On turning 30

Ya, many of you know that was four years ago but I was kind of inspired to think of how it was when I read this blog. Somehow, I was able to relate with the author’s anxieties over having her “BIG 3-0” next year…

I remember when I was a lot younger I thought 30 was pretty old. Of course, I know now that nothing can be farther from the truth. Hmm.

Looking back, most of the memories have been brought to life by the many photos we have on year 2003. When I turned 30 it was no big deal, no hoopla... I found a picture of a little but fun office birthday treat... My circumstances had been very different at that time. I did not have the "chance" to ask my “existential questions” the year before.

It was a bit anti-climactic actually… Growing-old-by-leaps-and-bounds moment happened for me two years back when our then-newborn Enzo went through a very rough patch... My personal version of skydiving or bungee jumping. Sort of... Hard-earned lessons on life’s essentials. On what else I want to prove to myself. On what my purpose is in this world.

But I remember 2003 was a very beautiful year because we started to live like any ordinary family. The heartbreaks of two years ago healed. And the best gift for turning 30 thankfully came a year early. My son has been able to hear, see, talk and walk. Despite his dreaded "terrible two stage" everything about it was a "happy problem."

A whiney toddler one moment...

A sweet little angel the next.

I realized just now that, indeed, I had a fresh page when I turned 30. It was the start of our charming little family life. And my accidental foray into social development work has really taken root.

Still, I think being 30 did not make me feel THAT old. Even so, at 34… When I’ll turn forty (with the grace of my Maker), I think, only then can I start calling myself OLD. And I would embrace it with as much fervor as I could.

We can grow old like this.

Singapore Post No. 4: Rejoinder to my "kiasu" day

As a rejoinder to my blog yesterday, here is a link to the online version of a local newspaper's headline: "Expats want the right school too."

For the entire story click here: http://www.todayonline.com/pdf_index.asp

Singapore Post No. 3: Oh yes, I can be “kiasu,” too

We all woke up early, Enzo, Ate and I. Today is Phase 3 and last day for Singapore’s Primary One Registration Exercise, the only day left for children who are not citizens or Permanent Residents of this country. That is our category. Enzo has turned six and there is no other way for him to enter school come January 2008 if we miss this process.

Being last in the pecking order, I can only wait in frustration and dismay while primary schools recommended by friends have either disappeared from the on-line list (yes, there’s an on-line update of available slots) or they simply do not do Phase 3. With whatever is left, one can just say, “whatever.” But as I am, without shame, an academically-inclined parent, I had to choose the one with the best annual competitive scores.

Ate, Enzo and the nice sidewalk...

If there is one thing Singaporean’s are so obsessed about, it would be sending their children to the RIGHT school. Nothing abnormal, I share the same passion. While this, to me, is a normal parenting exercise, in here it IS a ballgame. Much like managing a football team where tightly-lid strategies are carefully laid-out. There is no other goal but the championship which, in this case, is getting there FIRST. Stories abound of mothers doing volunteer work for years just to get a slot in a very reputable school. Or of camping out on the queue the night before.

“Kiasu” that’s how they call this attitude. An online dictionary on Singlish says, in Hokkien, it means “to be scared to fail” and due to the varying degrees Singaporeans would manifest this, its connotations can mean something that is very endearing, to one that is outright derogatory. Very much a part of the Singaporean DNA, you would also witness this whenever new HDBs (their public housing) open to the market. People line up a day before. They bring food, water, collapsible chairs, little cushions, and chatting partners whose more important role is to serve as a “linebacker” whenever nature calls. Oh, there can be an endless list where being kiasu can be evident.

Hmm... a mushroom shed.

Nevertheless, in a country where students “fit” for university are determined early on and follow a different stream of education; and where the government and the society, in general, hold in high esteem and give real merits to the brightest, I think kiasu-ness is very understandable.

So this morning, armed with a stern advice from Singaporean friends, I had to be kiasu and I had a big plan. Ate, "my linebacker," left the house at the crack of dawn, traveled 15 minutes to West Coast and, with whatever glint of daylight, navigated the streets with confusingly similar signs. The school is at West Coast Avenue but this avenue is not so straightforward after all… it would disappear somewhere and you would come across a West Coast Road… West Coast Lane… West Coast Drive… West Coast Walk… West Coast Terrace… West Coast Grove… West Coast Rise… I’m not joking!

