeming moments that make me fall in love with her over and over again. I’ve grown to know a little more about her. Somehow, through the fussing, the tears she shed, the slitty-eyed toothless grins, the piercing screams, the know-it-all look on her potato face and countless sleepless nights, I have come to learn about her quirks, her idiosyncrasies, her penchant for certain things…her personality.

And that is the most amazing thing, to look on in wonder as my baby girl grows up to be more than the lump she was yesterday. To be the child who doesn’t know better. The woman who finds love one day. The woman who loves her vocation. The woman who becomes a mother. And hopefully, the woman who realises that she will always be her mummy’s little girl, no matter how old she is.

I wouldn’t have known my daughter this intimately if I took the easy way out of motherhood.

So….no, I don’t wish for my baby to come with a remote control. Perhaps, only for a few seconds (OKAY OKAY, MINUTES), when I cave into negativity and desperation, but I know that if I hung on a little longer and walked a little further with my little girl, the rainbow is just one mother’s love away.

—

Read on for my new journey as a mother and for my thoughts on love and marriage.

The Stork Delivered…And Then, There Is A Potato

Our little girl made her grand entrance almost as quietly as our reactions when we first saw the two lines on the stick. There was no drama, everything was relatively textbook and we stayed pretty calm. As such, I have a very boring birth story to tell but hey, it is best to be boring in this case; it means that the delivery was straightforward and I am beyond thankful for that.

My due date came and went away with nary a hint of when F was going to arrive. I felt like I was going to explode even at 37 weeks and boy, was it tough to keep my energy levels up as the due date approached. I was also a bagful of bitchy hormones. I lamented at how awful the aches and pains were. I felt nervous about the possibility of being induced if the baby decides to be fashionably late. On the other hand, I was also very anxious about having a screaming newborn in our lives; I wasn’t sure if I could ever rise up to the challenge of being a mother, let alone a good one. And when people asked me if I were still pregnant or commented that I looked like I was going to pop, I almost ripped their heads off and was shy of screaming, ‘Are you frigging blind?!’ whilst frantically gesturing at my ballooning belly. Well, I said it was the hormones: they were kinda bipolar and very angry. M took me on many dinner dates to take the edge off and luckily for him, the hormones obliged.

Many pelvic rotations and crazy long walks later, the bump was still…there. I sought solace in what the nurse exclaimed at my obgyn’s when I told her how disappointed I was at the baby’s late arrival – ‘Wait till you have the baby, then you won’t even have time to take a dump!’ – a statement that pretty much sums up my newfound motherhood, but that’s a story for another day. SO! Onto the birth story…it all started the day after my due date…

6.30pm – 10pm: M and I headed out to celebrate a friend’s 30th birthday at Bistro Du Vin. He joked that this could be the last fancy meal I have before the much-dreaded confinement period; afterall, we have been told by my obgyn that I might be induced after our scheduled check up the next day. I was so certain that the baby would show up early, that all those weeks of waiting made me very jaded and skeptical of what M said. As my obgyn deadpanned, ‘Your baby is living it up in your 6-star hotel’. She sure was! Anyway, I felt about 3 to 4 painless contractions during the half-hour car ride to dinner that evening. I brushed them off as Braxton Hicks contractions, much like the ones I felt in the weeks before. A few more hit during dinner but I thought nothing more of them. I did however check my bags again as I might be induced the next day. I slept rather well that night.

7.50am – 8.20am: We headed to Mt E for my checkup with our five bags in tow. One for the camera, one for M, one for my shiny new breast pump (just in case our kiddo has problems latching), another for our baby and of course, one for me (the vanity queen in me brought basic makeup along as I wanted to look more like Spongebob and less like a gunny sack when visitors come, but as newfound motherhood would have it, I didn’t even have time to wash my face in the hospital). I felt about 4 to 5 painless contractions whilst en route to the clinic.

8.30am – 8.50am: I was promptly strapped onto the CTG. There was one full contraction in 15 minutes. Again, painless. My obgyn did a VE and I was 1.5cm dilated, just 0.5cm more than the week before but owing to the number of contractions I had since the night before, and the fact that we needed to get the baby out before it was (i) way overdue and (ii) time for M to embark on his new job the next week, my obgyn decided to induce labour. She told me to have a big breakfast at Paragon before admitting into the hospital. She also expected the baby to arrive later that evening.

9am: M and I shared some kaya toasts, chee cheong fun, soft-boiled eggs and Milo at Ah Mei Cafe. I couldn’t quite taste my food as I was still trying hard to process the fact that we would be having our baby that evening. The nerves hit me as I informed my mum over the phone and I welled up.

9.30am: We bought some magazines and papers from Marketplace and drove over from Paragon to park our car at Mt E. Having been pre-registered, I was quickly admitted and strapped onto the CTG again. There were two big contractions that were 12 minutes apart, alongside small, irregular ones. All were painless. The nurse and midwife also asked me a whole load of questions and gave me a run-down of the procedures. I even had time to choose what I wanted to have for dinner that evening. M organised our stuff, made some phone calls and settled down on the couch.

11am: I was administered the Fleet enema to clear my bowels and was asked to hold it in for 10 minutes. Note to the wise: holding fluid in is against the law of nature and the enema works like a charm in 3 minutes. Enough said.

11.30am: Registration details were verified. We were also briefed on birth certificate application. I felt more contractions but they were still painless.

12 noon: I was 1.5cm dilated and had my water bag broken. The tug was rather uncomfortable and as the warm fluid gushed out, reality hit me and I started crying. M told me everything was going to be okay and calmed me down. The nurse then put me back on the CTG. M got me some Chupa Chups to suck on as I was feeling hungry but wasn’t allowed any food. As my water bag was broken, I was officially bed-bound; I decided to read the magazine to kill some time.

