64. The Power of Fear

A positively glass-half-full kind of girl who has mostly grabbed life by both horns, as I inch ever so closer to the big 5-0 (WAIT!  Can I still call myself a “girl”?!?), I am mindful I must have been exhausting to those around me in my younger years. But I make no excuses because I am what I am and there has always been so much to accomplish. And yet, I am far from fearless.  For while this organised chaos is a deliberate choice I made for myself many years ago, whenever I press the pause button from the whirlwind of life, I find myself slipping into the dreaded overthinking gear – the one that sends me into a cyclonic tailspin of irrational fears. And then, the horrible inner chatter begins – the kind that turns me from a ball of energy into a quiet mouse as I withdraw and hide within the walls where my mocking self-doubt bounce about and echo.  Next, the physical manifests: a knot takes up permanent residence in my stomach, sleepless nights, a loss of appetite and a need to go ‘underground’.  And that is where the fun begins.  You see, whilst helpful to have a football field full of people who believe in you, I have learnt that at the end of the day, you have to be your own strongest advocate.   It all begins with self.

Many a book has been written of how the sum of all battles is two-fold and has to be won twice – the first time, in your head.  They say in order to succeed in any endeavor, the first step is seeing it in one’s own mind, walking through the steps necessary for success and then believing – all before even taking that first physical action.  That AND the acknowledgement that any failure encountered along the way is part of the learning process and integral to the whole journey.  While it all makes sense, it does not necessarily spur me into action either.  After all why would anyone want to sign up for anything knowing that both “fear” and “failure” were lying in wait?  Is not the status quo better?  Everyone will have their own answer but for me, because of the alternative, the answer was and always will be “no”.  As such, I have had to learn to make the power of fear work positively for me.

Growing up, I was often told of how I could NOT.  NOT smart enough.  NOT pretty enough.  NOT capable enough.  And certainly NOT worthy enough to have any sort of voice or opinion – not one that would be listened to, less respected.  They told me that if I dared to even step outside of the confines of that existence, I would fail not just miserably but spectacularly.  And you know what?  I believed those messages and adopted that narrative as my own.  Thankfully, I guess at some point in my late teens, I must have unconsciously thought: “hmmmm.. what if I at least tried?”  And so I did, taking small steps to find my voice, however small.  And as time went by, I realized I had nothing to lose by taking that proverbial leap -- whatever the “leap” was at the time.  And there have been many.  Some bigger than others.  Leaving home with nothing but a swollen lip and a bag of clothes at 17.  Applying for the multiple jobs I had zero experience for (but drive aplenty!).    Walking away from situations/people that were not right for me. Taking control of problems created by other people – regardless of my lack of expertise.  And just saying “yes” even when I felt intimidated by the unfamiliar.

Each and every time, fear has been my companion.  The fear of being stagnant.  The fear of being taken advantage of.  The fear of not being authentic.  And the biggest fear of them all?  The fear of being too much of a chicken-shit to at least try.  After all, the faint-hearted do not command respect nor inspire.  Which leads me to my now.  Whilst I had unknowingly harnessed the power of fear in my younger years to achieve and ‘conquer’ new adventures and worlds for myself, it was not until I became a mother (thanks girls!) when I started to conscientiously harness my fear (whatever it happened to be at any point of time) to believe in myself, trust in my own abilities and unlock all sorts of opportunities and possibilities.  My girls make me want to be my best possible self -- if only to lead by example.

With over sixteen years now under my belt of embracing the positive power of fear, as I step into 2016, I aim to continue to step outside of my comfort zone to deal with the new challenges and opportunities that await.  Getting back to glass half full, in the book The Upside of Stress, Kelly McGonigal writes: “stress happens when something you care about is at stake.  It’s not a sign to run away – it’s a sign to step forward”.  So I take a deep breath, give myself a pep talk, and take a gigantic step forward. 

**** end ****

63: EVERYONE has stuff..

It has been a while since my last offering, where I have had a moment to sit down and be in a clear enough ‘space’.  Of late, life has been filled with far too many matters that needed urgent and focused attention – dramas of all sorts – leading to a struggle to find any semblance of the balance I preach to my three girls.   Have I finally leapt over the mythical hump and am now in a calmer space?  Actually no.  The only reason why I am even sitting down with a remotely untaxed mind is because I am waiting for some work on the car to be done and I am in the middle of no man’s land – ergo a perfect time to pull out my laptop – although after so many nights up worrying about things I know I have absolutely no control over, a pillow to rest my weary head would have been better!  But then, it has been an eternity since I last used my laptop and I feel a need to reacquaint myself.

It has now been just over a year since we arrived and it feels as if no time has passed.  For a few of my friends though, time has been painfully slow as they struggle with different challenges and wonder if the fog of grief from their individual losses will ever lift.  An acquaintance recently took out her grief on me as she raged about how life was so unfair with her new ‘situation’.  I tried to share about the countless friends who had gone through her current situation but were now, in hindsight, in a much better place.  I did stop short of the age-old “time heals everything” refrain as I had recently read somewhere that time did not ‘heal’ per se but rather “accommodates” the pain, loss and change that an event can bring.

