Last Friday, I made my second trip to the dentist. Dentist Ong’s wife, Mrs Ong said that the real “crown”for my tooth is ready. The appointment was at 4pm, I was on time. For the next half an hour, my mouth was wide open.

Dentist Ong tried to slip the new “crown” onto the tooth. First try, it didn’t fit. He went to his workstation by the side, and started some drilling work. Ten minutes later, he came back and tried again, for the second time, but it still didn’t fit.  For the next 45 minutes, he went to and fro, between his side workstation and the dentist chair - before he eventually said exasperatedly, “I’m so sorry. I’ve done crowns everyday but this just can’t fit in.”  “I have to make you come back again.” The damn tooth refused to wear its’ $450 spanking-new tiara.

I would need to make yet another trip to the dentist this Friday. I’m crossing my fingers and hoping for the best. Hopefully, the new tiara would fit this Friday.

Friends who know me know that I have a soft spot for community work. Bob msned me to ask me for a favour to translate his Chinese feature article about his recent photography project at the hospice, to help fulfil the last wishes of the patients there.I agreed. But the process of translation and editing took longer than expected. I’ve been writing and editing for the last 2 hours and it’s finally done. I’ve originally intended to sort out my Tanjong Pinang pictures and my other volunteer press release. Guess those will have to wait till tomorrow. Thankfully, the translation is done. I shall put the article here as a way to encapsulate the tedious writing effort.A Wish-Fulfiling Project (Bob Lee)

These series of photographs are specially dedicated to the patients residing in the Hospice – Every set of imagery is captured with one sole purpose - To fulfil their final wishes.

My first encounter with Assisi Hospice was purely co-incidental. A volunteer of the hospice contacted me and asked if I could help fulfil the last wishes of the patients.

I thought to myself, “Photography can capture happy memories for people. If photography can be used as a tool to fulfill people’s wishes, I will be glad to offer my photographic technical know-how. I agreed.

My first assignment - a wedding picture for Mdm Lee. Though she had been married for more than 10 years, Mdm Lee had never taken any wedding photograph and had always yearned for one. Her wish was simple – To have a wedding photograph with her beloved partner before she bids farewell to the world.

From the initial visit to the hospice to meet Mdm Lee to the actual photography shoot in the ward, it merely took a few days. Soon, the photographs were developed and given to Mdm Lee. The joy on Mdm Lee’s face when she first saw her long-awaited bridal pictures was obvious. My sense of personal satisfaction from her reaction to the photographs was immeasurable.

Sadly, that was her first and final wedding photograph. Mdm Lee passed away shortly after we met.

My second assignment - Mr Chia. His final wish – To experience his first-ever ride on the Singapore Flyer with his beloved family members.

On the day of the photo shoot, we took some family shots at the hospice and headed to the Singapore flyer, with the company of the medical staff and his loved ones – for his long-anticipated Singapore Flyer experience.

Concerned with the severity of Mr Chia’s medical condition, the medical staff of the hospice came well-prepared with a carload of medical supplies and equipments. A wheelchair, an oxygen mask, a fan and the list went on.

Mr Chia’s son looked somewhat uncertain and a little lost in the presence of his fragile father, not knowing how or what to do next to relieve his discomfort. Her daughter stood faithfully by his side, cleaned his mouth after he coughed his phlegm and fanned him from time to time.

Every family has their own stories. Often, true feelings are revealed only during a critical time when a loved one is bordering on the brink of death.

The volunteer at the hospice shared that Mr Chia had passed away five days after the trip to the Singapore Flyer. Hopefully, he was at peace at that time and did not leave with many regrets or unfulfilled wishes.

My most memorable experience at the hospice was the photoshoot with Auntie Lucy. Auntie and her old mate had been together for more than half a century but they have never said their wedding vows. Her last wish – to have a wedding solemnisation ceremony with her beloved life partner.

On the actual day of the shoot, she did not say anything and I did not probe. The doctor specially paid her a visit at her ward to check that she was in a stable condition.

Doctor: Do you know where you are now?
Auntie Lucy: I’m in the bridal room now.
Doctor: What?
Auntie Lucy: I’m getting married today, that’s why I’m in the bridal room now.
Doctor: Hahaha, Auntie Lucy, you are very well and in good spirit indeed!

During the wedding solemnisation ceremony, Auntie Lucy could not hold back her tears. She sobbed. Twice.

