kids inc

Boys and Twucks

I just brought Tru to Toys R’ Us the other day to pick out a new toy just for fun (I can’t help it, I’m gonna spoil my kids rotten). The look of delight on his face every time he goes to a toy store is too much of a high for me. It’s like how I felt when I first stepped into Disneyland (the Anaheim one) during Christmastime. The feeling of awe doesn’t go away and till this day, stepping into Disneyland is still a special experience.

Notice the grimace on the husband's face

Notice the grimace on the husband's face

Which explains why I dragged the husband by the hair running around like maniacs in Disneyland for 3 days during our honeymoon. When the kids start to walk, I’m going to make it an annual pilgrimage to spend a week in the happiest place in the world. And I’ll be like the coolest mom ever.

So back to the toy store. We were making our rounds trying to find a toy he liked. It’s called the toy test.

1. I’ll hold up a whole bunch of toys and see which one he grabs.

2. He’ll hold it closer to inspect it for a while. 

3. If he likes it, he’ll clap his hands.

4. If not, it gets flung away.

 I’ve tried various methods to influence his decision, like shake it while making funny sounds, or shoving it closer so he’ll want to grab it, but I’m telling you, this boy is too smart for his own good. At 12 months, he seems to know exactly what he wants.

The difference is, as rational, informed adults, we choose stuff based on the functions, design, price, branding and reliability. Kids, on the other hand, have no basis for their selection of stuff and they can be drawn to seemingly lame and useless toys just because it’s in their favorite color, or because it belts out irritating rhymes. Bizarre, I know.

As a parent, I’m resisting the urge to tell him the tacky, pink, giant rubber ball that costs $12.99 is stupid, and that he should pick an Optimus Prime robot that can transform into a cool trailer truck.

Anyway, after discarding like a whole trolley-full of toys, Tru finally settles on a Playskool dump truck with a giant meat ball that wobbles. I was still trying to hard-sell the Transformers toy but he was intent on getting his twuck and he grabbed on to it for dear life. Optimus Prime got smashed to the floor in the process but I have a feeling he’ll do just fine.

*Autobots, transform and roll out*

Dumb twuck

Dumb twuck

Now that Tru is in his cars and trucks phase, I’m amassing enough vehicles at home to start an automobile shop. I’m just waiting for the day he starts pestering us for an Audi TT. That’ll be fun.

how i pretend to be a cool mum, side effects of motherhood, stuff best described as not safe for parents

The dilemma of hired help

maid2

we've maid it..without a maid.

I’ve been getting a lot of people asking me how I’m going to take care of two kids on my own without any help after Kirsten in born. I’d like to say that I’ve got it all worked out, but honestly, I have no idea. I’ve tossed and turned in bed for nights going through the various permutations of feeding times, nappy changes, screaming fits, and I still don’t have an answer. All I can say is I’m prepared for a lot of mayhem and screaming.

It does help that Tru is a relatively fuss-free kid and at 12 months, he’s practically self-sufficient. He’ll play with his toys and sleep on his own, so that will allow me some time to take care of the little one. And for the first two weeks postpartum, Superdad has offered to clear his schedule to help out at home while I recuperate.

All the people I’ve consulted all suggest the same thing, which is hiring full-time help to keep an eye on one kid or do the chores while I get some rest. Sounds fantastic in theory, but I’m reluctant to have a stranger around in my house all the time.

For the most part, I’m a fiercely private person. I mean, I love having people over for parties and gatherings, but when the party’s over, it’s time to clear out. My home is like my own little private domain, where I can let down my hair, put on green slob on my face and look like the bride of Chucky. But with someone around 24/7, I’ve got to be cordial, make sure I look decent and be on my toes all the time. Where’s the fun in that?

And that’s assuming I get a helper who’s a godsend. I’ve heard all sorts of horror stories about maids from hell that totally freaked my out. Here’s probably a good time to tell you about Jackie, our first experience with a live-in help. Back then, I was still considering childcare options for Tru, so we decided to hire someone to watch him while we were at work. Big mistake.

Despite being highly recommended (by the scumbag agency – I hope they go bankrupt), she managed to drive us up the wall within 8 days. She’d eat on our bed when we were out, turn on the air-conditioning in her room all day, scowl at Tru all the time and looked like she was going to poison our food. By the 8th day, we had to send her packing just so I wouldn’t lose my sanity at home. After the nightmare, I decided no one else was going to look after my kid but me.

Understandably, I’m reluctant to go through the ordeal again, and I’d rather be a little frazzled running after 2 crazy kids than make headlines on the 6 o’clock news. (i.e. Woman dies at the hands of a psychotic maid)

At least, that’s the plan for now. Unless I totally cave after 3 days and start screaming for help.

pregnancy

I do not have small boobs

Yesterday was not a good day for my self-esteem. Now that I’m pushing 36 weeks and weigh about the same as a baby elephant, I’m feeling a tad touchy about my weight, if you know what I mean. Call me oversensitive, but when I get sucker-punched with a 3-hit combo all in a day, I start to get a little depressed.

So in the afternoon the husband had offered to go buy lunch back and since all I had for breakfast was a measly slice of peanut butter sandwich, I was feeling quite ravenously hungry (which does not happen all the time). And the cravings were kicking in.

Husband: Orders please.

Me: Can I have 1 packet of chicken rice with extra roasted pork and egg, 1 packet of rojak (it’s this mish-mash of fried doughsticks and pineapple layered with a thick, tangy sweet sauce that’s totally sinful) and an iced milk tea.

Husband: Wow, you sure you can eat all that?

Me: Are you calling me FAT? All I had all day was a tiny sandwich! FINE I’LL STARVE TO DEATH IF THAT’S WHAT YOU WANT!

***

Later that evening, we were heading out to a barbeque with a couple of friends. So this lady (whom I suspect has got a mild case of Tourette syndrome) came into the lift and as usual, my boy was doing his socializing thing, which led to the following conversation.

Lady: You’re so cute! Very chubby too. *Turns to look at me* Just like mommy…

Methinks: You did not just call me chubby, lady. It’s a child I’m carrying, not fats alright. And it’s not like you’re that thin yourself.

***

Finally, at the barbeque, I offered to bring my friend’s 3-year-old kid to the toilet since I needed to pee as well. And as I found out, kids say the darnest things.

Kid: Your stomach is so big.

Me: Yeah, there’s a baby inside. You wanna play with baby?

Kid: *glances at my boobs* But your ‘that one’ is not big.

Me: Which one?

Kid: *points to my boobs* That one.

Methinks: Right… Maybe your view is obscured by the giant stomach, but I can assure you, they are of a very decent size.

***

In the span of 10 hours, I had 3 people call me fat/big/chubby (all the same thing as far as I’m concerned). And also, I’ve got small boobs.