And so I tried different approaches, from being a sympathetic ear to cheerleader, to pragmatic advisor.  I soon got tired of the tsunami-sized animosity that kept coming at me though.  She attacked my seemingly good health.  I responded I was dealing with issues she was not aware of.  She challenged my claim and I shared things even my husband and GP are unaware of.  She scoffed, finding injustice at my seemingly charmed life.  I told her she did not know my story and that everyone had stuff they were trying to deal with and get through, myself included, that what you saw was often not the whole ‘story’.  And then she attacked my mothering skills. That hurt.  She had found her mark.  I bit back any retort and chose not to go into any sort of verbal combat, pushing down my anger at what I perceived as her lack of grace, realising she was lashing out through her pain.  She followed me around the house throwing more barbs.  I retreated more and more into myself and slowly but surely pulled away; but at the same time feeling like a failure for not being able to help her.  Her parting shot was that she had come to me with her heart in pieces, with the inference I had failed her by not helping put her together again.  But I guess, in hindsight, I was the wrong person to help.             

In the days and weeks following, as my mind replayed the encounter like a bad playlist on repeat, I had many conversations with my girls about life, challenges and the challenge of climbing out of the emotional pit when you have had one of those days/weeks/months.  We talked about empathy and of how every single person is going through ‘stuff’ -- be it personal or through association.  We talked about how the content of certain days can feel like the worst day ever but how to symbolically, psychologically and emotionally recover -- and come out stronger on the 'other' side by feeding the soul.  My timing was ‘lucky’ because not long after that topic du semaine, Faith came home absolutely devastated about the day she had had, where everything felt like an uphill battle every which corner she turned. 

After her tears dried, we spoke about how what she was going through is real life and as such, there are always going to be good days and bad.  I explained that every single day cannot be perfect as that is just the way life is but that how one reacted to and tackled any sort of challenge often shaped the severity of that ‘blow’ and what kind of ‘state’ you ended up in after that ‘bout’ in the proverbial boxing ring.  That earned me a beautiful smile.  Although I was not able to be helpful to my acquaintance, I was grateful I could be somewhat ‘useful’ to my child.

Shortly before I sat down to write this, I came across the following piece: “Happiness is not the absence of problems but the ability to deal with them.”  We ALL have stuff.  We ALL have good and not so good days – regardless of how well we might be able to mask it to the rest of the world.  BUT, what we need to get through another tough day is already inside each and every one of us – we just need to take a moment to reach for that courage and take that leap of faith that WE are ENOUGH.

****** end *****

62. Self-worth. Self-love

Self-worth.  Self-love.  Interchangeable in the plethora of self-help books on bookshelves and ‘self-improvement’ airwaves everywhere you look.  Some people, for example Matt and my best friend Miriam,  have it in bucket loads – one of the many reasons I tell them that when I ‘grow up’, I want to be just like them.  And then they remind me that I am the older one!  

I don’t normally give too much thought about how my self-love barometer is doing.  But maybe I should.  As a mother to three daughters, should I not be mindful of leading by example?  But how authentic can I be as I am painfully aware that my ‘reflection’ varies from day-to-day and more often than not, infected from my warped childhood.  And yet, from the confessions I hear around me, perhaps it is human nature to be better at giving up wonderfully sage advice on self-love than it is to practice for ourselves.

Enough about me.  I feel the need to talk about the next generation.  Right now, I have one navigating the challenges of being the only new girl in a small close-knit community on the playground, another in the throes of negotiating the hallways of middle school (complete with the tightrope dance of invisible lines and boundaries!) and the last who is on the brink of womanhood and all that entails for the heart.  Throw into the mix: having to find their ‘place’ in yet another new country AND the rollercoaster ride of PUBERTY with all its accompanying bells and whistles!  Fun.

But how do I shine a reflection on these three most precious beings?  Of how amazing their father and I think they are?  That their kindness, compassion and ability to make anyone feel welcome makes us so proud.  Of how our chest swell when we witness their collective positive attitude when faced with so many new environments and the requisite accompanying challenges – all part and parcel that comes from the privilege of being owners of well-travelled passports. 

To one child, how to impart that if someone “doesn’t want to be friends”, it is not a reflection on them -- nor does it mean they are any less amazing; but rather because it is impossible to be friends with every single person you meet.  But that it also does not mean they should withdraw into a shell to protect themselves from being hurt -- after all, life is about taking chances.  And then how to guide them so they make smart choices and stay away from the toxicity and drama that seem to follow teenage girls?  I sometimes lie awake wondering how to teach them to navigate the terrain when someone is friendly one minute but frosty the next – and whether to confess that it happens in adulthood too!  To share that I have learned that sometimes the animosity you face is not really about you but instead stems from something else going on somewhere else -- that people will act out and that it is TOTALLY okay to walk away from things/people/situations that make you sick to the stomach from anxiety.  And then finally, the importance of being true to themselves and valuing their own worth instead of yearning after someone who is too wrapped-up in themselves to appreciate and cherish them. After all, if  a certain ‘Mr Darcy’ needs to be enlightened on how amazing they are, then surely the 'un-suitor' is not worthy of someone as funny, smart, kind and beautiful as they are! 

