Retrospection
I once knew a lady who felt everything.
I’m not sure what her deal was but she seemed to feel so much, that she ended up needing a lot; a lot of love, a lot of attention, acknowledgment, security, acceptance, in order for her to be happy. It was as though attention, love and acknowledgment was fuel to all that feeling.
Her appetite for attention and love was quietly voracious and you’d never peg her for someone who needed because she was beautiful and intelligent and seemed to be the kind of gal both men and women would go bananas for. Of course, even the most beautiful people in the world are flawed in some ways. But I’d never imagined her to be flawed in this manner (I’d expected her to be a slob or perhaps be bad in bed), and that the flaws would run so deep.
That she did not keep these feelings secret was not as odd to me (even though where I come from, people just don’t share these things with the general public) as her insatiable hunger for the attention or acknowledgment or sympathy that her sharing generated. I wasn’t sure if that was all part of the therapy. If it was, it wasn’t working because unless a hundred people or so were responding, saying she looked good or sympathising with her situation or telling her that whatever horrible thing she did was okay because she’d come right out and admitted it, it didn’t seem to have any sort of curative impact. All it did was create more need, more hunger, and hence, more gloom and sadness and self-pity.
I wondered if anyone ever told her that she was still too young, or that there were other things in the world more worthy of the kind of attention she demanded. If anyone did, did she simply wave them away, telling them in her mind that she wasn’t like anyone else, that she was unique and hence her problems were special and deserved all that attention? Did she think that these people were incapable of empathy, choosing to believe that they didn’t care or were trying to trivialize her suffering? Did it anger her that they compared her problems to that of people in Somalia or Zimbabwe, who didn’t suffer from depression (in the American sense) because they had real, survival problems, as opposed to her navel-gazing nonsense?
People often accuse Asians, particularly the Chinese or perhaps the Japanese, as being unfeeling or that we don’t really place a lot of stock on all that emotional mumbo-jumbo. I always claim that the Vulcans are modeled after us in their ability to control their emotions – and that’s just what it is. We do feel but we just keep it checked. Why do you think our serial dramas and movies are so over the top?
And it’s not just about ‘face’. It’s also about not wanting other people to feel embarrassed or uncomfortable. It’s about respect for others, for your family and most importantly, for yourself.
There is nothing in the world that’s so bad you need to broadcast it to the whole world – unless you want the whole world to mourn with you. Nobody needs that kind of attention.
You may want it, but you do not need it.
Question: Do book reviews help?
I was updating my Facebook Visual Bookshelf two minutes ago and my eyes caught something that I’d never really noticed: the reviews (although I’ve written a few myself, I’d never even bothered to look at others).
I have a habit. I never taste the food I cook. I like to take my first bite or sip together with my family. Most of the time, the recipes turn out well. The rest of the time, my husband sneaks into the kitchen and does the tasting for me, particularly when we’re entertaining. He thinks I’m out of my mind. I tend to agree. Or I just don’t like to eat what I’m cooking when I’m cooking it.
This is the same with books. Unlike video games which I will only buy if the reviews are favourable (makes sense since I used to do that for a living), I don’t like reading book reviews. I like listening to podcasts that INTRODUCE new books but no, I don’t like reading, listening to or watching any reviews with regards to books, and here’s why:
Reading is a highly personal thing to me (unless it’s a textbook and maybe even so). Reading, for instance, the Bible or the Quran is generally accepted as an intimate journey, one that takes you down different paths with each sentence, verse and chapter. Because of who I am, what I’ve been through, things I’ve seen and not seen, the book is what the author is trying to communicate to everyone but no one in particular, and in this instance, its story is to me. And how I receive that story, perceive its message(s), depends largely on place, time and frame of mind.
As such, how can the opinion of someone else, in a different time, place and nuance, reading a book, ever be able to judge for me whether or not a book is ‘good’? Yes, they can pick on points of language, of style but never the tone nor the content (with differing reasons) because when it comes to the likability of a book’s tone, it’s really subjective isn’t it? Angsty may work for rebellious teens but not so much for his or her parent. Gritty Mid Eastern honesty may work for the New York publisher but be a tad too real for the lonely migrant working at a falafel shop and making ends meet.
Secondly, most of these book reviewers have what I call the legacy problem. They are so well-read and so well-trained in their skill. What do they know of what the rest of us want in a book?
But there are just SO many books to read and so little time! How do we suss out efficiently which to spend our hard-earned money on (and boy, do they cost money these days)?
This is where a good library comes in and I’m am blessed to live in a county with one of best library systems in the world. Sometimes, I just walk into the library in my little town, step up to a certain aisle, close my eyes and pull out five titles at random, before checking them out. So far, most have been pretty interesting.
And I have my book club.
So what do you think? When you have a good library (or a good book club), do you still need book reviews?
Merry Christmas, You
In Malaysia, we celebrate four major holidays (among other smaller festivals and days of note): Hari Raya Aidilfitri, which is the Muslim holiday to celebrate the end of Ramadhan; Deepavali, the Festival of Lights celebrated by Hindus; Chinese New Year, aka the Lunar New Year and Christmas.
While each festival has its religious and ethnic origins, Malaysians celebrate every holiday together. Everyone goes on holiday. Most of us make the exodus back to our hometowns from the city of Kuala Lumpur amid gentle reminders of safe driving on TV and in the papers (the festivities are when road accident numbers are the highest because of the long road trips). And we greet each other with the appropriate greeting for the holiday: Selamat Hari Raya, which literally means "Safe Celebration Day", "Happy Deepavali"; Gung Hei Fatt Choy, which is Cantonese for "Wish You Wealth and Prosperity" (I know, it’s all about the money with us) and Merry Christmas.
