38. Letting go

A couple of nights ago, taking Buddy for a quick walk left me incensed.  “You’ll never believe what happened downstairs!”  I raged to Matt on my return.  Continuing my rant, I described the rudeness of our neighbors when I approached them about where they were burning offerings for the Hungry Ghost Festival. 

A brief tutorial for uninitiated: celebrated on the 15^th night of the seventh lunar month (according to the Chinese calendar), believers observe the entire month as “Ghost month” where the ‘gates of hell’ are opened for all spirits to receive food and drink, along with offerings (eg paper ‘money’) burnt for them.  As such, here in Singapore, the month of August is very smoky with joss-stick-adorned-sidewalks and sizable steel barrels ablazed with varying types of paper offerings which rise to the skies in a sooty smoggy vapor.  As a large number of people live in highrises (ie residential towers), there are strict guidelines about where you can ‘set up’ so it doesn’t become a fire or smoke hazard.  Or so I thought.

Getting back to my story, our said-neighbors were performing their rituals near the children’s playground instead of the pre-designated area outside the building.  After checking with the now-angry and flustered guard-on-duty (who apparently had just been insulted by the couple when he tried to carry out his duties) I gently broached the subject.  They both just ignored me.  Thinking they didn’t speak English, I tried again in my third-rate-broken-Chinese.  The man responded, “You are Chinese?”  (which I thought was a weird response), whilst his co-conspirator became confrontational.  Wanting to defuse the situation, I offered that I wasn’t trying to be quarrelsome but needed to point out the gas pipe behind them.  And no, I wasn't bluffing.  But my words fell on deaf ears.  I gave up and walked away, exasperated and decidedly peeved.

After venting to Matt, I didn’t want to keep harping on about it to him so I took to Facebook and wrote: “Very very cross at some very rude, inconsiderate and selfish people who behave as if the world owes them a living and they are 'above' everyone else! Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”.  But then, I got frustrated with myself.  Why am I getting so upset about an exchange with 2 total strangers?  Why was I letting someone ‘push my buttons’ so to speak?  Wasn’t I always trying to teach the girls about not letting other people’s behavior impact how they feel?

Disheartened, I took to Facebook again: “don't want to be this person... or get this worked up about stuff (especially when you consider things from the whole "bigger picture" perspective).. Sigh.. need to set a better example for the girls and be a better person. Luckily tomorrow is a new day.. x”.  And then, I went to bed.

When I woke, in amongst all the shout-outs from good friends, a message from an ‘old soul’ stood out.  She asked: “What hurts more?  What these people are doing or the way you feel about them?”  Her words made me pause and I took a long hard look at myself.  Why?  Because although it would be much easier to lay blame on my errant neighbors, it was important to me that I took ownership of my negative feelings.

And what did I learn?  After nearly a week of mulling over my wise friend’s words, I concluded that ‘letting go’ is a kinder way of living – to yourself and also those who’s paths you happen to cross.  That ‘letting go’ doesn’t mean you don’t care or that you are ‘selling out’ on your values or beliefs.  But rather, realizing you cannot (and should not) try to hold sway over every situation.  And finally, that ‘letting go’ means being forgiving, compassionate and patient with others (because you don’t know their daily reality) – as well as to yourself.  And so the lessons continue.

****************

37. Not so good at being led

 

So a few weeks ago, I mentioned that Matt and I had starting training for a run in Angkor Wat.   It was going relatively well -- to begin with.  And then as Matt’s runs started getting longer as he worked towards his half-marathon, I started opting out, preferring to concentrate on trying to improve my time for the 10km. Perhaps concerned we were not spending enough time together, Matt decided to come along to one of my ‘lone’ runs, saying he had checked it out on Google Maps and was going to lead me on a different route (but of the same distance) to ‘challenge’ me.  Okay.  I like challenges now and again.  So off we went. 

Up, down and around we went along a route different from my usual path to the Botanic Gardens.  It was relatively uneventful.  That is, until we grappled with the varying routes within the Gardens and found ourselves having to double back a few times.  As it felt like we were constantly getting a little lost, I pointedly asked my ‘fearless leader’ if he knew where we were going.  Matt’s overly confident “of course” was met with my exasperated, “You are so stubborn! You NEVER admit it when you are lost!”  Needless to say, he was not happy with me.  We continued the ‘meander’ (an ‘adventure’ in his mind!) in silence. Finally, I spotted something familiar and it looked like we were back on track.  “YAY!” cried my now-weary feet.  That’s when Matt signaled we should veer off the bloody beaten trail -- AGAIN!  By now, fed-up and tired, I could barely hold back and serendipitously chanced-upon a sign pointing home (but was contrary to the direction he wanted us to head).  When I brought it to his attention, he snapped, “Just go your own way!”;  to which I mumbled a cuss and ran off. 