And then I realise this is all just part and parcel of ‘growing up’.  For them and for me.  I have to trust in the process.  To remember that if they have even half the self-possession that their father has, it will already be more than what most people can dream of – and luckily for them, that it is already in their DNA.  Add to the fact that their childhood has been filled with so many wonderful memories and love from us, as well as from our friends who form another layer of family, should fill them with the confidence and self-love they will need as they go off on their own adventures in this journey called “life”.  And should all else fails, I hope an imprint of all our conversations will cling to their memories and then magically reappear should ever they forget how wonderful they are.  

*** end ***

61. Learning new skills

I was wide awake with the fairies early this morning.  For some insane reason, at the vampire-worthy time of 1am, I started trying to recall how many times I had moved houses and countries.  For the sake of not driving you (or myself!) mad, my tally will commence from when Matt and I started dating: four times in Australia, five in Hong Kong, twice in London and twice in Singapore. That’s 13 to add to the home we have now settled in the US – bringing the total to a mind boggling 14 houses we have called home since we met in 1996. 14 times in 19 years!  Holy Toledo!  Which brings me to my subject du jour: moving so much can be character defining, forcing you to either swim or sink – gracefully or not, is another matter!

More a glam-per than a camper, though I keep a tidy-ish house, a domestic goddess I am not -- not even by the furthest stretch of anyone’s imagination!  While I do find myself constantly shutting doors left open about the house and picking up socks and other paraphernalia strewn around (laying-in-wait for me to trip over!), cooking is my only ‘domestic’ skill - something I picked up in earnest after the girls were born.  No Nigella nor Delia, my hands are often covered in some sort of burn or cut.  Oh well, there goes my career as a professional hand model but at least there is always something yummy on the stove.  Which brings me to ANOTHER activity which ensured my non-existent hand model career never took off: IRONING!!

Full disclosure: I am quite possibly the worst ironer in the world.  In fact, if there were an Olympic Games for NOT being an accomplished ironer, I could very well take the gold!  So, somehow, right up until recently, I managed to dodge the whole ironing ‘thing’! When I was younger, everything was either sent to the washers or the dry cleaners. Then, once the girls came along, I lived in a la-la-cloud whereby the countries we lived in offered very affordable housekeeping – COMPLETE with fabulous ironing.  So, in the summer of 2014, shortly after landing on the fabulous shores of Connecticut, I found myself sobbing over the cold hard reality of an ironing board one Saturday night

That night, panicked by my meltdown, Matt began madly researching cleaning companies on the Internet.  “You don’t understand!”  I gulped between tears, “nobody irons here! They only clean!” What Matt did not realise was that was the same week I had learnt that a. nobody ironed,  b. if they had an ironing lady, they weren’t sharing, c. the local dry cleaners charged in excess of $30 to do sheets - PER piece!  And my list of discoveries went on! More than once, I found myself being assigned the role of ‘chump’ when I confessed my conundrum.  I was even led on a merry chase in search for some mysterious laundry spray which ‘relaxed’ clothes enough to make them look ironed -I think someone was having a laugh at my expense (aka “taking the mickey”).

Anyway, getting back to Matt. Ever so practical, my husband was irritated that I wanted to solve this by myself.  “I don’t understand it!  At 40-something, you want to start ironing?  Why would anyone want to start doing this at your age?  Besides, you are REALLY bad at it!”  I didn’t have a comeback line because he was right.  I was really bad.  But that was probably my a-ha moment when I became determined to get at least a little good at this whole laundry thing – I hate being “really bad” at anything.

Fast forward 6 months and I have found my rhythm and thankfully no longer burst into tears at the mountain of ironing beckoning my not-so-bad expertise.  I find myself earnestly wondering what mysterious portal that second sock could possibly have disappeared to, how one child could possibly manage FOUR changes of pyjamas in one day, and other (as one friend put it) first world country ‘problems’.  And yet, I am thankful.  For a new skill aka making me more independent – to add to my other newly learnt skills since moving here:          1. driving on the other side of the road

                                                                                2. lighting a fire

                                                                                3. shovelling snow

                                                                               4. thinking in imperial vs metric                                                                                                               

And so the learning continues.

*** end ***

60. Walking away

Many years ago, I was brought up by an angry man.  Easy to offend, I still recall the ringing in my ears and the sting from getting a backhand that sent me clear across the room for ‘insulting’ him. How?  I had made a Father’s Day card and drew a series which started with a baby and ended with old man.  The caption: “Through the years, I will always love you.  Happy Father’s Day!”  The reason for the violence?  I had insulted him with the “old” bit.  Sigh.   A memory that is as unbelievable as it is unforgettable. Luckily for me, many years later, I met and married an incredibly good man who taught me what real love looked and felt like – and that I deserved it. 