Oddly enough (Malaysia being a Muslim country), Christmas is probably the only holiday out of the four where all Malaysians, whatever our racial backgrounds and religious beliefs, celebrate culturally (and commercially) together. This is to say that whether or not we’re Christians, Malaysians buy and decorate Christmas trees, give presents, and have Christmas dinners or lunches. It does not matter if one is Muslim, Hindu or Buddhist, I’ve received presents from people of all faiths during Christmas, without ever giving the custom another thought. After all, Christmas isn’t just about Christ anymore. It’s about pretty fake fir trees, Santa, presents, turkey and to the rest of us, simply a holiday for giving and sharing. And regardless of ethnicity or faith, we will greet each other "Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!"
Without getting our panties all in a bunch.
In recent years, there has been some furor over the words used in the greetings used when the dates of these holidays coincided. When Hari Raya and Chinese New Year became a whole week of festivities, the clever advertising industry came up with "Gong Xi Raya". When Deepavali and Hari Raya became days apart, it became "Happy Deepa Raya". Quite a few people were riled up. These uptight Purists of Holidays and Holiday Greetings opined that these coined greetings were ‘blasphemous’ and ‘disrespectful’.
My honest opinion? There are more important things in the world to worry about than the words one uses in holiday greetings. Do these people have so much time in their hands to give such matters so much thought? Such is the bane of people who, as the Chinese like to say, "sik pau mou yeh chou" (translation: the idleness that comes after one’s stomach is full). Truly, I have never met a purist who is struggling to feed his kids or lives on the streets.
Here’s the thing: My family is agnostic. And yet, we buy a Christmas tree, wrap presents and will be throwing a Christmas Day lunch for our friends and family members. On Christmas eve, we will read our girls The Night Before Christmas and Raeven, especially, will be waiting for Santa, to whom she’s written a letter and posted it (they have a little red mailbox at the post office marked "Letters to Santa") to bring her all her presents. As non-believers, we still play along and help perpetuate that feel-good, warm and fuzzy Christmas myth that is more popularly known as the Christmas spirit. It makes us feel good, our children shining examples of Good Little Girls (for all of two days) and most of all, we do it because it’s FUN.
And if someone wishes me Merry Christmas or a Blessed New Year even though I know that Santa isn’t real or that God has nothing to do with the 365th day of 2007 turning into the 1st day of 2008, will I demand an apology, insisting that people be more careful when they’re trying to be nice and extend their good wishes? When did we become so full of ourselves that we have lost room in our hearts to accept well wishes, just to be courteous? When did we become so conceited in our need to be identified correctly that we cannot make ourselves accept kindness, in whatever package it come ins?
When did wanting to be wished (and making sure to wish people) in a politically correct manner become so crucial that we would risk forgetting what this holiday stands for? What EACH holiday represents?
Giving and receiving.
Generosity.
Good over evil.
Gratitude.
Forgiveness.
Renewal.
With that in mind, I wish all of you a Very Merry Christmas – whoever, and whatever, you are.
You really cannot say anything about my weight that can hurt me
Seriously, strangers who come to my blog to diss me about my weight should know that I love nothing more than a good fight.
Ask my husband.
I have been overweight for so long that I’ve seen and heard it all. "You’re a car", "you’re a cow", "OMG how are you even alive?" – like my blog title, it takes a whole lot more wit (and grammatically perfect sentences) to make a dent (punning with car comparison) especially when I’ve already dissed myself.
And now that I’ve lost some of the weight, it makes the battle even sweeter because really, how sad are you to be Googling "fat people deserve to be judged" and then commenting on a post that’s half a year old when said fat person isn’t fat anymore (of course I still am but have you ever met a woman who thinks she’s not)?
Did you just learn about the World Wide Web? Find a clearance-priced Fisher Price illustrated keyboard that you can understand? Learn how to turn the power on?
Here’s a tip: Illiterate Philistine Luddites should never, EVER mess with chubby geeks who can maim you with two-finger typing.
Blog will not be responsible for sprained brains (or fingers).
Sequencing, schmequencing
A friend of mine sent me a link to the Redmond chapter of Mothers & More today and I could not help but notice the tagline: The Network for Sequencing Women.
I had to Google ‘sequencing women’ because I thought it was an association for women in genetics. Of course, the first hit was a definition by Mothers & More itself.
Mothers & More represents women who – by choice or circumstance – alter their participation in the paid workplace over the course of their active parenting years. We recognize the needs of the growing number of mothers who move in and out of paid employment and/or opt for a variety of flexible work arrangements in order to balance successfully their work and family responsibilities. This fluid work pattern, which occurs over a number of years and at various stages of motherhood, is known as “sequencing”. The term sequencing was coined by Arlene Rossen Cardozo in her 1986 book, Sequencing.
Here are some actual definitions of the word ‘sequencing’:
- Determination of the order of nucleotides (base sequences) in a DNA or RNA molecule or the order of amino acids in a protein
- Reading, listening, expressing thoughts, describing events or contracting muscles in an orderly and meaningful manner
- Sequencing controls the order and time delay for output voltage appearance as well as dropout when power supplies are turned on and/or of
- Dividing information into smaller, numbered pieces, transmitting it, and reassembling it once it has been received
- In human behavior, doing things in a logical, predictable order.
The last one had me chuckling. Note that this was the definition provided by the Alzheimer’s Association. So unless you have Alzheimer’s, you’d know that choosing to quit your job to be a full-time parent isn’t really logical nor predictable. Rather, most of the time, it starts out as a naive, idealistic choice. That’s because most of us imagine sunny days spent watching our kids play independently in the backyard. We imagine lazing back in our Adirondack chairs, our slim, golden bikin-clad bodies roasting gently in the summer sun, a tall, cool glass of lemonade (or a festive mojito) in one hand, laughing contentedly as our kids act all cute running through the high, fine spray of our sprinklers. The skies are always blue, the grass always green, diapers always changed, laundry always done, dinner always ready, pantries and fridges always stocked, carpets always vacuumed, glass always full and hormones and body in perpetual harmony.