A similar thing happened when Faith was a new-born.  As first-time parents, we were pretty clueless and poor Faith was not easy to ‘settle’.  One particular time, my mother-in-law said I was probably just holding the baby wrong, insinuating it was my fault.  Relieved for some expert advice, I gladly handed Faith over to her, eager to learn the ‘correct way’.  She wasn’t able to calm Faith.  I think I mumbled something along the lines of, “If you are not an expert, then don’t pretend to be one” and walked into my room, slammed the door, and had a cry.   Harsh, I know.

And here lies the problem:  To begin with, I am RUBBISH at being led.  I like to chart my own course.  Simple as that.  If you insist on taking over, telling me you have the ‘knowledge’ and I choose to let you lead me, but it transpires that actually, it was just an overstatement on your part, I find it very hard to deal with.  As such, I try to not put myself in a situation where I have to rely on someone, preferring to be the person relied upon.  And yes, it can it a problem.

Last night, at the end of a curriculum talk, I found myself leaving Faith’s new school with an unexpected passenger.  As we left the hall, and I led us towards the direction of where I thought my car was, my new traveling partner stopped me and pointed out where the garage was.  My explanation of where I had ACTUALLY parked my car was met with a skeptical “really?” and as we continued along, she kept loudly suggesting taking varying routes to my car and continually referred to the ‘OTHER’ car park.  I should mention this woman is not only as NEW to the school as I was, but has only just arrived in Singapore, didn’t drive, had NEVER navigated through ANY of the three garages the school housed AND was NOT with me when I parked my car in the first place.  But somehow, she believed she knew better in this instance!  Luckily I found my car minutes later, but with a now-pounding headache, could not wait to offload my ‘expert’ rider.  As it turned out, she was an ‘expert’ on quite a wide variety of things – which I learnt ALL about, throughout the very long 10-minute drive.  Sigh. Surely NOBODY can be the expert on EVERYTHING!

So I will end my rant by accepting that while I readily confess to ignorance and often admit liability so that expectations are managed, not everybody feels that way.  As such, I will simply have to work harder on my trust issues, and learn to let others ‘captain’ my path now and again without expecting perfection, as well as becoming more relaxed about just going with the flow.  Oh, and stay away from  people who are ‘experts’ on everything – if only for my own sanity!

****************

36. Finding balance

 

One of my readers shared his concerns after reading “Shooting for the moon”.  He spoke about the sacrifices ‘achievers’ have to make and how relationships can take a back seat in the journey to attainment and vice versa.  I wrote back, “Ah.. But ‘balance’ is another mantra I constantly drum into my children”.

When we first started our family and up till the day Faith started primary school, Matt and I were very relaxed about education, in the mistaken belief it would benefit her.  Our thought was along the “Ah, but she’s still so little!  Plenty of time to get serious later.”  And for a time, we let our toddler lead us in what and how to occupy her.  When she started school, she showed little interest in books and trailed far behind her peers.  Worried, we had her hearing tested and then wondered if the lag was because she was the youngest in her year and therefore a late bloomer.  We even had educational experts test her in case there was a more serious problem.

When we moved to London, after a few weeks at her new school, Faith came home one day and declared she was the most stupid person in her class.  It broke my heart and I felt I had failed her.  But still, we didn’t want to resort to tutors and just encouraged her to ‘do her best’.  A few years later, a year before all the girls’ sat their critical 11+ exams, I found out the smartest (and very well-rounded) girl in the year had regular tuition.  That’s when I thought, “Holy!  If the smartest girl is getting tuition, I am doing Faith a great disservice by not employing the same support for her!”  I found a really wonderful tutor and watched Faith’s confidence and grades rise dramatically.  My main satisfaction came from the lessons Faith absorbed: a. she wasn’t ‘stupid’; and b: nothing was impossible without some elbow grease.  Yes, she had to make sacrifices for two hours on a Saturday and more often just before  exams.  But in return, she gained offers from all three schools she applied to and was in a position to choose the one most suited to her personality.  She continues to flourish and we are filled with pride as we watch her navigate different situations with grace and determination.

I know, I know.  I am yet to get to the ‘balance’ bit.  Today, we still let the girls lead us in what they want to do BUT, by monitoring their natural talents, we gently steer them, and employ support to nurture and develop if required.  And as I look at their outside-of-school schedules, I see they have a balance in sports (tennis and swim training), music, language (French and Chinese).  Yes, it is busy.  But besides the ‘must do’ (language, music, tennis and swim), the girls have picked activities that interest them (dance and voluntary service for Faith, choir for Tia, and clay making and science club for Paige).   I now feel like I am protesting too much so let me just stop now and instead insert a section of the book I am working on which I feel is relevant to this piece:

Balance: I can almost hear you all sigh as I bring up “balance”.  I don’t know how old you will be when you finally read this but remember how I’ve been telling you guys about the importance of balance in your lives?  I still hear you cheekily asking me if “too much homework is also bad for you”.  My answer then, and my answer now, is “yes”.  Too much of ANYTHING is bad for you.  Too much food.  Too much sleep.  Too much alcohol.  Too much tv.  Too much work.  Too much play.  The list goes on and on.  Point is, too much OR too little of anything is not  good.

