Cooking rice. Fried eggs. Fire safety. Supportive village of loved ones. Checking cars before crossing the roads.

Know they are loved. When I am gone.

Even if I am long gone. And they stop looking up in the sky. And Cry when the nagging really stops.

Will my children be OK. Without me.

Have I done enough. To be ready for death.

Someone said. If the wisdom of living well comes from preparing for a good death how are you living your life? The said someone. Could have spoken in a book I read. Or a patient I joined paths with along one of the corridor walks.

Yet with kids. It’s like the biblical wisdom of the fear of the Lord. Fear not death. But a wasted life. And how true. And how fortunate I have to witness it enough beside bedsides. The days that led to the last days.

The couples that hold hands to the end.

Not in guilt. Or obligation. In tenderness. In gentleness. In stories that make movies. But with honesty that cannot be portrayed. Only lived.

In people who walk in sorrow but with dignity and knowing. In wisdom. These, these souls shine even as their bodies wilt. Their very presence comforting the people around even as their own physical comfort diminish. Their days bearing testimony of truth and love.

Be there.

Like how? I asked.

Ah. You will know. They (your children) will know too. When you truly make time to be with them. They know. A priority isn’t merely a schedule. A loved person isn’t scheduled in. They know.

Sneaking additional time for a bonus question. So marriage. How do I love well. Or just stay married. 

Ah.

Staying married make sure you hold the money. Hahaha. But truly staying married… Commit. Hold patience. Hold space for acceptance. And it is never easy.

No one I asked ever said stay in love. But always, how to love well.

And so.

Maybe it’s morbid and unnecessary for some.

But we realise, our kids speak abt it to us naturally. Why did the flower die. Why did the crab stop moving. Where are the baby ants if the mama ants die?

And so. We too read about it. And we continue to speak about our work to our children.. Things We witness. People we meet. News of the world. Our part in this world. Our priority. Our time. And sometimes, the end of our time. 

My 3 year old said out of the blue. So I have R with me right. Huh? I asked. My 6 year old without missing a beat said yes. N I have you and R to take care of if papa then mama dies. Its all chronological to them at the moment.

And the battle of Voltron paused midfight as I caught on the sudden flow of thoughts.

Why did u suddenly ask that.

Because I think your green lion might die. And I just thought how we wld fight after tt my 3 year old replied, matter of factly. And who would protect us if papa and you are hurt.

Are you worried? No. I just thought I will be sad cos I love you both mama

Rattles on: But I will still love you right. And you will still love me. Even if u die.

6 year old said. Yah. N I guess I have to be more patient n love you better if mama dies. And he walked over to the 3 year old and said. OK. Battle commencing… Together with me OK!

———–_

Maybe we can spend more time preparing for school. For real life. We probably could. But moments like this I wonder. And I am glad. Because more than anyone else, except my husband. My children probably hear it most. What is important. If I died what is my greatest wish for them. If I am here what is my greatest desire. As a person what I hope to become.

And their turn.

the glee 6 and 3 year old have in their eyes. Whenever we do the I have to ask you a very serious qn! And the “where did they get it from or did I just forget the important things as I get old” momment

What is the most important thing you want to be

6 Yr old : be kind and try and help everyone  (I was gunning for a response for an inking re: his interest apart from transformer voltron)

3 year old: I just want to grow up like gor gor and love eeeeerrrverybody. And I will be super strong and build a super big house so we can all stay togehter

What is hard for you

6 year old : self control. And be kind.

3 year old: growing old. I haven’t grow up yet. And there is so many things to do but I need to play first. And I cannot cook rice yet.

What wld you hope mama and papa to be more like

6yr old. nothing. But don’t grow old so fast. And. Mama remember to be boring.

Huh. Why? Cos S n I said we love our boring days playing at home with you and papa. We love it best. No one else plays so much but we love it. We loves stories. If when you scold us we love it at home.

3 year old:And remember to drink milk and eat properly.