Sequencing. Besides being a funny big word to mean a very simple thing, I question its need. Americans, I think, love coming up with (or blatantly borrowing) new terms to politically-correctly (is there such a word?) describe what they think are 21st-century circumstances when in fact, working class women in Asia have been weaving in and out of work and parenthood since…there were women. Back when Indonesian maids were mainly still in Indonesia, Malay and Chinese and Indian women worked in the fields or in the mines or as servants in the houses of rich families or help their husbands in their own little family businesses to put food on the table. If they got pregnant, they worked through the pregnancy, and when the baby (or often, babies) is/are born, they stayed home to care for their kids, along with grandma or grandpa or whoever, whichever older relative was living in the same house. Whenever these women felt they were up to it, they’d go back to work. Often, they were presented with only one of two hard choices: Stay at home and your kids will starve. Go to work and leave your kids to the elements. Do whatever it takes and try not think too much about it.
Were they sequencing? Yes. Did they need NOT to be judged and to be acknowledged for their efforts? Hell, yea. Did they care? No.
With all the books written about opting out and opting back in again and whether women stupid for wasting their opportunities and lives by quitting their jobs just to parent full-time, or if they’re selfish, irresponsible career-obsessed men-wannabes for wanting to chase their dreams of fame and fortune, it all comes down to one thing. Well, I think it does. And the thing is, what makes you happy? If you enjoy your work, and are the type of person who needs to stay busy and earn money to be fulfilled, then go for it. If you enjoy being there with your kids all day, even through the unpredictable bowel movements and illogical temper tantrums, then do it. If you like a mix of both, then open an Internet business. There is more to technology than Google and Solitaire, ladies. Open an eBay shop. Blog for money. Play poker. In my case, I opened a cooperative preschool because, well, I’m insane.
It can be as simple as that.
Because when it comes down to it, happy people make happy parents.
No need for some big, convoluted debate about who’s right and who’s right-er.
No need for therapy.
No need for fancy new-old words.
Entitlement
A few days ago, I had an epiphany.
It was the first day of DST, and turning the clock forward had somehow screwed up my internal clock and I had lain awake at 6am (when it was really just 5am), and part of my exhausted brain was crying for me to go back to sleep, when I’d decided instead to sit at my computer and look at my old pictures at Flickr, and I began a journey through time to when I was about six or seven.
As some of you know, back then, I was living with my Koo Ma, my dad’s older sister, at her hair saloon with the swinging doors a la a real cowboy saloon (except this was a hair saloon). Together, we were my Koo Chiong (my uncle aka her husband), my cousin sister, three or four shampoo girls and a family of nine or ten people who rented the floor upstairs.
My cousin was an only child, and she was given everything a child could possibly want. Living with her was bearing painfully envious witness to a life I could never have because, well, my parents were not as well to do.
Because she was their daughter, my cousin was ‘entitled’ to a lot more stuff than I was.
When we ate, she would always have the drumstick or whatever cut of meat was the best at the table, after which was my uncle since he was the breadwinner. And then it was me. My Koo Ma always ate whatever was left that nobody else wanted.
One of the things I remember most is how my aunt would make bird’s nest soup for my cousin. Back then, you had to clean the damn things out yourself. There was none of the ‘clean’ bird’s nest you find in the shops these days.
There is a distinct memory in my head of one of the shampoo girls or my aunt and even me, sitting at the dinner table at the back of the shop, pincers at the ready over a bowl of bird’s nest soaking in water, eyes squinting in semi darkness, pinching out microscopic specks of dirt sticking to the entrails of the’nest.
For hours on rotation duty throughout the day, we would do that until the nest was free of every offending piece of impurity. And then my aunt would boil it with rock sugar and maybe some lotus seeds, and at the end of the day, my cousin would come home from school, and single-handedly finish every drop of it.
It was all for her. All of it. That tiny bowl of bird’s nest the size of an oyster. Neither my uncle, my aunt, and definitely nor I, had ever taken even a small sip of the stuff.
At least I didn’t.
Entitlement.
It is a concept I’d learnt at a very young age.
Until recently, I’ve never had a problem with entitlement. I just thought that was the way the world was. Some people had all the luck. You win some, you lose some. Born with a silver spoon or under a lucky star, that sort of thing. There was nothing one could do, and it was certainly not something you could fight. Fate and all that jazz.
Thing is, what am I entitled to in this life?
A job? Two kids? A taste of bird’s nest at 29?
What can we say is really ours without stepping on toes or going over the line? And who’s to say what is ours? There are territorial lines and laws that safeguard the sanctity of life and against dishonesty and bullying these days, sure, but when it comes down to things like wealth and health and real freedom, who’s to say what it is we can and cannot have?
Who’s to say what it is we can do and cannot do?
I come from a country where entitlement is a basis of government. That is the way it has always been, and it will likely remain the same for a very long time.
I still remember my class teacher at Standard Six. Her name was Puan Kalsom. She was also our history teacher and one day, she was teaching us about the Malays and why they were entitled to privileges other races were not.
“It is because if you Chinese don’t like, you can run back to China, and if you Indians don’t like, you can run back to India. We Malays cannot run anywhere. This is our homeland. It is only fair we are entitled to these things.”
So you see, quite a few of us have gotten used to the idea of being – and remaining – a second-rate citizen. And to rock the boat would simply mean trouble.
Of course, things are very different today. Sitting here, being able to write about such things, is a very new experience even for me, an ex-journo. Back home, even thinking these things meant risking being hauled off under the Internal Security Act for inciting racial disharmony and after perhaps a long telling-off in solitary confinement, have May 13 1969 thrown in my face a couple of times for good measure.
And so what do we ‘more affluent’, Malaysians do?
We plan our escape.
And then we go.
To a world where the word ‘entitlement’ still means hope.
Here in the US, at the very least, the girls would be entitled to what was fairly and justly theirs as immigrants.
If they turn out to be rocket-scientist material, they would be given opportunities here in the US that they rightly deserve. In fact, they would very likely be wrestled away to be made into more ‘useful’ human beings than they could ever have been if they’d remained at home.
If not, they would at least be given the chance to try.
Which is, sadly, more than I can say for an average-income Chinese in Malaysia.
A lot of people, anywhere in the world, would be of the opinion that it is not unfair that I was never given a drumstick nor a bowl of bird’s nest since I was just a relative. A lot of people, anywhere in the world, myself included, still think that some people are just born lucky.
