Stealing other people’s children
Actually, I do have a story about children. We were babysitting my cousin’s kids one night in the summer. Neil was getting the older kids ready for bed and I was changing the baby’s nappy, when I heard Neil say, “There’s a naked kid out here!” Then said naked kid — who was wearing only his pyjama top — corrected him, saying, “That’s not naked! This is naked!”, and proceeded to fling his pyjama top off and then run around the hallway.
And here’s another story. Same kid made us pause a cartoon on Sky+ because, he announced, he had to go to the toilet. He then proceeded to report his every (bowel) movement, “I’m not done yet… No, I’m not done yet… Wait… Not done… Almost done… *flush*… Okay I’m done, wait for me to come back!”
My mum is WAY ahead of her time
Parents told to write bedtime tales. Mum wrote stories for us to read at bedtime (we weren’t so into storytelling as we got older), and although we didn’t keep ‘em (she coulda been JK Rowling before JK Rowling), I remember they were great fun.
Photos from the bus trip this vacation
The image links to the set page on Flickr. I’m definitely not as trigger-happy as I used to be. As I said to Neil at Brian and Carene’s wedding, I blame Xiamen. Hehe.
Great Christmas pressie
My sister sent me this pedometer. All I need to do now is figure out my stride. Wahey!
God I have the worst memory
Let me preface the following picture by saying that I cannot really remember the last time I saw my mother in a swimming pool (let alone in bathers).
As far as I was aware, she wasn’t into it. It wasn’t till only a few years ago that I found out she’d never really learned to swim (she has now, though). My sister and I were sent for swimming lessons every Sunday morning at Hollandse Club (but I don’t think that’s where this photo was taken), before going to church for catechism and Mass, then Sunday school (no wonder I turned out so anti-organised religion). Might I mention that the hot chocolate and bitterballen waiting for us at the end of the lessons were pretty much the reasons I was willing to go at all.
I’m not a strong swimmer, never have been. But I can swim, though I don’t really enjoy it. Beats me why, although part of the reason is definitely because I am careful about being out in the sun.
(I’ve been digging through old photos, and am loving the embarrassing photos of myself that are showing up. I have no memory of the context, though — my mother has been supplying me with some.)
This one is another favourite:
This I remember. We were on holiday, my first big one, to North America. My cousins live in Canada, so we went to visit, and they took us to see snow (the first time ever, for me). It was summer, so the snow on this mountain is kinda crappy. I saw snow again when I was 16 and in Scotland, and finally got to see snowflakes actually fall out of the sky in 2004 (again, in Scotland). I have a fascination with snow. I also hope that the next time I am in a place that snows, I don’t wear ill-sized and inappropriate mittens as seen in this picture. I look like The Penguin.
(Note: the auto white balance in The GIMP seems to restore the correct hues in many of these faded photos. Colour me impressed.)
Pakistan Quake Relief
My uncle is a top bloke. He splits his time between Singapore and Glasgow (his grandkids live there), and I was wondering why he’d not responded to my text messages for a few days. Turns out he was in Pakistan, as part of a volunteer medical team for Pakistan Quake Relief TRAC Team II. His patients must have thought he was a complete weirdo — “Here, let me take a photo of your tongue / tonsils!”
Something in the air?
Xinhua news tells me that Liv Tyler is pregnant. She’s due later this year.
My e-mail tells me that my cousin Melissa is also pregnant, due on Christmas Eve. Melissa and the husband, Steve, have already been congratulated heartily (as heartily as one can in plain text format).
So here it is again in HTML:
***
Congratulations,
Melissa and Steve!
***
I’ve already got a wee two-year old niece in Scotland looking for me to show her the next door neighbour’s messy backyard (and drawing for her, and playing with her food). I wonder if I can also corrupt this other rugrat when it’s old enough.
Definitely, definitely RIP
It’s all over the news, stories about and tributes to Ronald Reagan. He died at 93, after suffering from Alzheimer’s disease for many years.
There are many political weblogs out there, venerating and criticising his legacy as 40th President of the US. This will not be one of them.
My grandmother had Alzheimer’s disease - we found out when I was about 17 or 18 years old. My ah ma, as we called her, was all about the grandchild-coddling - none of her five granddaughters ever missed out on a fabulous home-cooked meal, nor a hand-knitted jumper. She was the lady we turned to when we (okay, I) did something stupid and needed some uncritical hugging.
So we were all quite upset when we found out that she was ill. For a while, my grandfather would bring her over to our place when he got too aggravated dealing with his increasingly-forgetful wife (he was a hard-headed bastard, but was also good in the ’spoiling grandchildren’ department).
She always forgot to shower, but insisted she had even as she started smelling rather ripe. She would refuse to bathe, so one afternoon, after being deposited at our place, my sister and I put her in the shower and bathed her. During this time, she kept apologising for getting old and sick and not being able to take care of herself.
Not long after this, my mother managed to get a place at a nursing home for ah ma. Then there was this huge feud between my father and grandfather, and a good couple of years passed before we were ‘allowed’ to visit her at home. By this time, I was already abroad, studying at university.
My cousins live in Canada. My sister lives in the US. Visits to the grandparents were, to say the least, extremely depressing. My grandmother no longer recognised any of us, and my grandfather had had a series of small strokes and was now suffering from dementia (and it appeared, paranoia), too.
She was bedridden, and she had sores. What was left of her muscles were all stiff and bent. She looked as though she was in a constant state of befuddled shock.
I’m not proud to admit that I didn’t visit her as often as I could, simply because I couldn’t really deal with seeing her like that. Finally, in 1998, I received a call in Australia, informing me that my ah ma had passed away after breaking her hip in a fall, and no, I wasn’t to go home for the funeral.
My father, however, is a ghoulish freak. He sent me a whole album of photographs from the wake and funeral (as a bonus, I also received photos of my dead great aunt who sadly passed away in the same month). Words cannot adequately describe the skin-crawling revulsion experienced on opening that special delivery.
History repeated itself a little over a year later when my grandfather succumbed to his dementia and failing health. Also bedridden, also covered in bed sores.
“While it is an extremely sad time for Mrs Reagan, there is definitely a sense of relief that he is no longer suffering and that he has gone to another place,” said his chief of staff Joanne Drake.
I don’t care if Reagan was a good or bad President. Alzheimer’s is a horrible disease. My grandparents are no longer suffering. I have no interest in mourning their passing (the anniversaries are right about now), only in remembering:
- traditional Chinese herbs taste terrible, but the candy afterwards is worth it
- learning to play basketball on Saturday mornings
- playing Barbie in the one-of-a-kind styrofoam house
- Filet-O-Fish, plus toy, at McDonald’s
- Novenas on Saturdays
- being chatted to sleep every weekend
I miss them, I wish I could have done more for them, but this is life. We only get one shot.