Throughout your lives, at different points in time, due to whatever is happening, you will find that you are either doing too much or too little of something.  That is  normal.  What you do next is important.  If it is impossible to adjust the glut or deficit right there and then, make a commitment to address it within a certain amount of time.  Be realistic with your timing but make sure you stick to it.  Don’t wait until its too late and the imbalance takes over your life.

And so, for now, our ongoing dinner table discussions about ‘balance’ seem to be working relatively well for the girls as I watch them make healthy choices; and though I am sure it will be an ongoing trek where they will veer in all sorts of directions, it is my hope this coaxing will endure and develop into a natural tendency. 

************

35. Shooting for the moon

 

In a previous piece, I had babbled on about being disinterested in competing with others, preferring to pit myself against self-determined motivators.  But that however, has never ever curbed my somewhat absurdly (now that I think about it!) over-enthusiastic compulsion to sign-up for all sorts of teams during my school years.  Various sports, debating, etcetera.  Perhaps it stemmed from my view of how dire things were at home and a rationale that went: if I am not at home then nobody can pick on me, be malicious or manoeuvre me into barbed corners.  Anyhow, I developed into a compulsive ‘joiner’ – putting my name down on sign-up sheets all over the school, regardless of what the ‘sign-up’ was for. Oh, and I never let a lack of experience or any sort of physical or cerebral limitations deter me either! 

Two memories quickly come to mind:

I think I was 9 and not tall by any stretch of the imagination.  Anyhow, I saw the sign-up sheet for BASKETBALL and thought, “Yeah!  I could do that!”.  Undaunted by my lack of height, I turned up on the first day of tryouts.  Had I ever played OR watched the game before?  No, but I knew how to bounce a ball!  Did I have any clue to the mechanics of the game?  Not really.  Did everyone else turn around to gawk at little-midget-me (compared to everyone else) and stifle a snigger?  Yes.  And yet, I still scampered onto the court and bounced my little heart out.  Did I get a spot on the school team.  Are you kidding?  But hey, I had spunk!

Fast-forward to when I was 16.  Saw the sign-up sheet for the school tennis team and thought, “Yup, I could do that!” and eagerly turned up on the said-day.  Had I ever played tennis before?  Nope.  Did I have any clue to the mechanics of the game?  Well, I DID play “Pong” on the Atari when I was younger and I thought, “Ping pong, tennis.. same-same.  Just more running, right?”  I borrowed a racket and hung back during trials to watch the other girls.  When it was my turn, what I lacked in knowledge and skill, I made up in sheer gung-ho-chasing-the-ball all over the court.  Did I get a spot on the team?  Surprisingly, yes, if only on the B Team!  And I STILL don’t know how I managed it!  Think it was one half fluke and the other half of maybe-the-coach-felt-sorry-for-me!  Ahh, good times.

Globally-treasured prolific wordsmith T. S. Eliot wrote: “Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find how far one can go”, and as I delve into my memories while writing this, I am reminded of how time and time again, those words have liberated me from insecurities and propelled me to venture further than what I would possibly have dared if not compelled by life’s circumstances (not that I was aware of his wise words at the time, having only stumbled across them 10 minutes ago while researching for inspiration for this piece!).

And so, at 40-something and a mother of three spunky girls, I now actively rally my girls to ‘give things a go’; to be undaunted and courageous in the face of obstacles and most importantly, to dream big.  As such, Faith aspires to be an architect who sings, write books and songs AND dancers on the side; Tia wants to either own a veterinary clinic or become a paediatrician AND write novels in her spare time; and Paige wants to create art that touches the world.  With such big ambitions, I counsel them that as long as they know what they want and are prepared to work hard and stay focused, nothing is impossible.  As author and motivational speaker Les Brown once said, “Shoot for the moon and if you miss, you’ll land among the stars”.

*****************

34. Allergic to competition

Olympics fever has people all over the world glued to their sets, cheering countries and athletes on.  As for me, the only real interest I’ve shown these past so-many-days was for the Opening Ceremony.  Now THAT brought a lump to my throat.  Why the general lack of enthusiasm?  For starters, the time difference, PLUS I am rubbish at sedentary viewing (too fidgety!).  And, if I was honest, whilst I enjoy the celebration of sportsmanship and the personal stories, I am not one for competition where for every winner, stands a whole posse of defeated souls.   Yes, I’ve been found out:  I don’t enjoy competition and the angst and agro that comes with it.  Its an 'allergy'.