So the question of the day they asked over dinner was

1. Why do people kill squid and eat them. How do they make sure the squids are not sad.

2. Why do people hurt other people like the. Christchurch shootings. I. E. How do we teach people self control when they are already big people

We need some new books for these.  And papa/mama need to sleep on this big questions. 

The days pass as we seek I realise. Typing this over the chorus of not so gentle snores of the kids. Tiny hands and feet relaxed in rest and trust. And as long as we are together. A life like this of more than enough. May it prepare us to be Grateful enough someday.

Once I thought this was the busiest part of the journey. As more little people came along and the inevitable bits. Swamped and surrounded. Sometimes special. Often survival. Yet always seasonal. The milestones I re and reread and memorised the websites and blogs. Promises of a “good life” and whatever that entails for that period. The yearning for what we had secretly Squirraled away. Often upon reflection did I realise what I was seeking. That’s what it often seems Like. A search. For that season.

For many moms, breastfeeding. The first nights without struggles or cries. And I must have been so. Because the diaries are inscribed full of my writing. Almost encrypted sometimes. The way I scribbled in the middle of the long winter. nights. Literals.

3 littles later. The same nights fill me with a quietness. Maybe it’s the familiarity. Maybe it’s the knowing. Maybe it’s the hands-up-in-the-air but hey its just for now. Maybe I really don’t know.

Yet this night. Showering so sand filled boys. Hosing them down in the tub. Repeating actions that should have embarassed the inefficient purfurary actions but really didn’t do anything much. As my only nice dress gets half soaked as I scrubbed skins and separated sand embedded into follicles.. And I absent mindedly said you are almost too old for this.

Both chattering boys stopped. Not yet mama. Net yet. We are not so big yet.

And I know what they meant.

The abandoned smiles that makes the world just. Stop. Not because my kids are special. Or incredible. Or anything. But because they are ours. The magic. If I use that term. There is this moment of pause. That halts. That pause in our universe where we see this true unblemished relationship. You are so precious for no other reason except tt you belong to us. We belong together. And no one needs to know. Needs to agree. Needs to.. Compete. We are. Enough. Grateful. We. Are.

So right now. In all the possible. Chaos. In the knowing. That things get mad. Get hard. Weepy. Relentless. Often talked about but with few exceptions, almost overwhelmingly superficially socially sympathetic.. There is a part that is unique to each bond. Easier harder faster slower loving harder loving quietly but deeper. Whatever. Whenever.

But right now. I looked up at my 3 men. And I yelled out.

Thank you so so much. Because this is more than i can be grateful for. Our incredibly good, bad, angry, noisy, patience, kindness I need you, self control in doses pls, tears of surrender and gratitude, I love you so much I don’t know what that is called sometimes..  But now.

Thank you. In the entire universe. In this chattering of childish and child like voices. Or pushes and shoves and then sometimes hugs.

I. Thank you so much.

 

It’s almost milk. Formula milk. Good and necessary for some. But not always.

Preparation seems a little like that nowadays. Especially when we have kids. Which we do.

Or for marriage. Which I cried buckets at the 2h 4 session preparations. It prepares. But it’s not it.

And now. Preparation for life. So many people. Preparing. Sharing preparation. Searching for paths the way we used to only search for cures. The explosion of maladies. Real illness. I am just not so sure about the purported cures touted. Freely until the subscription page comes up. Percentage of guaranteed returns and success until it is not so. Or we must be the 0.0000001 (infinitely improbable as my 6 Yr old puts it)

I have decided to try this. Prepare death.

I went to the market florist for the first time in a decade 2 weeks ago. I remebered the only other time I walked into a florist for myself. 4th year of uni more than a decade ago.

Maybe. Just maybe I will get a nice flower. I didn’t buy anything. But I remember wishing I did. Just because maybe sometimes money can buy beauty and happiness.

This year. I realised its possible to drown. Even when we are loved. And loving others. Drown nonetheless. Until someone who recognised the signs and presses the defibrillator. And a shock it was. But a needed one.