But I’ll be damned if I don’t try and fight for some of these entitlements for my kids.
And here, at least I can try.
50 years: Time for change
Homesickness is a natural affliction even among those of us who have semi-migrated (as in we’re not sure if we want to remain away for too long, and yet have accepted that we won’t be going back anytime soon).
Aside from the occasional yearning for the familiar, most of which has to do with the food, there is also a keen sense of not being part of what has defined me for so long: my nationality as a Malaysian.
15 months after leaving home, I find that I have become more patriotic, in that I now care a great deal more about what is happening in my country.
Before, I had been too busy living my life; getting married, popping babies, playing video games. Now, when I am not at home, when I have more time to read and reflect, when I have the chance to see how other people live in a whole other country, certain issues come into perspective and it is as though someone has given you glasses or one of those newfangled Lasik procedure thingies.
Even though I was a writer back home, the field I was in (technology) did not give me a lot of opportunities to write about Important Stuff. Sure, I read the papers and knew all the right people but it was also because I never truly cared about much of anything else except the next Bioware/Wizards of the Coast RPG because I’d always thought that nothing I could write or say would ever make a dent in what was wrong with our country or in fact, the world at large.
Which may be why you rarely see me comment on anything serious unless it really ticks me off.
There will always be greed. There will always be corruption. There will always be the same asshole who tries to take your place in line or your livelihood or fool around with your wife/husband. Until the Vulcans make up their minds to descend upon us and make first contact (or until Samy Vellu imposes another toll hike), we will always be divided by these petty issues. My philosophy in a nutshell.
All that has changed.
This is what having children does to you, sad to say, especially for those of us who can’t be moved to care for those not related by blood (or boon). It makes you want to control and predict everything.
We relocated here for very practical reasons: money and opportunities. We had the chance and we took it.
My girls are pure Malaysian Chinese but even as I am writing this, they are rapidly losing their identities. Rae speaks only English with a strong American accent, and Sky will probably not learn Chinese nor Manglish. They love their adopted country and already possess significantly Western palates (sandwiches for lunch, not economy rice; pasta for dinner, not hokkien mee).
Everything seems to be pointing us in the direction of never going home. As such, why do I still want to stick my nose in the affairs of a country I may not call home again in many more years?
It’s homesickness.
It’s patriotism.
It’s the damn food, I tell ya.
What keeps me up at night these days are things I read on Malaysiakini and other prominent political blogs.
Like last night, when I read how our Tourism Minister called me a liar.
And how two of said prominent bloggers are being hauled to court because some people high up have been embarassed and now want blood.
And how scandal has been allowed to fester because of high-level cover-up.
And how important books are being banned, while penis origami literature is being hawked for all to see at shopping malls.
And how buildings of heritage are being torn down for big business.
What is wrong with Malaysia? What do we need for our country to survive the 21st century or risk disintegrating into a civilisation lost to corruption, complacency and apathy?
What will it take for us to make it?
We already know the answer:
We need to raise literacy levels.
We are in critical need of a proper education system.
We need real democracy.
We need integrity in our leadership.
We need integrity, period.
We need equality.
We need financial wisdom.
We need change.
Come this August, Malaysia will be independent from British rule 50 years.
Will we have to wait another 50 years for real change?
Why Super Columbine Massacre should not have been made: A gamer parent’s POV
Recently, there’s been a medium (I won’t say ‘big’ since quite a few people who read my blog won’t know what I’m talking about) hoo-ha about the removal of a game at this year’s Slamdance festival, a part of which is dedicated to the making of independent games, called the Guerrilla Gamemaker Competition.
AÂ few responses to the issue have been floated around and about the blogosphere, including of course the makers main supporters hosting (thanks, AndrewK!)Â the game, Manifesto, who made their thoughts known very eloquently on their site.
The ‘ripple effect’ of their removal is now being felt as other game makers have begun pulling out their titles as well, Boing2 reports, perhaps in protest or simply as an indignant ‘kinship reaction, common in the indie game-making community united by the menace of big business.
Firstly, for the reasons put forth by Manifesto itself and its supporters, I do not think the removal is justified.
As Jonathan Blow of Braid has so articulately put it, games should no longer be treated as mere entertainment and
“… be taken seriously as an art form that can expand the boundaries of human experience.
as they
…can help us to understand situations in a fully-engaged fashion, as participants and co-creators, which the passive media cannot do. As an art form they contain a tremendous power to shift perspective and to heighten wisdom.”
I come from a country that bans for far less. Sanitary napkin advertisements. Walking into government departments in mini-skirts. Children’s books (see numbers 15 and 16). So I know something about oppression, where a discussion of one’s civil liberties (or lack thereof) may be tantamount to treason, so don’t even talk to me about the lack of freedom of expression.
But I will say this, as a parent and a gamer: Super Columbine Massacre should never have been made at all.
Firstly, what kind of deeper understanding can the gamer hope to gain from playing an RPG based on such a tragedy? What boundaries of human experience can be broadened, and what kind of shift in perspective or heightened wisdom can we hope to acquire from playing a game about, say, the holocaust, as Hitler, or as the terrorists who piloted the planes into the World Trade Center? If there are, they escape me and I would love to learn just how I could find entertainment in or become a more learned individual with a larger horizon of understanding from putting myself in the imagined shoes of the perpetrators of such tragedies in a straight up shooter, much less a roleplaying game.
Games like Postal or Grand Theft Auto, while imitating the darker slates of life, have invited criticism, both fair and unjustified. However, these are not interactive portrayals of actual events that deliver entertainment at the expense of those who are STILL suffering from the tragedy.No matter how you spin it, Manifesto, even a cartoon about the massacre will undermine it. Perhaps to some, it may simply leave a bad taste. To others, it is bitter realisation that there are people out there who are willing to turn your pain into their pleasure, and in some cases, profit.