Her make-up was complete and they were ready for the wedding shoot. As her doting mate gently caressed her hair, she cried – for the first time.

Later, as her devoted mate lifted her wedding veil, tears welled up in her eyes again. For the second time, she cried – this time, tears of happiness and contentment rolled down her cheeks.

I’m humbled by the fact that I have had the opportunity to do my part to help fulfill her last wish, a secret wish that had been buried in her heart for over fifty years.

This project to help fulfil others’ dreams is still ongoing. Through my lens, I hope to do my little part to encapsulate memories and bring joy to these hospice patients before they conclude the life journeys

http://blog.omy.sg/jiuhukia/2010/07/30/last-wish/

PHOTOS, click the list below:-
www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=189480&id=705643260&ref=mf

A friend posted something on facebook that sets me thinking.

A simple question,  ”Name one thing that you could do that would make you happy now.” 

It’s a seemingly simple question but somehow tough to reply at one instant.

Random things come to mind….

Travelling makes me happy….

Seeing my travel features and photographs published in magazines and newspapers …

Having 21 days of leave makes me happy…

Watching a great  movie, a good book, a good meal and sometimes just a casual gathering with old friends would make  me happy

My cute little niece, Shermaine and her brother, Nicholas and their endless pranks at home make me happy,

Seeing others happy makes me happy, 

Art makes me happy,

Community work makes me happy… the list goes on….

If I were to prioritise these little nuggets of happiness in my life, I guess community work and travelling would rank very high.

Travelling frees  the mind and sets new perspectives… every trip brings refreshing experiences, new friends and knowledge about others. In  a strange way,  the uncertainties and the impromptu actions taken during these backpacking trips over the years have in turn translated to memorable yet bizzarre travel stories and interesting people  in foreign lands. Solo trips are fun, but sometimes group gatherings are equally enjoyable.

The 21-leave and worktrips have brought me to faraway places such as Norway and Greece in the last two years.  For that, I’m grateful and happy that I took the plunge to a sector I adore where people and work have changed overtime, not to my liking.

Community work makes me happy.

I’m no samaritan, but enjoy spending my time for a good cause, never mind that I don’t get paid a cent. Over the years, I’ve volunteered at numerous events and ngos, from Children Cancer Foundation, Club Rainbow, Very Special Arts Society to a Vietnamese Ngo, Humanitarian Services of Children of Vietnam amongst others, helped a friend launched her Singapore film and two teenagers copywrite their first publication.  Though these do not culminate to add extra zeros to my bank account, they do make me feel a sense of personal achievement that no money can buy.

Some friends questioned why I “worked”myself  so hard, committing to all this “free work” beyond my office hours. I can’t explain why I do these things, it just makes me feel comforted that I have made a little difference…be it in a small way or big, that my contribution, has benefitted someone far, far away. And that’s what makes me happy.

Maybe it’s the poverty that I have seen in many of the developing countries I visited that makes me appreciate what we have today. 

When everyone is busy chasing the dollars and cents in the rat-race, I find myself quite zen about money. When friends talk about buying the latest i-phones and buying properties,  I listened in  but there is no great desire to strive for these things.    Sometimes it is  paradoxical. Throw me another ngo initiative or project to work on and I will do it with all my might, spend hours and weekends willingly on these projects. Sometimes I wish I could convert these energies to actual efforts to fatten the bank accounts and bring truckloads of money, but often, these are just fleeting thoughts.

I trust my heart and often it knows best. These are not things that are most important to me.  I am a kampong girl at heart. I can trade a branded bag for a nature or outdoor escapade anytime. In fact, I don’t owe a diamond or a super expensive branded bag. These are not things that are important to me.

Amongst friends, I always joke about my ultimate dream - to be a taitai. I will redefine taitaidom, and happily spend all my time doing community work and rallying other taitais to follow suit. One LV bag can probably feed a small Vietnamese family for a few months, and if each taitai donates a branded bag, I’m sure I can do more with the possible money raised. The possibilities are endless.

A friend sent a new video clip that he has done. A story of hope, determination and a little girl’s courage to dream.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWx47qeCqyk

The message is simple yet powerful, and to me, serves as a reminder for everyone to live life, appreciate the little things you have and often take for granted. 

