Unhappy

"If there must be trouble let it be in my day, that my child may have peace" ~ Thomas Paine

My dearest E.,

It is a beautiful, warm night. Or early morning, if you will. It is 3.15 a.m. and all I can think about is how you fill my life. May I tell you this, my sweet? I am unhappy. As unhappy as I've never been before. My worries and troubles- you are too young to understand them. Perhaps someday when you are older, I will tell you about them.

So I am unhappy.

But I thank God for you. In my unhappiness, there is a ray of light, a beacon of hope, and that is you. And in my unhappiness, I persevere and trudge along willingly, because there is you, and it is you that makes me complete.

If the oceans may tear us all apart, remember this: that you have a home with me. I love you. You are my heart. My life-blood.

I am unhappy. But I am rational. I am responsible.

Above all, I am strong in my love for you. That, alone, is enough to sustain me in this horrible journey I take. Forgive me for the things I do- because they are only for your good, your betterment in life.

In my unhappiness, you are the only thing that could ever be. You just are.

You leave me speechless

"Much silence makes a powerful noise" ~ African Proverb

My dearest E.,

Do the Heavens wonder why you leave me speechless, with my heart overflowing with untold love and joy? You silence me with your words, your powerful eyes, your beautiful nature. You silence me when you say things like, "I want some cultured milk, Mummy."

Or when you see me writhing in pain as I suffered from a stomach illness and diarrhoea a few days ago. "Mummy has tummy ache. Mummy go see doctor. OK?"

Or when you twist and turn in bed beside me in the middle of the night and I feel your little hand gently caressing my cheek when you whisper, "I love you, Mummy. Mummy, hug me pleeth." (You speak with a little lisp).

But most of all, I am speechless when you are simply there. And I know that you love me back.

Updates

"Have something to say, and say it as clearly as you can. That is the only secret" ~ Matthew Arnold

My dearest E.,

In the time I had last written in these pages, many wonderful things have happened.

1. Christmas, the New Year and Chinese New Year came and left with much fanfare, with much cherished time spent with family and friends.
2. I self-published my first book. Although I've only ordered 1 copy for my own (I'm not quite ready yet to unleash it to the general public), it's a wonderful thing to see your work in print. It's a piece of non-fiction work called "Along Came Emilie". No stars for guessing the source of my inspiration.
3. I received a considerable salary increment and a generous bonus. Alas, I've spent it all!- or have I? I've tucked away a tidy little nest-egg for my sweet little baby. And blew the rest on Coach and Louis Vuitton handbags....
4. We bought a new family car.
5. We went for a lovely holiday in the beautiful island of Langkawi. Sun, surf and sand, with lots of sleep and relaxation, in the company of friends, both old and new.
6. You learnt to speak, oh-so-wonderfully, with a widened vocabulary of words
7. I discovered Philip Pullman's "His Dark Materials" trilogy and found new heights of my love for books and reading
8. You discovered the magical world of princesses, fairies, unicorns and Strawberry Shortcake and I got the opportunity to re-visit my favourite ballets and fairy-tales
9. Your godma bought me a beautiful Tiffany & Co. ring for my birthday (which, incidentally is 2 weeks away, but she liked the thought of giving my gift to me earlier)
10. I fell in love with you all over again, every single day, more and more and more....

Baa Baa Black Sheep, how are you?

"Baa Baa Black Sheep, have you any wool? Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full!" ~ Traditional nursery rhyme

My dearest E.,

This morning, as I dressed to go to work, you played with the new pink hair band I had bought for you, the one with a little clip-on teddy bear decorated with shiny crystal bits. You placed it in your hair, grinned at me and said, "Nice, Mummy!" I chortled as I got dressed.

And then, as you stroked your teddy bear and put the hair band over its head, I heard you singing, "Baa Baa Black Sheep, how are you? Yes sir yes sir, woo woo woo...." I hid a smile and continued to watch you. And you continued to sing those words over and over again. Your father, who was also dressing for work, winked at me and we both shared a happy smile, watching our little daughter sing and ask a black sheep how it was.

A year has passed

"Old Time, that greatest and longest established spinner of all!.... his factory is a secret place, his work is noiseless, and his hands are mutes". ~Charles Dickens

My dearest E.,

I can hardly believe that almost a year has flown by since I started writing in this blog for you. When I began, I wanted to be able to leave behind for you, lessons I had learnt in my life, changes I had gone through, my thoughts and hopes: these all were written as a means of instructions or guide, call it what you will, to you. And most of all, I wrote these entries in this blog because I wanted to, because you had given me such great inspiration to write, to release the feelings that lay quietly within my heart. Because I wanted you to know how much I love you.

Not too long ago, someone gave me an idea that I should publish all that I have written here. I've played with that idea quite a fair bit, honestly. I think I like the idea of having a book written just for you, which I can share with other mothers and people who'd maybe enjoy reading it. I know, these are thoughts which are extremely intimate and personal perhaps- but I'm not afraid of sharing my love for you. I really am not. I like the idea that one day, after I am dead and gone from this world, that you will have this strange little book I've written for you, and that it will give you comfort to "hear" my words ringing permanently on the ink-printed pages.