I grew up in a very competitive family and when I was a child, life seemed to revolve around discussions about who got the best grade, the most As, was the most loved, etcetera.  It didn’t help that my aeronautical engineer father placed a ridiculously high value on As for science and mathematical subjects and was hugely contemptuous of everything else.  He regarded history, literature and English as disciplines introduced for the morons of society.  Much to his angst, owing to the slant of his viewpoint, I belonged to that particular group.  As such, my killer grades for what I excelled in were routinely dismissed with a “any idiot can get an A” whilst my paltry marks for maths (especially!) invited humiliation and sometimes a beating.  When my literature teacher wrote of my “tenacity” in a report card, my father interpreted the remark that I had been stubborn – so I got beaten up for that too.  I should mention I was confused at the time of the beating, wondering what I had done to invite such a ‘terrible report’ (as per my dad’s reason for the walloping) as I could have sworn I was one of Mrs Grainger’s better students seeing I routinely topped my class.  It was only years later when the memory re-surfaced that I realized my father did not understand the real meaning of ‘tenacity’.  Ah, but I digress.  

As I was saying, unfortunately for me, next to one brother gifted in Maths (now a shipbroker), another a natural with language and the written word (now a professor), plus the two extra brothers who went on to become an anesthetist and a lawyer respectively, I was officially the dummy of the group – by HIS reckoning.  But that’s okay with me --  just as long as I didn’t have to participate in stupid mind games and soul destroying politics.  And so, with such a 'stellar' introduction to the mechanics of ‘competition’, it is little wonder I am not a fan of rivalry, no matter how friendly.

But of course, it is inevitable to go through life without crossing paths with people who are competitive about EVERYTHING!  From racing to the traffic lights (even if they are red), to being competitive about jobs and earning power.  Unfortunately, much as it pains me to typecast, women (as a whole), can be the biggest culprits.  Sorry girls, but you know there is truth in what I am saying.  

It starts early, with competition revving up around the 10-year-old mark: an unspoken contest to be the smartest, the prettiest, the most sporty, the most popular.  Developing into a race for the best boyfriend, record-breaking college results, the better job, the ultimate wardrobe, etcetera, etcetera.  And then, the ultimate whammy: motherhood!  Who’s baby was the best sleeper or the best eater.  I’ve even had a woman demand why her daughter did not have the same curly hair as the waves my three daughters sport (and NO I do not colour or perm my children's hair!)!  Bizarre!  And then, when Faith was applying for schools after sitting her 11+ exams (in London) came the “Oh!  Which schools are you applying for?  Well!  Six schools have hinted at a promised-spot for MY daughter!  We just have to decide which one will provide the best contacts for her later on.”  Seriously?  BLEH!   

Don’t get me wrong, I am fiercely competitive – it is in my DNA.  I am stubbornly determined and rarely give up.  But the only person I compete against is myself, constantly setting targets and goals, always trying to improve on my last efforts.  I don’t, however, feel the need to be consumed by anything or have the desire to possess a killer instinct; nor do I have a ‘win at all cost’ mentality.  For me, my mantra revolves around balance, being true to myself and having integrity. 

My girls will have make their own decisions about how they feel about competition and while I encourage them to give things their 100 percent and tell them nothing is impossible; I also talk to them about the importance of enjoying what they do, balance, fair play and being gracious – regardless of whether they end up victorious or not.

**********************

33. Going 'off-piste'

For some unknown reason, whenever we have a dinner party, I find myself not only trying a new recipe, but also going ‘off-piste’.  Depending on the disparity between how the flavors come together and what I think a dish should taste like, dictates what seasoning (if any) or extras I add.  But it is quite possibly the ONLY instance where I routinely veer off the ‘beaten track’ and become rather adventurous – which is quite the opposite of my 40-something ‘everyday self’.  

Take my training for example.  Matt and I have signed on to tackle a running event in Angkor Wat in December later this year.  Not a fan of running more than 45 minutes (yes, its THAT precise!), I only said yes due to my romantic notions of the location of the race.  And so, I thought I had better take a good look at my weekly routine to determine how much my ‘game’ needed raising. 

Mondays is a cycle circuit up, down and around Mount Faber to strengthen my 40-something-year-old knees for the week ahead; Tuesdays is a 7km run; Wednesdays and Fridays see me at the gym doing weights, a small cycle and a shorter run; Thursdays is a 10km run; Saturdays is interval training involving 2-minute sprints (BLEH!); and Sundays sees me COLLAPSE in a heap!  All in all, if the route is unchanged, I can tackle it relatively comfortably as I am familiar with all the twists and turns of the course (quite often letting gravity pull me along!) and I distract myself by pondering about what to write about next -- never mind all the limping when I am done (but that’s for ANOTHER story)! But, when Matt decides to come along on my run AND THEN takes us on a different route (just for the ‘adventure’!), I struggle mentally and lag far far FAR behind; my labored panting peppered with “You’re killing me!” and “Argh!  Where are you taking me?!”, complimented by “I’m sloooooooooowly dyyyyying!” and “Please can we walk for a few metres?”  Just as well I have a patient husband who reminds me its ‘all in my head’!

I look back at my past and wonder if I was always like this.  After all, I couldn’t be THAT risk-averse if having decided to live life on MY terms, I left home at 17, penniless and with nothing more than a bag of clothes; or when I took off to Japan to sing on a cruise ship without a single word of Japanese; or all those times I started little businesses from scratch; or fell in love?  Risks?  I’ve taken aplenty!