For now, I’ll be counting the blessings in the simple acts of happiness I receive and give. And find ways to do more and give more…

One can never predict what destiny has installed..I hope the higher being would hear my calling and fulfil my humble wish - To be a taitai so that I can spread the happiness to many others out there. Or throw a new adventure into my life that combines travelling and community work and truckloads of money…:)

A friend made this commercial and sent a mass mail to all his friends to watch it.  The first time I watched it,  I was moved by the commercial, simple yet powerful. The second time I watched it on the same day, I teared.  Made another friend in Beijing cry too,after she has seen the short clip.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWx47qeCqyk

The clip reminds me of the deceased little J and how she shared with me one night during  the camp that she wanted to be a doctor when she grows up..I hope she can fulfil her hopes and dreams in the eternal world, someway out there.

The tooth fairy sounds very mysterious and sweet. It’s a little fairy adorned in a simple white gown, with a little tiara on her head. With a magical wand in her hand, she flitters arond like a little hummingbird, always looking out for those suffering from toothaches and waving her magic wand to take the pain away.

In Singapore, a tooth fairy would makes truckloads of money. But in the practical and pragmatic society, the legendary tooth fairy does not exist. Her closest match - a dentist. A visit to the dentist often equates to a huge amount of money vanishing  in thin air, not literally, but often, almost as close.

WC said her 10 cavities from her constant gummy-bear chewing habits would take $600 off from her bank account, $60 per tooth for the filling. Two days later, my regular check at my dentist for my braces gave me a surprise, not a pleasing one though.  There was a little chip on my root-canalled tooth, and it calls for a crown, and  a crown on the tooth, would cost a whopping $500-600. That’s not one of the things in my plans of to-do list in Year 2010, but it has to be done, the sooner the better, the dentist advised.

My good friend, J, consoled me that it was just the cost of two travel articles. But $500 for a little half-dead tooth still cause pain in my heart. I haven’t purchased any big-ticket item recently, not even in the Great Singapore Sale.  Another friend joked and said a crown should be on the head, not on the tooth. This little invisible surgery done on my half-dead tooth will have to be done soon.

That’s the thing I really dislike about going to the dentist. You never can predict how much “damage” it can cost. A friend had two teeth that required root-canal work, and the cost, almost a two-week trip to S0uth Africa, $2,500 per tooth. Curses and swears,but ultimately, the dental work would still have to be done, like it or not.

I hope the tooth fairy would come and undo the crack,but I know I have to act upon the existing crack soon, before it worsens beyond cure.  For now, there is no more excessive shopping this month and next month. I’m crossing my fingers and really hoping that there will not be anymore of these tooth-related problems this year.

The story of the boy and the blade of grass is a story told to me by a friend. Interestingly, when she shared this personal story with me, it reminded me of a somewhat similar encounter I had a few years….

Here is how my story goes…

It was one of those late working nights in the museum,again. As a young museum staff, working late into the nights has become part of the norm. At about 9.30pm, I carried files and several bags and stood by the main road, with the museum building as the backdrop, feeling sleepy and lethargic from the entire day of working.

Taxis somehow were hard to come by around 9pm. Many drivers are changing shifts and the wait seemed endless. Many taxis came by but none paused anywhere near me. Just then, a rickshaw appeared, an old Singaporean fellow was cycling tediously with two foreigners in the backseat.

As the rickshaw neared me, a tall handsome tourist and his plump friend came into sight, passengers of the rickshaw.  The handsome chap was decked in a checked shirt. He called out, “Hey, do you need a ride?”. I was amused, even a cab ride would take half an hour, let alone the ridgety rickshaw. “Hey, you need a ride?”, he shouted again, as the rickshaw uncle continued to cycle on.

“It’s ok. I don’t need a ride,” I shouted back. And the rickshaw grew further and further from me. The handsome chap still had his head turned to look behind where I stood. The next second, he jumped out of his rickshaw and ran towards me. “Hey! you come back,” his plump friend shouted.  He stood right in front of me, and was a towering height of at least 1.8 metres. “We can give you a lift, you sure you don’t need a ride,” he persisted.  And I declined nicely.

“Alright then,” he said and dashed back to his rickshaw which was much further away by then. I went home to share this rather peculiar experience with my family. And being a typical Chinese family, my mom is never generous when it comes to words of praise. “The guy must  have thought that he has reached the red-like district, Geylang in Singapore.”The entire family roared with laughter.

 I wonder if this tourist remembers the silly act he did in Singapore.