As a parent, it is a challenge guiding our children through the labyrinth of mass media. What games or TV shoes, movies or videos, should our children watch? How long is too long? How violent is too violent? This is a task that is especially difficult for my husband and I, for the fact that we have spent the last 25-30 years of our lives playing computer games. While accepting that it is our responsibility to filter all content our children may come into contact with on a daily basis, it is a slippery slope. One wrong judgment call and the jig is up. Do what we say, not do what we do, or we’ll just have to throw away the XBOX and the TVs to be fair.
We want our children to enjoy what we enjoy, to develop a love for an art form that brought my husband and I together for one, and one that has given me the best eight years of my career as a journalist. Even with the violence and the sex and the gore, we will tolerate it all if we can tell our kids that “this is just pretend.”
And that, Super Columbine Massacre is not.
Perhaps this is the curse of the industry. In the chase for more shock value, more excitement, more controversy to fuel our increasingly jaded, and yet insatiable appetite for entertainment that pushes the limits, we have forgotten that these games are created in an age where the distance between real violence and our children are simply a few keystrokes and clicks away. This assault happens in our homes, right under our noses, so quickly that we just cannot keep up without completely turning off our TV sets and cable modems.
Need it come to this? I, for one, simply cannot imagine a world without video games. Not for me, nor for my children.
I would’ve expected the bigger game companies to take such a distasteful risk. We all understand that real ingenuity in games is hard to come by but tell me: What do independents have if they do not have integrity?
What do you have if not even dignity?
Let the big boys resort to such tactics. You have the freedom to come up with so much more.
For so much less.
Baby forever
As parents of small children and babies, how many of us have looked at our four, five, six-year old, screaming, half-dressed kids today, and longed for the good old days when they were still itty bitty babies, who would wear whatever cute little outfits you bought for them, and survive on breastmilk and mush, and stay in the three-by-five footprint of a basinet/carseat that you could carry around to yoga class, the supermarket, and in some cases, even the movies?
Well I have. I was just telling Karli today after we’d just put four screaming kids into the back of her minivan that I’d admired her so much how she could always keep her cool, and how I’d need to look at baby photos of Rae and Sky to remind myself how angelic they used to be, every two or three days, just to get through the week without ‘accidentally’ leaving them on the street one day, to be raised by wolves.
And just when I start to dream about how nice it would be if my kids could be as easy to manage as they were when they were babies, a little article like this puts things into perspective.
Along with hormone doses to limit her growth, Ashley’s parents also opted for surgery to block breast growth and had her uterus and appendix removed.
Ashley’s parents say that because she will remain the weight of a child, it will be easier for them to move her around, bathe her and involve her in family activities – movement that will benefit her physical and mental well-being.
Far be it from me to judge these parents. God only knows how many sleepless MONTHS they must have gone through agonising over the decision to stunt her growth. But is it fair to the child to be denied the chance to grow into a human being of normal size, even though her life will never be normal? Is it really so hard for us, a society of normal parents with normal kids, to accept such drastic measures which can benefit both the caregivers and the child? A good example is the removal of her uterus. If this prevents her from having to deal with menstrual discomfort, AND if this also relieves her caregivers from having to, on top of her other needs, keep her clean, it is simply a practical measure.
In the end, it all boils down to one question: Who’s to say what the needs are of a special needs child?
I’d like to think of these special needs children as babies we still carry in our wombs. We have a responsibility to give the unborn child the best we can to these little beings. We can’t drink. We can’t smoke. We can’t eat raw fish or bad cheese that might not be very good for the baby.
But at the same time, we must do what makes us comfortable and happy as well, and try to achieve the optimal balance, whatever that is, to make the relationship good for both mother and child. We have that extra piece of cake or ice cream. We have sex. We lay in bed all day just to put our feet up.
In the end, WE decide what we need because like it or not, WE are the ones who have to provide for the baby.
Who are we, who have never spent a day living the tragedy of a special needs child, to say, “My convenience has nothing to do with this. I am a parent. Screw my life since I’m the one who brought this child into the world”?
Even as parents of normal children, it is a struggle to keep things in perspective. All of us want to be perfect parents for our kids. We want to give them the best. We want to be patient, loving, understanding, nurturing and in Asian societies, even subservient.
But seriously, how long can you do it without resenting your child just a little?
How long can you sit and reason it out nicely with a four-year old why she can’t have just ice cream for dinner when she screams bloody murder at you after a long, hard day?
How hard should you work to care for your handicapped child without making it just a little bit easier on yourself, for the rest of the world to believe that you love him or her – when he or she may not even know it her/himself?
It is impossible for the rest of us to imagine the enormity of what Ashley’s parents are going through. We can only thank God that we may never have to.
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Money or respect?
Suanie, one of Malaysia’s more prominent bloggers, made a couple of interesting posts recently. Female empowerment, sex in the media and real respect. These are very real issues which affect those of us who raise daughters, even if said daughters are still in preschool.
We Malaysians are quite a conservative lot, even for Asians. Compared to, say, the Japanese and the Koreans, we probably rate about four or five on a scale of ten, with regards to our attitudes towards sex and anything sex-related. You go out showing a little cleavage, you’d probably be leered at and judged as a slut. If you’re a lady who smokes and drinks openly, you’re a whore automatically, never mind that you’ve just spent all day saving lives. No kissing or open displays of affection allowed unless married. Movies and books get banned for dodgy reasons (the reasons are dodgy, not the books), although both really don’t matter anymore because of pirated DVDs and the Internet. It would’ve been maddening if people really cared, so now it’s just stupid.
Anyway, so we’re not really with it.
I’d have to say that a lot of these people confuse empowerment with respect.
Stripping, for example, is a legitimate profession here in the US. Women act all slutty on stage, will let you grace a thigh or stuff ones down their panties, but offstage, one must not judge them as whores and assume that one can have sex with them for money (although some may).
Prostitutes, too, deserve respect. In the show “Men in Trees” you see the town prostitute treated respectably by all in town, even when she’s serviced most of them (there are like three women in the town of Elmo). Is that art imitating life, or vice versa (or just wishful acting?).