12.30pm: The nurse put me on the oxytocin drip to hasten the contractions; the insertion of the cannula was bloody painful. Three vials of blood was also taken for cord blood banking; that didn’t hurt at all. Soon after, I felt more contractions and this time, they were akin to very mild menstrual cramps.

1.20pm: The first painful contraction hit me (on a pain scale of 3 or 4 out of 10) but I could breathe through it. I thought this was no biggie and that I might just be able to deliver without an epidural.

3.30pm: The contractions were increasingly painful (7 or 8 out of 10) and annoyingly frequent (2 minutes apart). The amplitude of each contraction appears to be 120 on the chart. I was told the maximum could be 180. I was gunning for no pain relief but the contractions were too frequent to give me enough rest. The worst menstrual cramps looked like cherubic angels next to these contractions. Given that I was only 2.5cm dilated and that I was likely to labour for another 7 hours, I knew I would be too exhausted to push if I didn’t opt for an epidural. Between an epidural and a possible C-section in the event that I lost the will to push, the choice was obvious.

3.45pm: The anaesthetist arrived promptly and hit me with the epidural within 15 minutes. I was told to curl up like a shrimp and the midwife weighed me down as a local anaesthesia was administered. It was completely painless, unlike the insertion of the oxytocin cannula. The catheter was then inserted via an offensive-looking needle but again, I felt nothing save for a tingling sensation in one of my legs. Before I knew it, the cold fluid was piped in and the contractions were no longer painful. I felt like I could breathe again without the contractions creeping up on me every 2 minutes. The odd thing was I could move my legs in spite of the epidural; movement however, required some effort as my lower limbs felt exceptionally heavy.

4.30pm: A catheter was inserted to empty my bladder as I was bed-bound. This was painless too, but I could feel some tugging and shoving going on down there.

5pm: My obgyn came by to check on me and found that I was 3-4cm dilated. I was bleeding slightly but she didn’t think it was a problem. I drifted off to sleep till about 6pm before waking up to full-fledged hunger. Another Chupa Chup was devoured.

6.30pm: The nurse declared that I was 5cm dilated and completely effaced. She did however mention that the baby’s head seemed too squashed and I might need to go for an emergency C-section. I was banned from finishing the Chupa Chup even though the fats from my left thigh were probably munching on the fats from my right to stay alive. I forced myself sleep while M had an offensively fragrant takeaway dinner from Din Tai Fung in the delivery suite. I almost regretted not eating M for breakfast.

7.45pm: I woke up to a strange urge to push but was too afraid to notify the nurse as I thought it was the bowel talking. I didn’t want to poo on the bedpan.

7.50pm: As luck would have it, the nurse came by to check if I felt anything. I decided to ‘fess up and it turned out that I was fully dilated. The urge to push wasn’t the bowel talking afterall. Our baby was ready!

8pm: Very quickly, the midwife got everything ready, propped my legs up, instructed me to grab onto the rails and motivated me to push. She told me to imagine being constipated for two weeks and to do the biggest poo of my life. As ridiculous as this may sound, on hindsight, she was absolutely right on the money. It was all very military, and I did whatever the midwife wanted me to do (OK TAKE A DEEP BREATH NAAAAAOOOO ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN!!!!!). It was a little difficult to push with the epidural still on, and I was told to focus my energy on the belly as opposed to straining my head (I was turning red with every push). M made the call to cut down on the epidural so I could identify the area to focus my energy on.

8.15pm: My obgyn arrived and took the front seat (meaning she was right where my vajayjay was) whilst the midwife semi-shouted at me to push when the contractions occurred. They were coming on fast and furious and I barely had time to breathe before the next ones hit. They don’t call this labour for nuts. M continued to encourage me and he held my right arm as I braced myself for more pushes. At some point, I asked the cheerleading team about the progress and was met with a hesitant ‘you are doing well’ from them. They looked slightly stricken for some reason and I thought I did a poo whilst pushing. Feeling rather dismayed, I couldn’t quite focus on pushing afterwards until my obgyn said that I was crowning and that our baby had a lot of hair.

8.30pm: One last push and I could feel our little girl’s shoulders push past before my obgyn swiftly pulled her out onto my tummy. M cut the cord and my obgyn collected the cord blood whilst I stared right at my daughter’s crying face. I can’t quite describe how I felt but it was as if the world had and could only contain us. Tears of joy, hope, fear and relief were shed as I held her in my arms.

Our baby was then taken to the warmer and had her height and weight measured. M was allowed to clean her up as my obgyn massaged my belly to get rid of excess blood after the placenta was delivered. As the epidural was turned down, I could feel her sewing me up but I really couldn’t care less about the pain as I was anxious to have the little one back in my arms. She was brought back to me as I requested for her to latch on as soon as possible. We also took some family photos and waited to be transferred to the maternity ward. M sent some photos to our families as we waited. We finally got to the ward at about 10pm. I remember bumping into my parents, sister and her boyfriend outside the ward as I was wheeled in with our little girl in my arms. The happiness on their faces, the warmth of my daughter’s body against mine, the exhaustion and relief on M’s face, the love I thought I could never give, these I can never forget.

I wasn’t man enough to go through labour without the epidural. My makeup kit went unopened and I did look like a gunny sack. I didn’t need to use the breast pump as baby Faith could latch well (ironically, my milk didn’t come in till we were discharged on Day 4). I still have one Chupa Chup in my handbag today and I certainly didn’t finish reading the magazine. I did however, have a baby and today, she is about 5.5 weeks old. That is all that matters, even if she is a little cranky and looking more like a mishapened potato (sorry baby, despite that, Mama still thinks you are too cute).

—

Read on for my new journey as a mother and for my thoughts on love and marriage.