A new friend of mine, Ina shared this little romantic childhood story when we were happily nestled in a traditional Greek restaurant in Athens just a week ago, amidst the Greek folk songs echoed by the trio live band.  Thus, I shall encapsulate the story of the little boy and his blade of grass, here is how the story goes…

It was one of the happy holidays overseas with her beloved Daddy and Mummy.  They were in Australia, a land so different from where she was born in Greece.  She inhaled the fresh air and looked around the foreign surroundings, piqued with curiousity and the eagerness to absorb everything she saw. 

Together with her parents, they walked along the pavement and enjoyed the cool breeze in the air. Just then, from the corner of her eyes, she saw a moving car and a pair of eyes glued to her gaze. She reciprocated the gaze  but continued her steps. The boy’s gaze continued and she returned the stare with equal curiousity.  The car continued to move forward before it came to a halt somewhere in front. 

 Within seconds, a young and suave young chap hopped out from the car, rushed over and stood right in front of the little gal on the payment.  He was completely speechless yet determined, shy at the same time. He stood still, as if uncertain of what to do next and his eyes strayed.  The little girl froze for a moment,  equally shocked by the sudden intrusion of a complete stranger and pondering over his next move. Just then, the young chap turned to the side of the walkway and plucked a blade of grass off the ground and offered it to the little gal, with a gentle gesture.

Ina did not know how to react. She stood there, motionless.  Her candid mom uttered in Greek, ” You stupid girl, take the grass.”The brain registered her mom’s instruction and she reached out for the little blade of grass.  Contentedly, the boy smiled and ran back to his car.

It has been more than 20 years ago but the recollection of this somewhat unusual incident never fails to bring a smile to her face. Till today, the sentimental friend of mine still keeps the little blade of grass.

 You never know when love strikes. The little boy must have been so mesmerised that he went out of his way to offer the blade of grass.  Time flies. The memory remains picture-perfect and clear for the little gal, she could still remember vividly the awkardness in the eyes of the boy and his blushing cheeks as he shuffed the blade of grass to her.

 I wonder if the little boy would even remember this little sweet gesture that he has made to the Greek tourist to his country? Or has he completely forgotten all about it. Girls would always remember little things like these, but the boys may very well  have absolutely no recollection of their little acts, good and bad.

Had the little boy be a teeny winy bit more bold and asked the little gal for her contact details or address,  life may have taken a different twist and lead them to completely different paths..Maybe someday their paths will cross again….

This story is specially dedicated to my special friend, Ina. Thanks for sharing this lovely true story with a stranger like me. 

In my casual conversations with friends, I will occasionally mention that one day I will pick up art again as a hobby but never got around to doing it. I used to eat and breath art when I was a college student pursuing art as one of my A level subjects.

Hours at the art room washing palette, painting still-life using watercolours and sketching, those were some of the best memories I had during my college years. 

Then as I entered university, art became past-tense in my conversations. “I used to paint”, “I used to draw”,”last time I used to…”  I soon started to dabble in art again, taking part in numerous publicity committees which required some art background.  Then word got around that I used to paint and more “arty” committees came my way.

 Before I knew it, I was in several committees doing Publicity. To them, Art equals Publicity. I spent the first three years in university doing publicity work for these committees. I painted skulls made of paper marche for the hall’s orientation, many, many of them till I dreamt of flying skulls that evening.  I  designed the logo for that year’s musical, Come, Light My Lantern to realise that it somehow bears an uncanny resemblance to the famous Miss Saigon logo though I swear that I’ve never came across the logo prior to that. Once, I painted a  huge backdrop with enamel paints and got obessed with keeping my hands clean with a turpentine-doused cloth.

By the time, I got to my room,  I could barely walk straight and my head spun like a  battery-charged top.   I joined the Visual Arts Society and designed publicity materials using one of my favourite artist, Piet Mondrian’s designs.
During exams, when  studying became a chore and when the brain told me that it could absorb no more, I spend wee hours in the morning making cute bookmarks with satay sticks and painted hand-made cards with watercolour for my hostel and uni mates. I bore a strange logic, that it would be more worthwhile to create objects that I could share with others than trying to squeeze extra information into my “fried”brain, which is futile.
Upon graduation, I landed into an interesting job in the museum. The first four years were a breeze. The museum folks were great, many of them were ex-teachers and truly believed in education in a fun way. We experimented many programmes and I did puppet-making, face-painting for little children on Museum Open House days and had heaps of fun. Museum admission was free for staff and I visited new art exhibitions whenever they are new ones.