Such compartmentalizing is confusing. To help you are The Valid Reasons. Survival is number one. (“I have no choice but to do this to feed my kids, my husband left me” and so forth). Second is, apparently, just good business. Reduce the act and call it a service in exchange for money. When you think about it, it’s the one thing all women have over (straight) men. So if anybody’s to be exploiting it, the rationale is that it should be the woman herself.
But therein lies the problem of respect. Except for Valid Reason #1, if that, the Rest of Us really have a problem with according to these individuals the respect they think they deserve. At the back of our minds, we will always have that nagging suspicion that they actually enjoy selling the sex. That they are too lazy to get out and do it the ‘hard way’. That whatever it is, flashing your tits and singing about your ‘milkshake’ and instantly be propelled to MTV fame and glory is NOT what good girls do. Good girls get their college degrees, get married and raise a family, that’s what good girls do. Or at the very least, you must TRY to.
And do we still get the respect we yearn for then?
In the end, we learn to live without it. Except for family members and friends, we teach ourselves not to care. We say, I’m not hurting anyone else, so leave me alone. It’s just too much work, this earning of respect that we all should be doing. I’d rather be earning money.
It’s a hard choice for a hard world. When my girls come to me and ask, although I’m doubtful they ever will, what respect is, and why they shouldn’t be prancing around on TV with their boobs hanging out for billions of dollars, all I can think of to say right now is, “Because the richest man in the world creates software, so do that instead?”
Copyright © 2006 The I’mperfect Mom. This blog is for non-commercial use only. If you’re reading the entirety of this entry on another website (excluding your RSS aggregator), please email me to report copyright infringement so legal action may be taken. Thank you.
You there, in the bright orange vest
When my friends and I were still single, and not swinging as much as we’d like to, we often talked about two things:
1. How do we know if a guy is The One; and
2. Should we have kids right away after we get married.
I’ve always sort of had a plan. Get married by 28 (it never occured to me that I might’ve NOT been able to find a man when I turned 28, so it was a very good thing I did or else I might’ve had to, who knows, go on one of those supposed soul-searching trips to India or Cambodia or something, when I would’ve really been shopping for a subservient husband).
Next on the list was to get pregnant right away, mostly due to my exceedingly function over compliance mindset. Why get married if not to have legitimate children? I’m not so hip as to do the pregnant thing first before making sure the sperm supply is, at the very least, free (not least important that they are 1. visually and medically accountable; and 2. are readily accessible!), should my eggs suddenly decide to play hard to get.
Both things were quite on schedule, I must say. I got married one month shy of turning 29. Got pregnant one month AFTER turning 29. Cut a little close but on track nonetheless.
To answer the first question I’ve so often been asked since most of my single friends seem to think I’ve found the perfect man, a question I’ve long evaded simply because I never knew the answer to, and I still don’t, but after seven years and two kids with the same man, I think I might have an inkling, a little idea, as to how I identified the correct man with whom I’d decided to spend the rest of my life with.
Firstly, it’s not as simple as finding someone who makes you laugh or is independently financially sound (as opposed to being born into money, with all due respect to you poor rich bastards) because it’s not so much as to provide for you but it at the very least hints of a person who’s grounded, at the very least speaks of a mind that’s anchored by beads of responsibility and duty and practical thinking, a mind that does not take flights of fancy until he’s at least in his 50s, by which he should be able to afford his flights of fancy without dipping anywhere.
I think, mostly, it is about finding someone who weathers nicely with you. Not just the fights you have, be it with regard to one’s financial ups and downs, or even racial/religious persecution, but someone who, at the end of the day, after the tears and the rough words and perhaps even a night spent at a hotel or two, comes back, and feels, or perhaps even clings on to, the very need to make it work. Someone who still sees the good in you even when you can only see the worst in yourself. Someone who will ultimately, seriously, realistically, look at all the silver linings and good memories and lights at the end of tunnels of any given situation, and say, “there is a way to solve this.”
A man who never gives up on you. On the us, no matter how fat you’ve become, how horrid, how disillusioned, how…changed. And you see – you CAN see, even without looking very hard – that he never even comes close to giving up. Not even as close as how you’ve THOUGHT you’ve come to the end of the line, feeling unworthy and undeserving.
The determination in his face, manifested in his set jaw. The fire in his eyes. His unyielding grasp. And after so many years still, for you, for the us, he fights. And will continue to fight.
And that is the man you want to find. The guy who never gives up, on anything.
Now he may be the same man who is loathe to change. The man who fights against you asking him to tuck in his shirt or put the toilet seat down, against having to ask for a promotion because he thinks he deserves one without having to ask, the man whose ego gets in the way, because that’s his fighting spirit. A spirit that will not break, not even for you.
Is such a man worth loving?
I do very much think so.
Now if only they’d wear some sort of bright orange vest with blinking lights. Like, you know, a fire fighter. That’d be helpful.
Copyright © 2006 The I’mperfect Mom. This blog is for non-commercial use only. If you’re reading the entirety of this entry on another website (excluding your RSS aggregator), please email me to report copyright infringement so legal action may be taken. Thank you.
Scrabbling my brain
So what is with the official Scrabble dictionary?
Does anyone know what on earth is up with that?
I was playing Scrabble, downloaded from Shockwave.com (of which I am, ahem, a member). Fancying myself a ‘whiz’ at word-making, I started at that level (there was Novice, Student and then Whiz, after which was five more ranks to the highest, that is ‘Perfect’). So I really wasn’t underestimating ‘Maven’ aka the robot I was playing against.
But come on. Ashy? Joky? Who the hell uses words like that? Even Google can find no meaning for ’joky‘ but nooo, the Official Scrabble Dictionary says that ‘joky’ is an adjective as in JOKIER, JOKIEST jokey. And lo behold, Merriam Webster has a definition for it as well. It’d better, since it publishes The Official Scrabble Players Dictionary (truncated to “OSPD” for those ‘in the know’).