 

 

All the talk and skin deep “try this” “10 steps to…” the only steps I feel is that those feet must be bigger than mine. Or steadier. Or faster. Mine.. Slides. Skids. It makes me tired. It does.

Like a bad boyfriend promising something nice. Then just anything.

2 steps. 2 steps to the edge it seems more logical and realistic for me. To impatience. To the end of all energy molecules.

And I love my life. The fact is. It is STILL so so hard. For me. And I know. I know In this world there is a lot of hard. A lot of trying. Waaay harder than mine. Waay longer. I KNOW. and that knowledge just makes my toes heavier. Steps tight. Hurried. These 2 steps to bed. To “I need a break”. Breaking or broken somewhere.

2 steps. And there is really this madness and chaos and we just trudge along. Following those before. Blindly sometimes. In faith. In hope. I am surrounded by So so much love. Mine. At best mostly Tired love. Angry love. But love. This trying love. When words give way to sounds and unfortunately shouted because nothing, nothing else feels possible. When the kids cry and I cry harder Inside and then it spills a little Outside. And. Then the man is silent. That sort of silent. 

All this. While we are in love. And there is no irony. No longer any irony. Because maybe this is our love. Not because we can’t love better. Harder. But because, here we are. This is the same love I give thanks for. And I mean it. Ask me why I am grateful. This is it.

Tell me. In 10 words. Or 10 steps. Or even 10 hours. How do u even start.

There is no true preparation. This part of life. Really. Because everyday is different. And Truly different for each child. Every other day. Every other newly invented or named/renamed Stage. Undiscovered n explored until the next blog or book. This.

My mom said. Flow. Flow with it.

I hear my husbands instructions to our oldest

If u are so tired you feel like drown. Starfish float. Turn ard. Just breath. And float. Breath and float.

And then those years of training takes over. You start to paddle a little. Kick defiently sometimes. But hey. It works. Barely. But you are afloat.

I feel like I am living in a seperate disguised universe. Feeling I need to be somewhere. No longer an option.  So we tune out. From media. From noise. Even people. A lot of people.

Then we hear. As we lift our heads from the sand and search for elusive crabs and shells. The roar of waves. The stillness between tides. The warmth of the water. The life beneath our toes.

I see. Truly. The answer to getting asked a lot what do we do all day. Nothing. Nothing is a busy time really. And it is getting harder to do nothing nowadays. I used to just feel like doing nothing. Now I long and hunger and tigerly protect these nothingness.

the time when the kids take weeks to work out that when they share a voltron it does come back. When the oldest speaks to the younger without impatience after the third accidental destruction of his 1h built up universe. Or he carries the crawler away and mumbles quietly no no. No lego eating baby. My heart watches and watches. The time that we thought as nameless play. Careless days. Mindless repeats and rewinds. The days we squirral at home. Washing bowls. Growling at laundry as a pack of humans. (it’s genetic)

I say it is starting to sound a bit poopy ( the same smell I feel before I start sniffing for a dirty diaper) . When fb feeds brag subtly about preparation for school. Prep for tests. Prep for success. And audencity about life. Learning to share in 10 words. Or a afternoon play session will “open” their mind to possibilities. 

I don’t know. But we have no space for this. No heart really.

I watch the boys mess up and build up lego. I won’t even dare say parents throw in a pinch of faith for the magic sparks. Because I am don’t. There is no point. praying no one swallow anything more than for epiphany of some sort.

But yet. Here they are. Maybe the threshold is different. But I am mighty pleased. Their dreams. Their belief. Their questions about what is the purpose of life. It impresses no one. It just warms my heart. And life. I swear all 5 lives agree this is right.

So I quietly feel this. stop prepping for life. Or banking on promises of hope for happiness and joy. Or easiness. Or the best settling decluttering book to transform sadness and hardness and mindless routine. Meet a friend. Hug a tight one. Wait in peace. Hold nothingness

If anything we say. for a good death by living good days. Or just getting thro a day.