Which brings me to another angry man in my life.  Because of our shared history, I often made excuses every time his angry rants arrived in my inbox or showed up on my mobile.  His heavy workload.  His difficult upbringing.  The chip on his shoulder that he had no control over.  Under that guise, I allowed him to treat me unkindly for many years.  Accepting all the blames he piled on me – regardless of how petty or crazy the charges.  It was always my ‘transgressions’ that caused him to get so angry with me.  My fault. Except the load recently became too heavy.  Tired of the mood swings -- vacillating from being incredibly charming and funny one minute to becoming mightily insulted and a raging mass of ill humor the next, I finally said I was “done”.  A slammed door was predictably followed by childish emails and messages.  And yet, if I was to be honest, my initial reaction was relief from the realization that I don’t have to do this silly ‘dance’ anymore.

As I often do when unsure how to proceed, I walked away after writing the above paragraphs.  And I slept on it.  I dreamt vividly.  In my dream, my mother was there.  And I was angry with her.  I woke with a start and a question.  Maybe, without realizing, I too am an angry (wo-) man.  Psychoanalyzing my dream, I obviously still have residual feelings of disappointment from our mother abandoning us and leaving us with the angry man who was our father.

Can it be that I too am like the angry man I grew up with?  Do I also have rage just simmering under the surface, ready to explode at the first sign of a perceived slight but not realize it?  I had previously read somewhere that quite often, you are drawn to or repelled by someone because they possess traits that you also possess.  Am I being a hypocrite? 

And so I have been mulling over this these last few days.  Wanting to be fair.  Yearning to be honest with myself.  Trying to be a good role model for my children.  And this is the conclusion I have reached:  I am a flawed human being who like so many others have had to deal with a childhood filled with less than stellar memories.   I use those memories to drive me to be a better kinder person every day – to make a difference whenever I can. To learn, correct and improve as I go along.  I also realize that having tried for the best part of these last 20 or so years to help this angry man without getting swallowed whole by the toxicity of it all, I have reached the point where I no longer want to be anybody’s punching bag, no matter the shared history or blood connections.  After all, what good is “blood” if it makes you sick to the stomach with anxiety?  As such, with an affirmation to surround myself with kindness, I draw a line in the sand to acknowledge my limits and to move on without prejudice or hate.  One cannot be drawn into a storm if one chooses not to participate and instead just walk away.

*** end ***

59. It's all in the name, or is it? - another life lesson

Nearly 46 years ago, my parents went into a government office and registered the name they were giving me.  That name stayed with me until I got married some 17 years ago and added a hypen to include Matt’s family name to my own.  But then last year on a hot and sticky day, as I sat in the office of a career beauracrat in Singapore, I was advised the government there only recognized my maiden name as I had not changed my name by deed poll.  Still I managed to convince him to include my married name on my passport - if only in brackets.  Thinking I was done with all this naming nonsense, I was in for a rude shock when I applied for my US visa —  they only accepted my maiden name and saw my married name as an ‘alias’.  

Wait!  What?  An ‘alias’?  All of a sudden, I found myself suffering a severe case of schizophrenia, swinging from being outraged to feeling like a fraud.  The past 17 years were very much tied to my married persona — my married name was everywhere from my children’s birth certificates, all my legal papers to my university degree and professional papers? Did that mean I had unknowingly committed identify fraud and would therefore be thrown behind bars?  Theatrics aside, with everything else going on with the move, I didn’t have time to deal with it and thought, “How bad can it be?”  Ha!  Famous last words!

When I landed in the US and set about getting my papers together, the enormity of the problem hit me like a brick.  At the Social Security office, although my married name was recorded, it appeared that the nameless person who processed my US visa back in Singapore had swapped my first name (Michelle) and my chinese name (Mei Sar)!  As such, that was the way my name now appeared on my Social Security card.  Ever the optimist (or perhaps from sheer laziness), I thought to myself: “Well, at least the spelling is correct!  How bad can it be?”  Ha again!

A few weeks later, I turned up at the DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles) to run through the whole gamut of applying for my driver’s license here.  Whilst sitting with the masses and waiting for my card to be issued, I heard a lady call out: “Lee Mei.  Lee Mei.”  I didn’t see anyone get up.  And then: “Mei Lee, is there a Mei Lee here?”  I remember thinking to myself, “Come on Lee Mei or Mei Lee!  Surely you can hear your name..”  And then, it dawned upon me: hang on, I think they may have butchered my name even more!  Low and behold, I scurried to the window.  Unfortunately, I was right.  So, while I started out as “Michelle Lee-Farlow Mei Sar” 17 years ago, thanks to the bungling of several government offices, I was now “Mei Sar Lee-Farlow Michelle”.  Excellent.  This was now serious.  To cut an already long story short, I reached out to the US embassy in Singapore and after numerous emails back and forth that dragged out over several weeks, it became very clear they were never going to admit they made a mistake.  They did offer me a solution though:  I could change my name through the courts.

My email response to their suggestion was as follows: 

Hang on.  What?  You want me to change my name FROM the name you butchered TO my actual name?  There MUST be something lost in translation here.  Please can I have your supervisor’s contact so I can speak with someone to help me sort this out.