Don’t think I’ll be taking part in any Scrabble tournaments in the near future. Probably pop a vein contesting why words like “Mus” (apparently a plural form of the 12th letter of the Greek alphabet) can be used while everyday words like “non” are not allowed. And how ‘nam’ can be the past-tense for ‘nim’ (it means ‘to steal’) when MW itself only defines it as a geographical name to describe rivers, and that the past tense for nim, is actually nimmed.
Again, who in this sweet earth still uses the words nim, nam or nimmed is beyond the understanding of my tiny brain. Nim incidentally also means to steal a little bit in the Cantonese dialect. Would love to see my dad’s reaction the next time we play Scrabble and I start pulling these words on him. As an ex-English teacher, don’t think he’d appreciate my attempts at being ‘joky’.
God, what I wouldn’t give for a smoke and a drink. Scrabble just isn’t doing it for me!
The right NOT to choose
We live in a world full of choices today, thanks in part to the advancement of technology and the evolution of mindsets and melding of cultures.
Will it be nasi lemak or granola for breakfast? PC or Mac? Buy or rent? Terminate this pregnancy, or give up college?
Evidently, some choices are more difficult to make than others. Very rarely do choices come in black or white, and sometimes, even the grey ones aren’t all that great either.
And as if that’s not enough, science gives you choices such as this.
At first, it may be to avoid having a child with Down Syndrome or hemophilia. But being human, we tend to exploit. And being Chinese, we will most definitely do so.
In Malaysia, there is still a lingering cloud that hangs over every Chinese mother-to-be, and it is a cloud noone likes to acknowledge: the stigma of not having any sons. Even the most liberal, open-minded, educated women in our country are faced with this old-fashioned view on reproduction for the purpose of lineage: the need to have someone carry on the good family name.
When you announce the good news that you’re expecting, and if you’re at the appropriate stage, one of the first questions people ask is: boy or girl? If the lady is sure it is a son, she will most definitely announce it proudly, knowing full well that ultrasounds are not 100% accurate, but you’d rather believe the doctor is rarely wrong.
If the doctor says he or she isn’t sure (and from experience, this usually indicates after four or five visits, it will most likely be a daughter), the lady will tell the inquirer that she isn’t sure. Adversely, if she has dealt with the fact that she WILL well have a daughter, come what may, the mother-to-be will slip in a very casual “…but I think most likely it will be a girl…”.
The conversation will turn slightly awkward when that happens, either because the lady thinks that the inquirer will, out of slightly embarassed sympathy, say things like, “Oh, but can try again next time!” or “Aiya, better to have a daughter these dayslah!”. Or because the lady feels a little sorry for herself even though she knows it’s horseshit. Sometimes, the inquirer will launch into a series of after-the-fact suggestions, such as “Aiya, you didn’t tell your husband to drink lots of coffee and eat steak before doing it ah?” or “You must make sure you do it like on the first day of ovulation! Boy sperm swim faster than girl sperm!” or “You never check the Chinese calendar meh?”
All the unmentioned sympathies of the misfortune of getting a daughter will continue to be unmentioned because both asker and askee are already aware of it, even though they know it shouldn’t even be an issue. The doctors know it. Even though somewhere in the world, we STILL insist upon it. It is like interracial marriages and premarital pregnancy and being gay: all the good, old-fashioned Asian taboos we are all taught never to commit the day we understand the words ‘honour’ and ‘family name’, even as we hurtle along in the 21st century.
Is it, then, not unreasonable to expect a couple to go to the extreme of genetic selection to avoid all this melodrama? And if we have the means to pay our way to having children through IVF, why not take it a step further, and choose exactly what kind of baby we want? It seems like a natural (or rather, unnatural) extension.
Yes, we live in a world full of choices today. It is making the RIGHT ones that’s the trick. And when traditions (and in some cases, even with the intervention of government policy) such as the persistence to have sons refuse to die, allowing science to intervene will make it an even bigger tragedy than it already is.
Something’s gotta give
I was reading this report of an interview Britney Spears had with NBC, and as much as I am NOT a Spears fan, I felt immense pity for the celebrity. Which the writer did predict but really, do you have to kick someone when she’s already down? And a new mother at that. It’s just…tasteless.
I think until and unless you actually go through nine months of something that can grow up to the size of two or three watermelons (not including your breasts, which are also reaching melon proportions themselves); struggling to keep food down because you’re worried you might not be ingesting enough for the baby because you’re constantly throwing up; having to sleep in awkward positions just to get comfortable enough to be able to actually sleep without being crushed by your own weight (and being ever mindful of not suffocating the baby inside of you should lying on your back be the most comfortable position you can find); go through hours of labour only to end up in the cutting room; pay thousands of dollars to a hospital and doctors and nurses who may or may not know what they’re doing; breastfeed when your nipples are bleeding and chapping; sleep in episodes of one, two hours up to what may be six months; and THEN find out you’re doing it ALL over again – you should just keep that yap shut.
Granted Ms Spears has the money to go for all sorts of pampers and spa treatments to become her fabulous self again, and to pay five nannies to take care of her one kid that’s already out so she can look her absolute best, it is still horrid to write such a hurtful piece about a new mother who’s struggling to keep both her kids and career AND her appearance together. All moms, new or old, feel they’re the worst mothers in the world already without being made to feel that way. Plus she’s pregnant. How does one go down to the level of writing such trash about a pregnant mother?
A friend of mine, who constantly worried about her appearance, asked me once if I ever fretted about the way I’ve let myself go since I became a mom. Yea, she doesn’t mince her words, but she knows I don’t really give a shit.
Well you know what? I am trying my best to keep my priorities straight. Raising my kids up right. Keeping our home clean and cosy. Putting food on the table. Making sure my husband and I have quality time together. Making sure my mind stays sharp through through reading and writing. I like looking nice as much as the next girl, but something’s gotta give, you know. And I think I’d rather let my appearance go, than my head (rather than let it go TO my head).
So if the reason why Britney Spears looks like crap is because she’s trying to be a good mother and enjoy her pregnancy, more power to her. She might’ve wanted to redeem herself in the eyes of writers like Robin Givhan, which as one observes, hadn’t worked, but I say, fuck it. You’ve got enough money to do whatever you want with your life and your kids anyway. Disappear, work on raising them properly for five years, reinvent yourself and THEN make a comeback.