Right now. This day forth.

my husband’s earliest memories of us, was us rushing to the library to return the books before the fines escalated to a mortgage payment

more than a decade later, he supports in more ways. still driving, but a car filled with impatient children and childlike persons, patiently lugging the horde and loot back, while the myriad of blurbs echo within the vehicle.

the books that we live with

you horde them like how people keep memories.

and my patient husband smiles patiently. endearingly. tenderly. he knows. why.

because we know next year, we might be the oneleftstanding. alone. or none.

the quiet texts over the years.

“he/she’s our age. with kids. bad case. gone”

“my patient left today. i gave her a book”

books. have come to comfort when we have no words.

stories have come to hold the dreams we have forgotten to live.

words that dance across vision blurred with questions and anxieties.

books the boys picked out if a fire broke out (and the library books mama. we should save them too)

books we pick out when we are scared. sad. wondering. books that ground us with ideals and promises we made to ourselves. anchoring. connecting. cocooning in the vapid rapids of daily lives of a 3 year old. 6 year old. 36 year old. the worlds we share together.

remember mama death was sad too?

is it like how he had a bird for a friend?

i think i can!

i want to lie under a tree today.

what is the meaning of life. you must answer the 3 questions you know (3 year old sagely reported to his teacher)

ah. our world together. all the books and memories. and to-bes.

all the notes squirreled within. in colors. in letters. in cuddles and long evenings.

one day, when life is different. we will always have had this. together.

As our oldest settles into his new routine, slowly I do too.

A life. A quiet life.And how why and what it is that holds me near to home at 2pm everyday. And 12pm for the second. And 12am as I cuddle the third

With less of many things that surrounds us.

Ordinary. A life filled with.. ordinary.

The ordinary pause when we are present.

In moment. My 3 moments. Four almost. I have come to recognise. And slow for. Wait for. Long for. And how why and what it is that holds me near to home at 2pm everyday. And 12pm for the second. And 12am as I cuddle the third

The ordinary dawn as we sit waiting for schoolbus. Him n I. Feet swinging. The briskness of air just before light breaks. He beams in mornings as though he knows all the incredible Joyful secrets of life. My 6 year old. The brimming overspilliNG joy.

Why are you so happy?

“just cause. Mama you are here warming my hands and we laugh. Or trying to balance on 1 leg. Or a suddenly I remember a Very important song I have to sing. Or a story at school to tell you before I forget because I forget more things now that I am older. Or something.”

It is just us. There is no rushing. no one else. not another thing. Just him n I until 6.04am where we wave madly, our goodbyes for the 8 hours.

My 12pm as my second catches the first sight of me. From his school bus. The light happy leap into my arms. All complete trust bounding together that abandoned wilderness within all 3 year old. He jumps. Every single time into my arms. Hi mama. I’m back!

My 2am. Once in Misery. So much fatigue. Now it all pales under the quiet knowledge of these being the last of. Last of littlest cuddles. Cries of bewilderment or hunger. Small fists grabbing the imprinted scents of comfort. Nights with my last newborn. And I hold her differently. Tenderly holding time. Respectfully. Gently. Wishfully.

Ordinary life. That I will miss dearly. Already.

A life with less on the drawing board.

Recently

The oldest has complained loudly and dramatically. I am so so bored I could scoop water out of the sea. Or name all the dinosaurs no one has found. Or fine I shall just keep throwing my hands up in the air

After which he wondered how animals are named since Adam is dead and new animals are still being discovered. Of which we changed the question to a more relevant question of:

How would we classify a monster.

How they look and whether they can fly.

What type of people they eat. says no. 2

How we can kill them. shouted the newly resurrected oldest who had died by boredom just moments ago

A I realise increasing. As we define and then discover boundaries, the little minds rushes in brownian motion and strips down all ideals with a scrapping knife in the hands of a child.

What life would you like

I asked. Because sometimes mama forgets what she wanted to do.