That was about three weeks ago.  No.  I still have not received a response.  Meanwhile, I lost sleep over it as I raged at the stupidity and demented idea of having to change my name to my name.  Surely someone was playing a prank on me but I was just not getting the joke.  Endless 2am wakings followed with me lying in bed fuming at the idiocy of the whole situation until one morning, after hearing me rant about people butchering my name, Matt said to me as he gave me a big hug; “Oh honey, it doesn’t matter what everyone calls you.. You will always be sexy bum to me!” (note: no laughing allowed but yes, that is one of his terms of endearment for me.  Go figure.)  In that moment, I realized there was no use in fighting this.  There was simply no way around it.  I just had to get with the program and do as the powers-that-be instructed - no matter how bonkers the idea appeared to me.   

And so, it is another lesson learned.  Sometimes, things just are.  And you just need to take a big breath and go with it.  At least I am sleeping much better now.

*** end *** 

58. Doing the 'right' thing..

My brother and his wife skyped us last night.  This deserves a special mention because much as we love each other, my manic schedule with three munchkins, coupled with his crazy workload and the time difference (he is a professor in the US), means we don’t get to talk very often.  As we gathered around the computer to chat, I noticed Paige had ‘checked out’ of the ‘reunion’ and was playing on her handheld game.  I called her on it.  She stopped.  Only to start fiddling with Matt’s iPad a few moments later. 

Later, after the call ended, I called her to my room and told her how disappointed I was with  her lack of interest and explained the importance of showing respect for someone who had made the time to call her by making an effort to be ‘present’.   I then made Paige ‘take ownership’ by having her call my brother and his wife to apologise.  The final step was to then also talk to her sisters, discussing the importance of “doing the right thing” and getting priorities in order.  At 13, 10 and nearly-9 years old, I feel the girls are old enough to learn this lesson.

I wrote the above two paragraphs a while ago and then stopped – writer’s block.  I simply did not know how to proceed without sounding nauseatingly holier-than-thou.  Plus I was at a loss as to which direction to take the piece. 

Fast forward a year or so,  Faith is now 14.5, Tia nearly 12 and Paige 10.  I was having one of ‘those days’ the other day, which led me to question how a simple act of charity could turn into something that was making me feel so aggravated.  And then I stopped and wondered if it was a lesson I had to learn and how to write about it.  When I saw this abandoned piece,  I had my “AHA!” moment.

“Doing the right thing” is not always easy, can require immense effort and quite often not appreciated. I am definitely guilty of feeling affronted when a gesture extended has either been disregarded or simply taken for granted.  I guess it drives me so crazy because it feels like bad manners and I have a ‘thing’ for manners.  But then, I realise that getting all riled up in what essentially amounts to ‘the little picture’ is for naught, leading me to wonder at my reaction.  After all, getting irritated because a fellow driver didn’t ‘say’ “thank you” when I pulled back in order to let them join my lane is just a ‘touch’ irrational, is it not?

ANYWAY, a situation occurred a couple of days ago where long-story-short, it felt like someone was trying to ‘take the mickey’ (Australian slang for: “take advantage of”) of what began as a sincere act of charity on our part.  Without going into specifics, the person involved expected us to extend the goodwill inspite of a 12-month time limitation.  I say “expected” because of the way the “request”…no, actually it was more like a “directive”.. arrived in my Inbox.  There was no humility.  No attempt for any emotional connection.  Just a cold and very direct expectation.  Not sure what to do, I asked a couple of close friends for their opinion.  They both felt it was a brazen request which should therefore be denied.  But I wasn’t sure if we were being fair: I subscribe to the belief that each and everyone of us are working through some sort of personal challenge – seen or unseen.  So maybe she was going through ‘stuff’ and didn’t mean to come across so presumptuous.  Still undecided, I decided to give her a chance by asking her to call me for a conversation about it.  I thought maybe if I had some inkling to her personality, I would know whether she ‘deserved’ the consideration.  And then I stopped.  I was being egotistical.  Who am I to decide whether someone ‘deserved’ sympathy and kindness – regardless of their perceived demeanor?

The call never came.  But I sent off an email agreeing to her request nonetheless.  Did a friendly email of thanks follow?  No.  Just a meager note.  No warm notes of gratitude.  Just an expectation that came across as: “and so you should have / I deserved this consideration”.  But I didn’t expect any less. 

Someone once told me: “if you expect everyone to live by your standards and your codes, you will spend much of your life being disappointed and frustrated.”  Obviously I still have much to learn and need to grasp that “doing the right thing”  may not necessarily bring me that warm fuzzy feeling – but it is only a problem if I let it be one.  Manners or not.

*** end ***

No. 57: Saying "Goodbye"

The ache normally begins a couple of days before the looming date of his departure.  It normally kicks-off with an emptiness in my stomach and food soon starts to taste like paper.  I nod and smile and try to be engaged with all around me but it is only half-hearted.  All too soon it is time.  I gather the girls and we make the long drive to the airport with me trying to make light of things by half-threatening to lose my way to the terminal or offering to steal his passport so he cannot make his flight.  But he sees through my ‘comic’ routine and we work on consoling our youngest who is understandably heartbroken again. Prolonged hugs intermingle with whispered endearments and wishes for safe travels is our dance as I breathe him in one last time.  This has become our routine of late – saying goodbye.