In the midst of my busy work in the museum,  I decided to try something new, yet related to art. Going to Whampoa CC became a weekend routine and I made pots, cups, dishes. I even made  an aroma jar as a wedding present for a close buddy.  But somehow, despite the fact that I enjoyed the close connection with clay and creating something, something was not quite right.  I joked about my pots and cups looking like those made in China as compared to my fellow pottery classmates’ exquisite works that look like they were imported from Japan. I dislike glazing and felt that pottery was not exactly my cup of tea.

Then, I ventured into community work and tried to get  incorporate art along the way.  I made hand-painted tokens of appreciation to the major sponsors of Club Rainbow. The exercise was tedious but fun.

During one of  my travels to Yunan for a community project, we painted a mural for the new education centre. It was tough work trying to balance on a wooden ladder and painting but with the help of the rest of the participants,  we managed to complete the mural and painted the toilet signs…

Back in Singapore, I decided to join the Very Special Arts Society. For about 3 months, I was spending my Saturday afternoons as one of the volunteers for the art and craft class for autistic children.  It was more craft than art, and somehow, I felt that I wasn’t contributing enough for the kiddos.

Helping these children with their crafts, bringing them to the washroom to wash their hands, making crafts out of toilet rolls and paper was easy but I felt that any volunteer can do the work and I didn’t add much value to the children. With the increasing weekend activities, I decided that this was also not really what I was searching for. I wanted to fuse art and volunteer work with children, but this is more art and craft, and so I quietly left the group.

For a good friend’s wedding, I made her a wedding gift - a canvas with two cartoon illustrations of a happy couple.  I feared that painting the eyeballs using arcylic would turn out like a two big blotches on the tiny canvas. I took the easier way out and used colourpencils instead.

Last year,  a bad fall from the bicycle in Bali got be stranded there for an extended period of time.  I went to Mr Karja’s gallery for an art lesson on Day 1 and Day 3, I had a great fall, like Humpty Dumpty,just that mine was off the bicycle, his was off the wall. 

So, I went for yet another art lesson. His fees were expensive, but it got me started on my first love - art. I said I wanted to learn mixed medium and so he taught me some basics. I spent the next few days in Bali visiting the varied art galleries and taking heaps of creative works by the Balinese. I like the spirit in Bali. Artists in Singapore seem to be more of a rarity. In Bali, it seemed to be the way of life. Every other person is a driver cum artist. One moment, they are holding brushes and palettes, immersed in their crafts and the next moment, they are zipping through the paddyfields with their chickens. I like that harmonious contrast and the humility of the artisans in Bali.

I couldn’t afford to go to Mr Karja for art lessons everyday. I decided that I shall paint on my own. The next day, I went to buy the art materials in Bali and painted amidst the paddyfields in a standalone tower made of bamboo. Somehow the colours didnt turned out quite nicely, maybe it was the cheepo paints from China, I thought to myself.  The following day, I walked about 45 minutes to the same shop, to buy the real stuff. To my great disappointment, the shop was closed. My heart sank to the rock bottom.

I asked the shopowner at the perfume shop if he knew if there were other art shops around. The helpful shopowner said that there was one in the other village and graciously offered to take me on his motorbike. I struggled to get on the bike with my “unbendable” wounded knees and eventually reached the shop. 

I spent almost $200 in the shop but was happy. My new friend even sent me back to the guesthouse that I was staying and saved me the 45-minutes of walking. 

 The shopowner was a Chinese man. I spoke in Chinese and tried to persuade him to give me  a discounts. Somehow, paints in Indonesia seemed more expensive than in Singapore. A set of “branded” arcylic paints costs almost eighty Singapore dollars. Since I can’t travel around Indonesia, I decided to pamper myself with this indulgence. I bought more canvas, brushes, mixed medium and paints, determined to create more works for my ready host, meenah who had kindly opened her doors to her wounded friend.

I spent the next week indoors, painting in her home and watching VCDs. Sometimes, a holiday does not need to be one that requires heaps of wandering and sight-seeing. Spending time with oneself and doing things one enjoy is also in itself a great holiday luxury. 3 1/2 art pieces were created. Three were given as a series to Meenah as her birthday present.The half-completed one came home to Singapore with me, along with the other companions,canvas and paints.