I don't expect that you will turn out like me. Quite the contrary. I think you have the makings of a very special individual person.

Perhaps this is where I should stop writing.... and start talking to you more, because you are 2 years old now, I can speak to you and your level of comprehension is clearly more advanced than it was a year ago. Or perhaps I will do both. Continue writing in this blog while I teach you things about life. I don't want to embarass you, though. I don't know if you'll be embarassed someday- what was my crazy, demented mother thinking, proclaiming her love for me to the world, telling strangers how I grew up and what I did as a child, even worse, my mother confessing to all her little failings! I chuckle a little as I think of these thoughts racing through your head, perhaps in 12-15 years down the road.

But time is very precious, my sweet. Soon enough, you will no longer listen to your old mother. You will have ideas of your own, thoughts independent from mine. You will no longer be dependent on me for your survival. So let me indulge in this just once. Let me say the things I need to say, want to say, to you.

What a wonderful year it has been, my sweet pea. And again and again- I'm ever so thankful, ever so happy, that you are my daughter.

Talk talk talk

"Sometimes when I'm talking, my words can't keep up with my thoughts. I wonder why we think faster than we speak. Probably so we can think twice" ~ Bill Watterson

My dearest E.,

You talk! Terribly adult-like. You form funny little sentences. You learn funny new words. Your voice is tiny and cute, just like a baby's should be. Sometimes you talk and talk, and I don't understand what you say. You nod and say "OK", "Alright!". Sometimes you say the bad F-word, or something you say "Shit" but we pretend we don't hear you, and then we fervently pray that you won't repeat it. You're like a sponge, absorbing things around you at a pace that I cannot keep up with.

You pay me compliments. You told me, "Nice, Mummy," when I put on a new red blouse for work. And smoothed the front of my blouse as you leaned into me to kiss my cheek. You wag your finger at me and say "Shame, shame!" when I undress in front of you. You tell me what you want: books, TV, your milk, food, TOYS. You love your toys and books. You want me to read to you all the time. And you talk and talk when I do.

You are ever SO precious. I don't care if you talk and talk and talk and never stop.

Being Busy

"Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans" ~ John Lennon

My dearest E.,

Yes. Life has indeed happened to me. In the times that I've been busy of late, I've experienced great work stress: great but strangely fulfilling, leaving me with the notion that I am somewhat important to my work organization. I've experienced illness and recuperation. I've experienced a little free time. I've had the opportunity to plan and celebrate your birthday with your little friends and our loved ones. Yes, E., you are now the grand old age of 2 years!

What a wonderful fun birthday party we had for you. Friends and family crammed our tidy little house (which wasn't so tidy after the party), a 40-odd-strong crowd whom I had to cook for (yes, cook! All by myself!). There were balloons and gifts, laughter and merriment. I put on your sweet indigo & red sailor dress for you, you looked a dream. And you were a gracious host, sharing your toys and happiness with your other little friends. I was a flurried host, making sure everyone had enough to eat and drink, entertaining our guests as they thronged at our gates and flooded our tiny living room. It was raining, but it couldn't be more perfect. And at the end of the night, when our guests had gone home, I sighed contentedly and dragged myself to bed, tired out with the events of the day.

Did I have any idea then that a dark event would overshadow our happy celebrations? Of course I didn't, but it was a sign of things to come when you fell ill the very next day, vomiting and purging. You spiked a high fever, sending the alarm bells in my head ringing, and your father and I frantically rushed you to the nearest paediatric clinic we could find open on a Sunday morning. The diagnosis: you had a stomach virus, a rather nasty one which had been making its way around our abode and general public, infecting people like a nasty plague. It was no coincidence that both your father and I had suffered a bout of it the previous week, and that at the time you fell sick, your uncle, my brother, had been hospitalized for the same illness. It came to my knowledge that many more people we knew had suffered the same illness quite recently.

My heart bled as you grew weaker, your cries louder, your need for comfort greater. You were small and tiny, your body hot to the touch, your cheeks flushed with the fever and illness ravaging your body. Your father and I rushed you to the hospital, and you were immediately admitted and placed on IV drips. Did I cry when you did, when the kind old doctor, who had not intended to hurt you, drew a line in your vein for the IV? Your father couldn't bear to look, but I did, and as you cried, I kissed and kissed your tears away, wishing that I could take away your pain. And in the hospital we spent for 3 long days.

Do you know what it feels like- to be helpless and watch your child suffer and cry from an illness? You were delirious in your sleep, whimpering for me, wanting to be close to me all the time. I stayed beside you, slept beside you, held you in my arms, all the time praying for your speedy recovery. The pain that hit me, and still lingers within my heart, to see you in that frail state, has not gone away. I suspect that it never will, because my eyes have been opened to your pain, emblazoned forever in my mind.

And so, this is life. When we are busy doing things, we live our lives. Good things and bad things happen to all of us. Your illness was a bad thing, possibly the worst thing that has happened to us. I am thankful that it has passed. But with it came a good thing: I know you're only a little girl, only 2 years old. But in your time of illness, you knew that I would be there for you, to love you and care for you. I hope you will carry this knowledge with you for the rest of your life.