Lingering at the gate until he goes through immigration only brings the promise of more tears so I force a smile and concentrate on cheering up the girls as we pull away from the airport, giving them the usual “we can get through anything if we stick together and remember to be kinder to each other during this time” talk.  The tête-à-tête is normally followed by a trip to their favorite restaurant for a sushi fix, a spot of CD shopping, followed by a visit to the library. By the time we walk through the door back to the now painfully quiet house a few hours later, my heart feels like a stone has taken up residence as we ‘get on’ with ‘everyday’ life.  On the Jambox, even John Mayer is singing my blues as “come back to me” replaces the normal chatter and giggle from a few hours earlier; and what was once a clear blue sky is now dark and cloudy, reflecting my headspace.  But I cannot afford to be so self-indulgent with this looming depression and tell myself to get a hold of myself – I need to set a positive example for the girls.

We have been doing this ‘dance’ for six months now and not only do I know the routine all too well, but am also familiar with the key: distraction by means of a busy schedule is a welcome albeit temporary ‘band-aid’ to our ‘malady’.  Alas my head is an expert but my heart is very much a novice still.  But I soldier on, opening up my diary to see how I can distract the girls, and myself, in the coming weeks.  I am filled with guilt as I realise it is a mere three weeks before I get to see Matt but nearly 8 before the girls get their reunion!  I make a mental note to make plans for the next seven weekends for them, quietly grateful for their otherwise busy schedules during the week.

Sleep does not come easily whenever Matt is away as I go from falling asleep (and STAYING in the land of nod!) at a drop of the hat to becoming a night owl; putting off going to bed – all of which does not abode well for my 5am starts.  Interestingly, it is always these stretches of Matt’s absence which also see Paige becoming a troubled sleeper who more often than not, ends up in my bed normally around the 1am mark.  Argh.  The first night is always the worst.  I am now bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the ungodly hour of half four in the morning, having been up for over 2 hours already.  Sigh.  It is going to be a long day and although my day is only just beginning, I am already looking forward to my bed tonight.  Hopefully a peaceful slumber awaits.  19 sleeps to go before I can say “hello” – so much better than saying “goodbye”.

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56. New Year's Resolutions

It has been 12 days since those final seconds ticked over to herald in the new year.  How am I coming along with my new year’s resolutions?  Well, here’s the thing.  Previous transgressions have long taught me I am a bit of a commitment-phobic and lack the willpower to see through any sort of major resolution requiring prolonged obligations (hence my nickname as the runaway bride but THAT is another story!).  Simply put, I don’t make resolutions.  Instead I simply make decisions then just follow it up with action, albeit giving myself wriggle room to tweak, modify and occasionally discarding as I see fit.  But resolutions, no way, not me.  Okay, I confess.  The last time I made any sort of New Year’s resolution I must have been in my 20s.  Seeing I just turned 45, maybe I owe it to myself to revisit this whole ‘new year’s resolution’ thingy. Hmm… Where DO I start?

So.  I am only too aware of how traffic conditions and other drivers drive me so crazy I feel myself transforming into a highly emotive (that’s code for swearing) driver.  Mind you, its not that my ‘repertoire’ turns the air blue --it normally starts with “bloody idiot”, followed by “where in the hell did you get your license from”.  I should also qualify I don’t hurl these insults out of the car but rather mutter them under my breath, but I guess that doesn’t make a difference.  I did however, for a spell, try to replace “bloody idiot” with “flaming galah” but it just didn’t flow off the tongue as fluidly.  A quick explanation for the non-Aussies reading this:  a galah is a common Australian cockatoo with a reputation of being stupid.  You get the picture.  Not so pretty.  Next?

Writing a40somethinglife.  What started out so promising with an average 8-10 pieces each month has dwindled to a pitying ONE every (gulp!) 6 months (or so)!  I know!  Bad!  What happened?  My writing career took off and as more people read it, I started psychoanalyzing everything I wrote about and agonizing that the topic matter might be too mundane!  That, and I started getting offers for work which led to the launch of “Write Content”.  I love my work but I really need to devote more time to this ‘baby’ before it evolves into a 50somethinglife! Okay, so that’s two resolutions so far!  Looks like I’m on a roll! 

While I’m at it, I might as well add to the following of my ever growing list: exercise more (yes), moisturize more (patchy.. no pun intended!), drink less (no), stress less (getting there), be more organized (patchy), learn how to sew (finally started), eat cleaner (feels ‘mahfun’ ie troublesome) – and I could go on.  After all, there is ALWAYS room to improve, no?  Frankly, instead of feeling motivated, putting together this list just makes me feel exhausted and intimidated before I can even get started – which leads me right back to where I started in the first place – I JUST don’t 'do' New Year’s resolutions.