Back in Singapore, I bought a big cyclical container from Ikea and consolidated my years of art materials into one. Brushes, colourpencils, arcylic, paints, tiles, paper all into one. 

It has been a long while since I took up painting. I decided to cut the talk and get into the action. It’s pointless to lament and not act upon it. I came home and a friend shared her recent art painting experience. I surfed the web and checked out the Art Space at Tanjong Pagar. It seemed like a nice place and by a stroke of luck, it is conveniently located, just a brief 10 minutes’ walk from my office, with the short cut from Tanjong Pagar CC. I popped by the gallery and decided to sign up for my first 8 lessons at $360, with the intention to create mix medium pieces.

It has been six lessons now. Though I have not created any mix medium pictures, I have “unlearnt” several basics of painting and acquired new knowledge about art.  Paints on palette are arranged in a consistent manner,with red and blue on two opposite ends. Red symbolises red (warmth) whereas blue means ice(coldness). The other colours were arranged in that order. I never knew that. My art teachers never taught me that.

My first completed artwork was Waterlilies by Monet, a replica or rather an attempted replica. Though it’s a far cry from the original masterpiece, it is my little artpiece. I have just started a facebook album for all my artworks and overtime, I hope to grow the collection. Christine has just “commissioned” me to do an artwork for her bedroom. Will need to draw more inspiration before I embark on hers.

In the meantime, it’s back to my second classroom piece, Turkey Tulips. I’m finally going back to the basics of art and I do hope I would sustain this hobby this time round.

Kids say the darnest things, when you least expect it.

With my three-year-old niece, Shermaine and her two-year-old brother, Nicholas zipping around our house and creating havoc, it’s no wonder why people call little children, “bundles of joy”. They ask the most bizarre questions and give the most candid reactions and makes the mundane life so entertaining.

Shermaine is a complete replica of my twin sister, Daisy when she was little, with her small, single eye-lids and fair complexion. But that’s about it. Underneath her innocent looks, lie a hyperactive tomboy in the making, an exact clone of me when I was a little gal. There is no tiniest streak of girlishness except her fancy for pink and Hello Kitty, thanks to the influence of her mom who has inculcated this notion that girls must wear pink and boys blue. That I completely disagree, but I’m not the mom, so it will never be my last call.

When she laughs, her eyes retract to a slit and she throws her head back and laugh boisterously. She may be wearing a pretty pink skirt and looking very sweet at one moment. But you turn your head around, she would have drawn her two legs up and flashing her little undies to the whole world.

Nicholas is her shadow and her number one fan. We call him Nick Nick at home. He follows her wherever she goes, and mimics every gesture of hers.  Even to the extent of going to his potty and sitting there with his pants up, while the sister goes to her potty. Nicholas stands at about half-a-head shorter than his sister, Shermaine and has a tiny mouth, and red pouty lips, a nice feature he inherited from his father. I call him Chinese popiah, because unlike Shermaine, Nicholas has yet gone to school and so he speaks only Chinese and some words of English, whereas Shermaine articulates herself much better in English.

On good days, they are a very endearing pair of siblings. Shermaine would play the motherly role to feed Nick, share her toys and teach him the nice songs she learnt in school. Together, they would sit together in the living room to read storybooks together, watch their favourite Barney show and sing together.

On days when they clash, it’s a nerve-wrecking nightmare. Cries and shouts would echo the entire house. One second, you see Shermaine dashing into the bedroom quietly. The next second, a crying Nicholas follows the same route, crying and screaming his lungs out because his sister has scooted with his toy and is hiding at her usual ever-so-predictable hiding spots of the room, either behind the door or at the side of the bed. Then the whole situation would turn into a frenzy when my mom drowns the commotion with her scolding and both would end up crying. But all it takes to cease the havoc .would be to chuck two bottles of milk into their faces and the duo “milkaholics” would call it a day.

Stubbornness is an inherent characteristic in our family. I’m the most stubborn amongst the three sisters and dad prefers the Hokkien word, “Kuai lan”. Once, I stuffed green beans into my mouth when Dad persisted and demanded that I keep the green beans immediately. To retaliate, I took all the greenbeans and stuffed them into my mouth I kept them there for a good half an hour before I spat them out. I detest people snooping behind my back, making arrangements without my permission, for these people, I “write” them off immediately and often, it’s not erasable. That’s how stubborn I am. And now, it seems like this genetic trait has Shermaine and Nicholas have taken over the lead, Nicholas wins hands-down.