But I find that the combination of becoming a mother, age and time constraints brought about from the children’s schedules have morphed me into a bit of a control freak, constantly in a state of micro-managing possible challenges that may lay ahead.  Choosing safer options, with plans B and C tucked in my back pocket in case plan A doesn’t quite work out.  And it has its pros and cons.

I find this inherited quality comes in useful when I have to juggle this family-of-five’s schedule (six if you count Buddy!) because it enables for majority of the elements that make up our crazed lives to fall into place – most of the time.  And so, I am accepting of the necessity of being more circumspect than my younger self -- life is no longer just about me.

And so, yet another reason why I am lucky to be married to Matt: he who reminds me (and the girls) of the importance of going off-piste every now-and-then and the fun in being spontaneous – which is why every so often, I allow myself to be led on his crazy adventures to venture into the uncertain; to stay young, find new reasons to laugh, create fresh memories and learn something new.

************

32: Bringing up daughters

   

I still remember the first, second AND third time each obstetrician announced Matt and I were expecting a daughter.  And each time, I was dubious.  Maybe the child had a shy member?  Sigh.  Denial?  Yes.  But I grew up with brothers and I guess in the back of my mind, my subconscious always expected at least one son. But I didn’t realize the affinity until the third time.  Nevertheless, three daughters later, the ‘shop’ is well and truly slammed shut (and sealed with super-strength cement for good measure); and unless you count Buddy (formerly known as “Homer” before we rescued him from the SPCA), I am well and truly a mother of daughters.

The first time round though, I distinctly remember telling anyone who would listen how I would NEVER EVER dress my daughter in pink.  Famous last words.  And once it started, I realized going against the tide of girlish paraphernalia Matt and I suddenly found ourselves drowning in was fruitless.

Fast forward nearly 13 years since our first daughter (and I finally see their pink phase coming to an end!), I am very thankful someone ‘up there’ had the compassion to give us three girls who are not only healthy but also very tolerant and accommodating.  Well, to be honest, to me, yes.  Towards each other, not as much as I would like.  But its all good.

A couple of weeks ago, our dinner companions seemed somewhat surprised when I voiced how going to university was non-negotiable at Chez Farlow.  The girls know the reasons behind my firm stance:

According to hearsay, in the days following my parents’ break-up my mom rang her successor to discharge a barrage of accusations.  This was followed by a missile, from the new adult in-charge of my brothers and I:   a vow that none of us would finish our education.  And so, I was ‘nudged’ out at 17 – a year before finishing high school.  What followed was a series of lousy jobs and, not surprisingly, painfully limited choices.  Long story short, after years of juggling the realities of supporting myself and signing up to courses that ranged from typing to various writing certificates and diplomas, I finally came to my senses and enrolled as a mature age university student.  I sat my final paper at the ripe old age of 32 – just before Tia was born.  And when I was done, I felt SO much better about myself – which is why I never want my girls to be hampered by the same inadequacies or be limited by available options.

But its not just about education.  I counsel the girls not to be in a hurry to have children or tie themselves to anyone for life; waxing lyrical about the importance of financial self-sufficiency, of the benefits of traveling the world to experience all it has to offer, of learning about themselves.  I urge them to do things today their future self will thank them for, preaching the importance of finding the courage to be authentic and to live with integrity.  I remind them to be kind to themselves, to show empathy and the importance of balance.  And I tell them how beautiful they are and to make sure whoever they give themselves to treats them with the same love, care and respect as their father shows to me.  And finally, I encourage them to dream.

I never expected to have children, let alone daughters.  And though sometimes I wake up in a panic in the middle of the night, worrying about how I can protect them from the pests of the world, my daughters make my heart smile and their existence spurs me on to be the best person I am – if only to lead by example.

***************

31: Everybody has a story

Since I started “a40something life”, a few readers’ comments got me thinking about how everyone has a story.  But more often than not, they choose to keep it to themselves, preferring not to expose themselves nor re-live the past.  And I get that.  After all, why dredge up the past and re-open old wounds?  And yet, I write.

In a previous life, the one where I was NEVER going to get married or have kids, my ambition was to travel the globe singing and writing songs that would touch people.  I did get a little taste of that life, even going on to win a publishing deal for one of my songs;  but then, life had other plans for me.  And for the longest time after that, I forgot about writing.

In the years that followed, the idea to write did raise its head now and again but I was at a loss what to write about.  It was only earlier this year I decided to take the plunge, opting to touch on a broad range of topics, with the intention of (hopefully) getting a chuckle or two.  To entertain.  But never in my wildest imagination did I think I would end up scrawling more somber topics and leaving myself so bare.  So emotionally naked.  And yet, still I write.