Ahh… such costly digression! She lost a good 15 minutes! But as I was as kiasu as I can get, such scenario was carefully anticipated. And when she finally got there, we were rewarded with THE stub with the big, fat number “1” on it. Hah! Ate told me that a few minutes later, a Singaporean arrived and had disbelief written all over his face upon seeing her at the first row chair holding THE coveted stub.

First in the finish line!

Dragging along a visibly sleepy Enzo, I arrived just in time, when the tables opened at 8 a.m. We were back at home, before 9 a.m., victorious... and drowsy.

Mi Qifa.

Singapore Post No. 2: Everyday gift

The weather in Singapore has been overcast for weeks with intermittent rains and thunderstorms. Last Wednesday, August 22, the sun had a shy performance and gave us more reason to head for the beach at Sentosa. Perhaps it was nature’s way of conspiring to make a boy feel special. It was my son’s sixth birthday.

Six years and he is still surprised and giddy every time Mommy and Ate would show him this early morning balloon surprise.

My Enzo is a precocious kid who took on reading even before reaching the age of four; knows his musical instruments by heart; has interesting perspectives on whatever he draws; has perfect spelling quizzes; can seriously navigate Google Earth to “travel” to places he read from the books… a typical pre-schooler whose hearty laugh echoes from the pool area; plays rough games with his friends and has an early love affair with airplanes and big trucks.

His side of the beach...

Not bad for someone who had been gravely ill from the moment he came out of this world. The doctors said his chance for survival was slim and if he did survive, he will not be able to walk, talk, see, and hear. That whatever may change their heart-breaking prognosis is beyond the reaches of medicine.

Digging... digging...

Each time August 22 comes I am reminded of how my son fought hard to have his place in the world. It was a long battle and an experience that showed me the beauty and strength of the human spirit... what real blessings my family and true friends have been... and the profoundness of an answered prayer.

My little gentleman

We do have our little fights. Enzo can be picky with his food… forgets to return all the toys, books, drawing pads and coloring stuff to their places… can have a tantrum. Yet, he is more than perfect for me. At the end of each day, we hug and say our earnest thanks to the One who brought us together, whatever the weather may be.

I'm six!

Kidapawan Post No. 1: The most beautiful woman

Ten days ago, we quietly celebrated the sixty-fifth birthday of this very special woman. My hero in this world where real virtues and high ideals have slowly lost their meaning.

In her youth, that captivating beauty belied a life of deprivation. Her quiet perseverance, intelligence, and elegance made her taller than any young woman worth her silver spoon… charmed many and fell for another charmer…

She is a woman of her generation—fiercely loyal to her family, loves unconditionally, hardworking, and sacrificing. Her charity is legendary. Nothing for herself, always for others… And thus, we grew up without the usual comforts. I still remember how we used to recycle old notebooks from her writing classes, carefully choosing the clean pages, binding them together and covering them with artworks—just like new and yet, much better. I never felt we had less in life because she was good in making us understand we should only have what is necessary.

No provocation demands her speaking ill of anybody—a sigh and a wistful look, that’s all you get. Small talk and gossip were not allowed at home and if guests started some yarn, her silence is a kind rebuke.

In my father’s twilight years, he sang her many songs… songs of gentle pleadings… of forgiving and forgetting heartaches from the past… adoring songs for his true muse.

A brave cancer survivor, her peaceful demeanor can only come from a deep understanding of life and an indomitable faith in her Maker’s plans. She has been guiding us with wisdom and gifted us with a “sense of rooted-ness” to simple values that have served as our anchor amidst the vicissitudes of life.

My Mom is one amazing woman. My one true north.

Cause your love is like a river
It runs through my heart and soul
It's deep when I'm thirsty and warm when I'm cold
And when I feel forgotten
I come running to your shore
And find peace of mind time after time
You give me everything and more

--Everything and More, Barry Gillman