Nick’s stubborn declaration was the deciding factor. A couple of weeks back, he whipped Nicholas for refusing to take a shower or have his meal. Little Nick, despite the gushing tears in his eyes and the throbbing pain on his thigh shouted back, “Bu Tong (In Mandarin) meaning It’s not painful.”

Eccentricity is also another trait that runs in our family. Cat is the most eccentric of us all. It seems like Little Nick also has a strong mind of his own, some of his gestures are somewhat incomprehensible.

Whenever he uses his potty to do his poo-poo, it’s never a simple act of completing his business at one go. He always insists that my mom has to empty the potty after the “landing” after his first release of his “shit-roll” before he continues his “business”. To me, that’s a little eccentric. And obviously, nobody has ever taught him to do so. Somehow,that’s his preference. And if he wants his waterbottle when lying in the bedroom, he will not be grateful if you bring the bottle to him. He will insist that we put it in its original spot so that he can go and take it by himself. That’s eccentric.

Here are some of the snippets of candid episodes with the two little kiddos at home…

Training the soldier…

Shermaine was barely 2 1/2 years old and Nicholas a year younger. I was sitting on the floor, happily chatting with a friend over the phone when I heard the soft yet forceful command, “Di di, put the “gong4” (meaning container in Teochew) on yee yee (auntie’s) head.”

The instruction was repeated. Twice. I turned my head and saw Little Nick with a big plastic container, barely balancing, trying to raise the container over my head.I used a reprimanding tone to instruct him not to do so and turned my head back to chat with my friend. Then the commander gave her orders again, “Di di, put the “gong4” (meaning container in Teochew) on yee yee (auntie’s) head.” This time, Little Nick though young and barely speak at all,retorted, “ No, Yee Yee (ma)- meaning to scold.”

I ran to my mom’s room to continue my teleconversation. Shortly, I saw Shermaine standing sheepishly outside the door of the bedroom. Seconds later, in came Nicholas, with a big clothes-peg in his hands walking towards me. Guess it’s not hard to guess what he had intended to do with the clothes peg and who the mastermind was.

Home-made Hair Stylist

My sister is no professional hair stylist but she keeps Shermaine’s hair in form. Once in a while, the wannabe-hair stylist mom would give Shermaine a bob haircut. The makeshift hair salon is the bedroom toilet and the seat, the toilet seat with the cover down. Her tools - a pair of scissors, a big piece of newspapers, some dashes of powder.Prior to the Chinese new year, Daisy decided to give her a bob hairstyle and cut her fringe short, just above her eyebrows. As Daisy snipped away, Shermaine asked, “Mummy, did you cut my eyebrows?” Confident Daisy re-assured her and said no. It was only after the newspapers had been cleared that the wannabe hair stylist realised that some parts of little Shermaine’s eyebrows have indeed gone missing. Opps…The Grey Colour Yee-Yee Shermaine is a very inquisitive child, like most other children. Just a month ago, she suddenly came back to me and asked innocently, pointing at my arm, “Yee Yee Dorothy, why we all white colour and you grey colour?”I replied in Singlish, pointing at my arm again.“You see properly, this is brown not grey.” “No, grey.” She insisted, and I gave up.
Some weeks back, she came up to me again and said, “Yee Yee Dorothy,my teacher says different people are different colours. You are brown because you go under the sun.” She said and brushed my arm slightly.On another occasion, I asked Nicholas when Shermaine was sitting in the little room, “Nick Nick, Jie Jie (Sister) said I was grey colour. Then now she says I’m brown. What is this colour?” I pointed to my forearm. He replied, “BRACK” (meaning black). Shermaine heard the conversation and roared with laughter. “Nick Nick said you black colour.” Her laughter was so infectious, I couldn’t help but laugh. I deeply suspect that they must somewhat colourblind.

A documentary fan
I love documentaries on OKTO Channel and so does Shermaine.Shermaine loves to pronounce complex words and her diction is really quite good. Of the words that I teach her, she loves the complex multi-syllabus words, “Documentary”, “unavailable” and “Czekosolovakia.” Nicholas pales in comparison, and can never pronounce “L”. She used to call dad, “Dong Dong” instead of Gong Gong but has since overcome that. But Lalala remains Rarara, and Lion remains Ryan.