I smile when some of my readers are surprised to learn that it sometimes takes me several re-writes before ‘publishing’, with some taking weeks to complete before feeling ‘right’.  Why?  Because although some of the stories can be heart-rending, it is not my intention to come across that way -- there is no need to feel sorrowful for my past for it’s a bygone time.  Nor are my stories intended to shame or discredit as no one is perfect -- we choose diverging paths, each trying our best the only way we know how. 

And yet, as I reflect on the stories of people all around me, (many of whom have much more harrowing stories than mine), I am reminded that the anguish of my youth is trifle, and pale in comparison with the atrocities that so many suffer undeservedly.  And I feel humbled.  And petty.  And so I write.

Not to air dirty laundry.  Not to garner pity.  But to say: “Hey!  I know things are rubbish at the moment, but hang in there, because things have a way of eventually falling into place and I’m a good example of it.”  For those lucky enough to never have known a hard time, that’s fine.  But for those who are stuck in a chapter of their lives where things just seem impossible, maybe, I can make a difference.  And if I can touch one heart, move one soul, inspire one person, then, that is why I write.

Everyone has a story to tell.  Some have really fantastic ones and others not so.  But our lives are made-up of our stories and chapter-upon-chapter of character-molding and sometimes life-changing experiences.  The person working in a call centre taking your order, the driver in the car overtaking you, the garbage guy, even the person who doesn’t know you but goes around spreading idle gossip about you.  They all have a story and its not fiction.

And so, to everyone out there with a story, you are not alone.  Don’t give up the good fight and remember American author, Mary McCarthy’s words:

“We are all the hero of our own story.”

***************

30. An obsession with FOOD!

I have an obsession with food.  It started when I was young, when my stomach seemed to rumble persistently in the days my father thought it was a good idea to use the grocery money as leverage against my mother after she discovered his secret life.  I remember she often went without so we could eat; and so, after a while, I started pretending I wasn’t hungry either.  Except, I was permanently ravenous.  Some nights, my hunger propelled me to clandestine visits to the kitchen where I would eat spoonfuls of peanut butter in an effort to assuage the gnawing hunger.  And then, when my father got custody of us, the other adult who became responsible for our well-being thought it was a good idea to give my brothers and I food that had started to spoil – as punishment for being the children of her predecessor.  Let’s just say, a lesson was very quickly learnt: don’t be fussy or you go hungry.

Now, Matt and the girls witness my meltdowns whenever I am hungry while we are out and about.  It starts with a rumble and ends with nausea and headaches.  I go very quiet and cannot meaningfully partake in ANY kind of conversation, becoming useless socially (ie dangerously grumpy) until I have food.  And then, food crosses my lips and a transformation takes place.  I lose the crazed look and my poor family exhale a collective a sigh of relief as conversation becomes less strained and I stop shooting daggers at the waiters for being slow with my food.

But its not ALL doom and gloom or unhinged breakdowns.  Out of the belly of a not-so-stellar childhood, a great love for food sprouted and a ‘call’ to feed (nearly!) anyone who’s orbit happens to cross mine has burgeoned and grown.  And I love it.

Yes, food still constantly plays on my mind – but for different reasons.  As THE adult now in charge of sustenance in my house, I spend a lot of my waking hours thinking about food.  What to cook.  What to buy to cook.   What to eat.  Today, tomorrow, next week...  I wander through supermarket aisles looking for inspiration; cookbooks and recipes torn from magazines form a little Mount Everest in one corner of the house and I love the drool-inducing-aroma of recipes that come together! Breakfasts at Chez Farlow start with the girls’ individual orders, lunches during school term are made with love, and dinners are devised to expand and excite their palates.  Let’s just say next to school fees, grocery bills are probably our biggest expense!  

Furthermore, when we have gatherings, I am rubbish at managing the guest list.  Matt jokes that when I invite people over, it always begins with a couple or two (because I’ve promised to keep it small and intimate!), but I always end up catering for at least twice that and almost the same number of children.  Simply put:  I cannot help myself!  I love the energy of a busy kitchen, the orchestra emitted from cutlery and glasses clinking, people chatting and laughing, and the wonderful ambience created when new and old friendships grow and strengthen over a table of food prepared with love. 

And so, out of hate, a love was born:

Buon Cibo, Buon Vino, Buoni Amici per Una Buona Vita

– Good Food, Good Wine, Good Friends for a Good Life

************

29. Friendship

 

Sometimes, I joke that being married to Matt is tough for my ego because he is the kind of person EVERYBODY loves and wants to be friends with, and therefore an impossible ‘act’ to follow.  Me, on the other hand?  I feel people either like me or don’t, with quite a few quick to ‘pigeon hole’ me with preconceived presumptions.  But hey, we can’t all be as magnetic as Matt.  And so, after years of crying “Why don’t the masses adore me so?”, I no longer fret about it anymore.  Not that it’s a competition, of course!

But on a more serious note, I came across this saying last week: “Some people come in your life as blessings, others come in your life as lessons”.  It got me thinking about all the people who’s paths I’ve crossed over the years – the good, the bad, and the ones who 'straddle the grey in-between'.