What I will do however, is continue to TRY to set a good example for my girls by being true to myself, always trying to be the ‘better person’, not putting up with BS AND continue to work on being a more zen driver.  Oh, and I will DEFINITELY finish my book this year AND up the ante in all my writing projects.  Watch this space!

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55. A Nice Boy

17 years ago, on the last Friday in June, my efforts to ‘set’ a nice boy up with one of my girlfriends spectacularly backfired.  Why do I say ‘boy’?  I guess because he was a few years younger than my late-20 and as I tended to avoid most guys in their 20s (because I thought they were flaky), at 23, he seemed like a boy – a nice one, ergo my decision to introduce him to one of my girlfriends over lunch.  Little did I know he had already decided I was THE one or that lunch was going to turn into an afternoon of shooting pool, drinks, easy conversation and lots of laughing – long after my girlfriend left!  Needless to say the long hard kiss he gave me when I gave him a lift home many hours later turned my matchmaking plans on its head!  Like all good stories however, it wasn’t smooth sailing for a long time -- and I was mostly to blame.

The morning after, I was determined to push away this boy because he didn’t ‘tick’ my ‘boxes’.  “Yes, he was nice but everyone is nice when you first meet” I rationalized.  “He’s too young and probably lacks direction and maturity!” I vindicated.  You see, up until then, I had registered that the 30-somethings and even 40-somethings I had gone on dates with were flaky or just dead boring and was beginning to wonder if I should just swear off men altogether or start dating 50-somethings instead.  No wonder when this ‘boy’ turned up, I was quick to brush off that first kiss – no matter how much I enjoyed it.  But in spite of myself, more dates followed and weeks passed, with the ‘boy’ spending most of his time at my place. I was in turmoil and on high alert, ready to catch him out!  When he borrowed my car, I wondered if he was out ‘cruising for chicks’ because each time he returned, the top of my convertible would be down and his shirt would be off!  “I knew it!” I would fume to myself!  I tested what I thought was his ability to ‘put me first’ by offering him the last prawn during one of our dates.  And when he wolfed it down, I dumped him.  When he asked why, I told him he was too selfish for my liking!  I still remember the puzzlement in his eyes and yes, we DO laugh about that prawn incident now.

Taking this walk down memory lane makes me cringe and shake my head at my 20-something self as I tried so hard to protect myself against any serious entanglement.  But of course, unbeknownst to me, I had already started falling.  Each time I tried to push him away, this boy dealt with me with a sense of humor and a grace that I wasn’t displaying.  And then, one day, instead of trying so hard to find differences between us, I started noticing the similarities.  Our work ethic, our sense of humor, our love of food, and so on.  The list started slowly building up and once it started, there was no turning back.  Even when I told him I was leaving Australia for work, and thought it best we broke up as I had learnt from past experience that long-distance relationships didn’t work, he surprised me by saying he would follow me.  And just like that, this ‘boy’ quit his job, sold his stuff – just to show he was committed and was ready to invest in me!  I was gobsmacked!  He was so quietly confident in himself and us as a couple that nothing was un-doable!  I couldn’t help thinking, “What a man!” 

And what a man indeed!  Over the years, I have come to realise what an honorable, kind, funny, smart, humble and inspiring person this ‘boy’ is.  The only one who calms me down when things are crazy, who cheers me on with gusto in all my ventures; the one who shoots from the hip when I need some straight-talking, who knows when to give me space so I can work through ‘stuff’ and importantly when to pull me back in so I don’t end building up walls around me.  He is the one who inspires me to be the best version of me I can possibly be and the one who makes me smile – sometimes in spite of myself.  I am lucky that this ‘boy’ was stubborn enough to ignore my protests so I could see him for the man he is.  My husband.

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54. Crossroads

I was chatting to a close girlfriend the other day and confessed that I sometimes felt like I had some sort of attention deficit disorder:  in conversations, I jump from one subject to another and my ‘everydays’ have been a juggling act since forever ie day job, studies, night job. But I confess motherhood has intensified this continuous necessity for multi-tasking – at 10, 11 and 14, the girls need me to be ‘present’ more than ever as they try to navigate through all sorts ‘rites of passage’ brought about by each stage of childhood; and my own girlhood memories dictate I cannot bear not to be there for them.  As such, I flit from one situation to another as I try to guide them the best I can, putting out numerous ‘fires’, whilst also attempting to ‘steer’ my own ‘mission’.  No wonder, as I write this, I have another nearly-finished piece occupying the same screen, alongside a window with emails, Facebook and the news – all open, and through which I keep ‘jumping’ to-and-fro whenever I have a mental block.  I find myself trying to remember to BREATHE whilst silently repeating my long-standing mantra that “everything WILL fall into place”… fingers crossed!