Once we were watching a documentary on the monkeys. A monkey with whiskers came onscreen and she exclaimed, “ This is the gong-gong monkey. He got “lao qiu qiu (whiskers in Teochew)”. It turned out that the whiskered monkey was leading the pack and it was a female one.” To clarify, I said. “Shermaine,that is not the gong-gong monkey. That is the mummy monkey.” She became a little agitated. And exclaimed, “No, but my mummy has no lao qiu qiu. I was lost for words.

On another occasion, I tried to get Shermaine to recall where she learnt the word, “Lao qiu qiu.

Dot: Shermaine, yee yee wants you to think about who taught you the word, Lao qiu qiu.

Shermaine: I teach myself.

Dot: No, you must have learnt it from somewhere. Think carefully.

Standing next to my dad at the side of the dinner table, she asked sheepishly.

Shermaine: Gong Gong, Is it you teach me “lao qiu qiu”?

Dad: I never teach you this.

It’s not funny

Once Shermaine tried to do something silly, and I said to her, “Shermaine, It’s not funny. She candidly replied with her fingers pointing at me, “Or hor…You said it’s not funny. My Mommy said, cannot say “It’s not funny”. It’s not funny is very rude.

I laughed. It’s really quite funny, so for someone who has broken the rules, all I can say at that point  whilst looking at her serious face was, “Opps.. Sorry.”

On another occasion, she asked me for permission for something. And I went, ” Take lah”. And the little girl turned teacher again, “Or hor. You said Lah. My teacher says cannot say Lah or Lor. And as usual, I said, pretending to be all sincere and apologetic, “Opps..Sorry.”

Watch this space. More to come…

I woke up this morning and the first thing I did was to touch my hair. Relieved that it was still long and rebonded. It was 8.30am.I was awakened by a bizarre dream, which turned out to be super-hilarious.

Just two days ago, I met Meenah and HM for breakfast at the airport, to send Huimin off as she made her way to Switzerland and to receive Meenah who just returned back to Singapore from Jarkarta for a short break. Huimin sported a new hairstyle, a short stylish bob.Last night, I attempted to paint on my canvas in the late evening with my sister, Cat. The primary colours of my arcylic paints were squeezed onto the palatte and I embarked my feeble attempt to replicate an impressionistic painting, water lilies. Somehow,HM’s new hairstyle and the hues of my arcylic paints were fused into my bizarre dream.

Here goes the bizarre dream,

It was the day before New Year.

HM and I were chatting and she suggested that I should go to her hair stylist. Somehow, I went. As I sat in the chair at the salon, I dozed off and  fell asleep. The next thing when I woke up, my newly rebonded long hair was gone and I was sporting the exact hairstyle as Huimin, in a different shade of brown and red.

I was in shock and requested to know what happened. I didn’t know what happened as I had fallen so soundly asleep. Besides the short hair,the colours of my hair also looked somewhat strange, a little off.

I asked if they could change the colour of my “new head”.

A Malaysian hair stylist came over and she started changing the colours of my hair. The ends of my hair were transformed and dyed bright yellow, just like the yellow paint on my palette and the tip of the hairends were red. I was flabbergasted.”Why this colour?”" Your friend chose these two colurs, red and yellow before she left for the airport to catch her flight. I hated the colours. And said, “I can’t go to work with this new hair colour. It’s very ah lian”. And she replied,” It IS very ah lian. ”

I frantically asked if it would be possible to change the colours and how long it would take. I was told that it would take at least another 3-4 hours and I said that I didnt have that amount of time as I was only on half day leave. The Malaysian stylist, with her hands still working on my hair, said in a non-chalant manner, “Cannot also no choice. still must carry on. Our hair stylist already made a special exception for you because your fren is a regular.” When I saw my “renewed” hair colour, I thrusted my head in my palms and said, ” I really feel like crying.” And the Malaysian hair stylist did the same and said, “I also really feel like crying”.

She wanted to go home but had to be stuck at the salon because of a last-minute customer.

It was a great relief when I woke up and felt my long hair. I had to wake my sister up from her beauty sleep to tell her the entire dream and how ridiculous it was. PHEW! This is such a bizarre and stupid dream and I had to try to rationalise the signs and omens that appeared in this dream. I guess the morale of the story is, Never stare at your palette full of colours past midnight before you go to bed.”