The flight attendant / events promoter who encouraged me to believe in myself and chase my dreams – giving me my first grown-up professional singing job; the hairdresser flatmate who taught me not to be such a gullible pushover – after she not only ‘took over’ my flat but also racked up bills in my name; the big-hearted working girl who lived next door and took on a motherly role – whilst asking if I would keep a ‘look-out’ for her whilst she was with a client.  Ah, the memories!  The people who came into my life to either be my cheerleader or teach me lessons (however hard) that would mould me.  And I am thankful.  For the kindness and love shown, as well as the lessons.

And learn from those lessons I try, though I have noted that my self-deprecation seems to sometimes backfire.  As a girlfriend, (let’s call her “S”), recently commented, “Mish, you sure know how to attract them!”  She was referring to my knack of attracting unsolicited advice and comments – normally of a negative and vindictive nature.  S said she thought maybe it was because I was too open and honest, which afforded certain types to take liberties and cross WAAAAAY beyond the line of what is polite.  And maybe she’s right.  Or maybe, it’s a lesson that I need to develop thicker skin!

And yet, despite the spiteful (character building?) individuals I have met who are malicious (both directly to my face and otherwise), leading the nomadic existence that we have for the past few years, I have been incredibly lucky with the number of gracious people who have welcomed me into their lives.  Who have loved me in spite of (or maybe even because of!) my vagueness and my shortcomings.  Scattered around Australia, Asia, the US and Europe, and though I have not spoken to some of them for quite a number of years, the writing of this piece has made me reminisce.. 

Of the crisscrossing of paths, meetings of the heart and mind, of shared dreams, and even the differing of views.  Of encounters that are so fleeting, I grieve at the brevity.  And the ones that transcend dissimilar backgrounds, creed and language, growing into beautiful friendships between kindred spirits, where the passage of time elapsed becomes irrelevant whenever you meet.

And so, I want to put it out there, to all my friends wherever you are, regardless of whether or not you are still in my life: 

I am thankful for my friends who have taught me when I needed teaching, guided me when I was lost, rallied when I was filled with self-doubt, and made me laugh when I took myself too seriously.  My life has been richer and my memories more vibrant because of you.  Thank you.

**************

28. Father's Day

 

Father’s Day is coming up and as I lay in bed last night, too excited to go to sleep as I thought of the surprises in store for Matt, my thoughts invariably went to my dad. 

My memories of dad are fleeting and fractured.  His absences were many.  I used to ask my mom where he was.  “Away on business” was her standard reply.  Whenever he was around, I remember him as an angry man, and always fighting with mom.  Constantly, her screaming and him shouting.  I remember coming out of the bedroom one night to interject in one of their relentless fights, terrified.  They both looked at me.  Mid-fight.  His hand stopped mid-swing.  Her arm up in a protective position.  After what seemed like an eternity, I said “Don’t hit my mom.  She’s my mom.  Not your’s.”  He told me to go back to my room.  I did.  Quickly.  Then, there was deafening quiet.  And a door slammed.  He left.  Brokenhearted, I was sure it was my fault.  But I was grateful for the peace.

When I was around 8, I think the realization that our family was broken beyond repair finally hit us all – in the same moment.  Mom, my two brothers and I were at the mall.  Suddenly my elder brother called out, “Dad, dad!  Over here!”  I heard my mom say something about dad being away on a business trip.  Then, we all looked up.  And saw my dad, with another woman.  He was holding an infant who looked just like him.  Mom picked up my little brother and ran.  The other way.  I don’t remember how we got home that afternoon.  Everything was a blur for a while.  And noisy.  And then graveyard quiet.  And my brothers and I walked around on eggshells for what seemed like an eternity.

In another memory,  dad has come to visit us (ie the children).  I am cautious and wary.  Not so much of him, he is still my hero.  But more afraid that if I got too much attention, there would be repercussions later.  From my older brother.  Or mom.  I had fresh scratches on my face from the former because mom allowed him to ‘discipline’ me.  My dad asked what happened to my face.  I told him I couldn’t remember but must have walked into a door or something.  Then I made a joke about being very clumsy.  He didn’t comment again but as he left that day, I thought I saw him cry.  I was 10.

It was the following year or maybe the one after, but my brothers and I were told we had to go live with dad and his new wife.  Its Father’s Day.  I made him a card.  I spent hours drawing; dad as a baby, at different stages, graduating into an old man.  I wrote “Through the years, I will always love you.”  He takes my card.  Looks at it.  Then stands up and gives me a hard slap across the face.  My cheeks are stinging.  My ears are ringing.  My eyes are wet but I dare not cry or make a sound.  He said I was being disrespectful for calling him old.  I don’t try to argue.  Its no use.  I have no voice in this house.