And then, I look around me at all my girlfriends who are all equally busy (if not more so with ‘proper’ careers or with younger children) and who seem so adroit at the juggling that I get this sinking feeling I am not doing enough to ‘conquer the world’. My desk AND my office is an explosion of filing (HIGH on my procrastination list), to-dos and visual reminders of stuff I need to remember; and to top off my mental, physical and emotional schizophrenia, we are about to embark on something the sane loathe: move houses and ALL that entails!  Lawyers, removalists, painters, electricians, etc.. oh, and a mushrooming dread at the many boxes of things I really should have thrown out or given away a decade ago!  BREATHE!

Meanwhile, I have a standing meeting with a friend to talk about the possibility of joining his band but that rendezvous keeps getting rescheduled;  there is the book-in-progress I have failed to scrawl in for the last six months;  AND this ongoing piece, a40somethinglife.  What started as an aim to write a disciplined average of 8 to 10 pieces per month has dribbled down to a pithy one – if I’m lucky.  I churn out lifestyle pieces for a website, but am in a constant state of panic that its not impressive enough; and STILL I am contemplating plucking up the courage to approach other editors about getting more writing work.  Denial?  Perhaps.  Insane?  Probably.  Why don’t I just give it all up and concentrate on my first priority: the girls and Matt?  Because I know in my deepest of hearts, the need to be more than just “Mom” and “wifey”.  Some may speculate I am going through a midlife crisis, but I find the older I get, the more important it is for me to be interesting to myself.   And so I buckle against any sort of ‘going through the motions’ as I acknowledge my need to feed the soul, ‘slay dragons’ (ie overcome fears), and try to walk a path that is aware, insightful and filled with joie de vivre.  

And so, armed with a firm knowledge of my priorities (Matt and the girls) as well as my needs and wants, I inch toward the approaching crossroads, and take a leap of faith – that EVERYTHING will ALWAYS fall into place.

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53. The magic of Christmas

I am a big fan of Christmas and ALL it entails; so much so that I’ve decided to write about Christmas in May!  But truth be told, most of the stuff we do at home now was gleaned from years of watching Christmas special movie marathons.  For me, growing up, Christmas was disconcertingly confusing:  Christmas with my Catholic mother meant going to endless church services, a lot of hymn singing and praying so my soul didn’t burn in hell; whilst it was a TOTAL non-event when we moved in with my Buddhist father after the divorce.  No wonder I was flummoxed.

So, when I became a mother, I felt certain I wanted MY children to experience all the magic Christmas has to offer – especially the part about believing in the possibility of the magical.  As such, it’s a REALLY big deal in our home (wherever we may be), with carrots for the reindeers, cookies and milk for Santa and secret present buying that starts soon after the northern hemisphere summer holidays!  I told you I was a fan!

Anyhow, a few days before Christmas few years ago, one of my three girls asked me the question most parents dread: “Mom, have you ever seen Santa?  I mean REALLY seen him?”  I considered fibbing but then confessed I had not.  Which prompted the next question:  “Then, how do you know he’s real?”  At that stage, I think the girls were around 5, 6 and 9 and were at an age where they wanted to believe, but some of the kids at school with older siblings had started bursting all sorts of ‘bubbles’.  So, torn between wanting to maintain their childhood innocence and yet arm them with the tools required to not to be bullied by any mini cynics, I waxed lyrical about how certain things in life required a leap of faith and a blind trust.  Fairies, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy all also fell into that magical ‘box’.  But Miss 6-at-the-time required a more plausible answer.  And that’s when I pulled out my made-up-on-the-spot explanation for everything magical and it went a little like this:

“Okay, you know how we all know we need oxygen to live because of the important work it does to help different parts of our bodies work and heal?  Well, you cannot see oxygen, right?  You cannot touch it nor can you smell it.  But you know it exists all around you.  For me, Christmas is the same.  Just because I cannot see physical proof, doesn’t mean isn’t real.”  I waited for my munchkins to digest this information when my eldest mentioned that some of her friends had teased her about believing in magic and Christmas and the letters she was still getting from the tooth fairy (which incidentally stopped after she turned 10 because all teeth collected after that would be too heavy for the fairies to carry).  Yes, yes, I know.. the tales we weave!  Anyhow, I talked about how in order to see the magical, you need to be open to recognizing and seeing the magic; that as we grow up, because life can get very busy and crazed, it can be hard to remember to look for magic.  Then I concluded that Christmas was the perfect time to believe in magic and because I did (in spite of being a ‘big person’ as we referred to me when they were little), my Christmases were always a little bit more special – but that the choice was theirs to believe as they chose.  I saw three little heads nod.  I did conclude the talk to forewarn them to not feel discouraged if their friends didn’t believe in the magic of Christmas because we each had to make our own choices.  Again, three nods.

Of course, now that my three girls are now nearly 10, 11 and nearly 14 respectively, their ‘head’ knows that its mom who starts reconnaissance shopping months before the big event (cue squeals of delighted “How did Santa know I had wished for this fill-in-the-blanks?!?”) but the heart still partakes in the feeding of the reindeer and Santa the night before while I try to find new ways to prolong the magic of their childhood for just a little bit longer – for them to have the childhood memories of Christmas I didn’t have – and because it fills ME up with an indescribable joy…  Yup, I CANNOT wait to put up my Christmas tree in 7 months time!!

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