(Because you are getting too old again mama? )

My 6am said : I want to have breakfast with you every morning. And I can do anything I want n it will make enough money. Not too much. But enough so I can have so much time to eat breakfast with u

My 12pm said

I want to stay in our house. And your bed. And I will drive when I am 5 years old so you can rest already you know.

Isn’t it boring? We do the same thing everyday.

Side to side synchronised Little cranial rotations.

Its always bedtime you know mama. N I haven’t finish. And I have to waste time n brush my teeth. And eat dinner. But I love it.

Me too! I love it before you love it OK!!  And I also want to sit in the bath tub everyday (oh my second born!)

But maybe one day we can visit Where toothless lives with hiccup. Or we can just go to the playground Later and pretend. With picnic. And I can pretend to bite your leg off also. Second born offered.

 

A life. Together. with less. Far less than what I expected for their universe.

How Ordinary as I write these conversations. Yet how I feel roots anchoring my life with these little precious few words.

A life less ordinary.

 

 

there is no collective goal.

no 40 years of wilderness.

in my line of work, with relentless unruly growing cells, or unplanned destruction,

40 days 40 hours. 40 nothing.

 

with a different understanding scales to measure life and time as we know it,

calculations based on how much time, energy, effort, and where the promises and promised lands are, naturally spin off a different trajectory.

pressed on, we press harder back. we hit rocks for water. we use sticks. bones.

stopping only when we see blood. sometimes, not even then.

 

confrontation. conformity. common. carry on. collectively.

we risk much.. so much. too much. we invest. our minds. our mights. our hearts.

towards gradings, whose results are taken as law. absolute reflection of understanding. potentials. progress. what you did. can be. who you are. who you will be.

socially politically correct terms of

“exploration of interests” “exposure for development” “enhanced learning”

we laud missionaries musicians who inspire and influence life. sacrifice their potentials and save others instead of themselves.

yet we love grades that implies positioning within the spectrum of material successes. or the creme of creme. be on the peak of maslow’s pyramid. be the light. that everyone sees. that people MUST see.

the tree that falls silently in the forest. does it matter.

grades that are not ranked. does it matter. what if there is no bell curve. truly. will it become more meaningful? from growth. to mind. to work. to days and lives. we plot. everywhere. everything. and still, more data they say. as sparkles and sprinkles disappears from the charts graphs and lines. life will be better the footnotes insists.

 

how do we seek meaningful lives

we hear this a patient’s bedsides. at children’s playgounds. at bedtimes as we log off.

from notes.. left behind.

then we thumbsup posts, add hearts. give smily faces. in between breaks on our races.

there is no collective goodness. not in 40 years. not then. not now. not for them. not for us.

 

and then.. we find a book. by a boy who dreamt about it. thought about it. and writes it when boy become man. who grades dreams. who values it. value, the way children do, dreams by dreamers. people who live their lives living.

and the spark of the universe within us, recognise these people. these moments.

light in darkness. which speaks to our blindness, deafness and deaden touch.

 

“how was school today”

i made a friend. and we rushed and ran everywhere.

that. is meaning enough for my child. and i. for today.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

giving reassurances to a child. in a world that has sometimes, none.

today seemed like a hard day. that was what you feared before this day came.

if you had the vocabulary, an emotionally accurate term would be “shitty”

————————————–

and it was so hard. for a month or so we watched you rehearse we never knew you knew existed. and I found it hard. incredibly hard to watch. to hear. to hug you small body as you feared.

on the first day

When he tried and he tries.
And then there is not enough brave.
he broke the moment he caught sight of us.
softly sobbing, mumbling into my heart, 
my recently socially conscious son, uncontrolling.

 

———————————————

 

 

 

how to superheros prepare for primary school?

i’m afraid mama. of the new school.  do you think i can be braver in 3 weeks?

and he went into his corner with his stash

 5 misfits

Me and my fear – reading to his siblings disclaiming that no one is so scared when they are big because everyone can run very fast

….

so this is how superheros prepare for school. when their 6 year olds have all the answers