After that, the slaps and punches start raining on a constant basis.  For singing while doing chores – and other sins I don’t recall.  And yet, as the only daughter among 4 brothers for a while (my half-sister came along later), I was desperate to be ‘one of the boys’; hanging around dad while he tinkered around with his many cars.  But whatever I did, it was never enough. 

I left home at 17 after a beating that involved being punched in the stomach and slammed into a brick wall.  And yet for years after that, I still tried to reach out to him.  To have some sort of relationship.  But he was not interested.  And so, at 30-something, I finally faced the inevitable.  It was time to give up.  He passed a few years later.  And I cried angry disappointed tears as repressed memories threatened to drown me.  He didn’t do the right thing by me or my two brothers (he started on them after I left).  And I don’t know why.  I have my suspicions but, really, the why no longer matters.  There are no excuses that can justify the abuse or the childhood he stole from three innocent children.  His own blood no less.

It’s Father’s Day today.  And the girls have made Matt breakfast in bed and he’s opened his presents and read the home-made card.  We have a full day of activities planned.  I constantly tell the girls how lucky they are to have an amazing man like Matt as their father.   The girls know of my past.  I told them.

And yet, I consider myself incredibly lucky.  The past is the past.  And in spite of all my protestations of never getting married or having children, I ended up doing both.  But importantly, this generation will have wonderful memories of their dad when they too are one day 40-something.

***************

27. Shopping anyone?

 

Every December, Matt turns to me and asks, “What would you really like for Christmas and your birthday?”  He asks because that time of the year is especially gift-giving-busy in our household because its his birthday, then Christmas, my birthday, and then our wedding anniversary.  Its no wonder he wants to roll it all into one.  Anyhow, for the past 5 years or so, I’ve struggled to give him any sort of helpful tips to help him.  Why?  Because there is nothing that I really want or need.  Plus, I loathe shopping with a CAPITAL ‘S’ – especially if its for me!

So, just a bit of background.  Friends often tease Matt about how he enjoys shopping so much more than I do.  The fluorescent lights, the endless racks all look numbingly similar to me.  Add the overpriced merchandise and disinterested shop assistants and you’ve got a runner in me! Oh!  And the newest trend where lights are turned down so low you cannot properly see what you’re buying AND music turned up nightclub-loud so you can’t hear the shop assistant explaining what you’re holding up?!? I’m not sure who is behind that ‘bright’ idea (pun intended!) but simply put: REALLY?!?  Need I go on?  But it only takes an hour or so before I start feeling sick.  And yes, I actually get physical symptoms!  First comes the headache, then the black spots and nausea, and then the dizziness and sore feet.  And yet, I am official ‘present shopper’ of the family.   Go figure.

Anyhow, all 5 of us were at the mall on the weekend, looking for white dress shorts for Matt because they were on his Father’s Day ‘wish list’.  Mind you, the list was not very long.  Just the shorts (but I have a couple of surprises up my sleeve!).  Shop after shop, we walked in and out – wandering about quite aimlessly (in my opinion).  After the first few shops, I suggested we saved time by asking the shop floor staff if they stocked white shorts.  Matt was horrified by my suggestion.  “But that would ruin the whole experience of shopping!”  I stopped.  Confused.  “But, isn’t that the quickest way to get what you want?”  Apparently not the point when it comes to shopping.  By asking for help, I was in danger of reducing the “possible pleasure” I might experience from ‘discovering a find’ all on my own!  Okaaaay then.  Time to make a quick exit!

My approach to shopping (when I absolutely have to go) is more like a military operation: quickly in, a brisk scan, a speedy visit to the change rooms (but only if it cannot be avoided!), payment, followed by an instant exit – and NEVER with husband or children!  Even so, Matt has been at me to buy myself a new pair of running shoes for the past 6 months but I keep putting it off.  Maybe I am just waiting for a sale so big, I simply cannot refuse!  Meanwhile, he’s threatening to frog-march me into the shops..

Let’s face it, shopping is really not my thing.  Don’t get me wrong.  I enjoy buying presents for people and I can work up quite a passionate enthusiasm for grocery shopping – what can I say, I like gifting and food!  In fact, whenever we are travelling, I make a point to go into the local supermarkets to browse through the aisles.  But traipsing to the shops to buy something for me (be it face cream or a pair of shoes) is akin to visiting the gynaecologist or dentist.  I fare no better when it comes to Internet shopping – although I will confess that many a moment have been frittered away ‘window shopping’ at some inane time in the dark of the night.  I’ve even gone as far as ‘putting’ a few items in my ‘basket’.  But come time to press the “buy and pay” button, I get buyers’ remorse: “What if it doesn’t look as good in ‘real life’?”  “Hmmm, do I already have something similar?”  “How often will I wear/use it?”  And then after a while, I just lose interest and shut the ‘window’.  I know.  I would hate to shop with me too.  And yet, I have friends who swear by it.

Maybe I just need more time to discover my inner shopping demon.  Or maybe I should just accept I am what I am (ie a girl who has a strong aversion to shopping) and Matt is happier for it!

*****************