And if you don’t, so what? Between your kids and your fans – something’s gotta give. Who’ll it be?
Blogging: Everyone’s doing it
I was listening to the latest Bloggercon (IV)'s podcasts on ZDnet, and they had one called "The emotion (sic) life of bloggers", which featured, among many semi-famous bloggers in the US, Chris Pirillo of Lockergnome fame (who'd led another session called The User Complaint session, which turned out to be another mega-software corp bashing session and didn't make any real sense at all in the end, but that's another story).
And it got me to thinking about why people blog, and why it's just so popular.
Was journal-writing and diary-keeping ever this hot? Is putting your thoughts out there for friends and strangers the reason it's hot? If so, why?
Why do I blog?
Revisiting this topic, it's because I was a journalist, and I'd wanted to write about other things in my life, put stuff out there I otherwise would not have the opportunity to write about, use that creative side of my brain a little. Rant a little. Share info, links, opinions. I started blogs for my girls because I'd wanted them to have something to look back at when they grow up, an accessible, searchable archive of their lives as little babies and kids.
Looking back, blogging rounded out my 'public personality' a little. It used to be that I was this geeky writer who was neither here nor there, writing about games, technology, AND relationships (yea, I'm diverse like that). People, friends and strangers, got to know me as a woman who had relationship problems, who found the love of her life, got married and now living out the rest of her life as a muddled-up mom. It was my way of letting the world know that I existed.
You don't have to climb Mount Everest or swim the English Channel or pose naked for Playboy (well, maybe some still do) to become famous these days. All you need is a computer and a blog account, average writing skills, a nose for what people want to read, and you're in the race to be seen and heard. Even if you're not in it for the money (direct or otherwise) or fame, simply putting your life out there will get you enough attention to make friends out of strangers, and enemies of friends and family members.
After three years of partaking in this pleasure, I've observed three things about blogs and bloggers:
1. If you're just coming into this phenomenon, the best kind of blog to have is an anonymous one. This is odd coming from me because I hate anonymous commenters but I think if you want a blog that gives you the freedom to vent and rant and say what you want without getting fired or get any significant backlash from, you will need to stay anonymous. Assume an alter ego because when you can blog in the knowledge that nobody will ever find out who you really are (with the clever omission of certain personal details and the right software), you will be able to say whatever it is you want to say. The downside is, of course, you can't publicise it as much as you like and as twisted as it may sound, the reason TO blog is that other people, complete strangers, perverts, quite possibly your mom, will read it. Otherwise, you'll keep it offline.
2. There are bloggers and there are writers. That is why journalists and writing in the traditional sense is still necessary. Bloggers like Scoble, I find, are famous not for their ability to write, but for their knowledge of the industry they're in, the status they're in and the resources they have. Bloggers like my friend Karli and so many like her, may not blog about much, but man, can they write the hell out of their otherwise mundane lives. Ordinary people who write extraordinarily about what it is to be human. They may not get a lot of hits and hence, make a lot of money, but if the blogosphere ever wants to be considered seriously for its artistic, emotional and intellectual integrity, it is people like these that will carry the legacy of humanities through to the next generation, not the technology.
3. Podcasting and vlogging are quickly coming into their own as popular platforms to be seen and heard, which sends a very simple message: You don't have to know how to write to blog. You don't have to have a recording contract or movie deal to be a star. And as an audience, we don't have to pay to be entertained anymore (well, except your ISP bill). All you need is the right technology, genuine talent (for stupidity or otherwise), and you're set.
So what happens when most of the world put their lives online, in more ways than one? What happens when you have so many outlets to speak up and be heard? What happens when everyone lives so publicly?
I can hear my father's answer to this question.
"Then noone really is."
Dear New Moms
I had this really bitchy post up before this but decided that while it was really satisfying on my part (a girl's gotta be a bitch sometime, you know), it wasn't one of my best. It was also not very constructive.
So then, I decided to write an open letter in my humble blog, to new mothers or mothers-to-be, who may visit it regularly, or may have stumbled upon it.
So you are on one of the most important journeys of your life. You may have just begun. If so, congratulations. You must've heard or read it a million times before, and it does sound cliched, but you are indeed the bearer of a most precious gift. Money may be able to purchase it these days, but it is a gift nonetheless. Even if you're not religious, you must believe in the force of nature which makes possible this miracle that we call a soul, that no amount of science in the world will be able to produce.
If you're halfway through, I have felt your pain. Take pride and comfort in the fact that you're pregnant, eight little letters that can evoke the most extreme of emotions in people. Enjoy your pregnancy – and your life as a wife or a non-'dependee'. And know that no matter how much research you do, stories like this letter you are reading, advice you accept, you will never be prepared enough for motherhood. That's what makes discovery fun.
If you're almost there, take some time to reflect on your life before the Big Day. Go for a stroll with your husband or significant other. Start a blog or a journal to write down all the ideas and memories and opinions you have about the way you see the world. This is to remind yourself, after that Big Day, who you were. And to witness for yourself just how much motherhood will change you six months from now.
Now here's why I came to write this letter.
I have two beautiful daughters. Raeven turned four today, and every year on her birthday because she's my first child, I reflect on the year that was her life. I look at her baby pictures from the day she was born until now. I look at that personal journal I was talking about, about my life before I had her and then after. I cry a little at how much I've changed as a woman. I feel sad and happy about many things. Guilt and relief at some of the choices I've made.
But most of all, I feel blessed.
Same goes with Skyler, my 19-month old. She was born 10 weeks premature and had Patent Ductus Artereosis, confining her to the ICU for 53 days. For 53 days, I went to the hospital once, sometimes twice a day, to see and touch her not only because I was sick with worry, but because the doctors said it would help her develop. For 53 days, I pumped breastmilk and brought it to her (and you know how difficult that is when your baby isn't at home with you, I had to look at her picture to get the juices flowing). In 53 days, I learned to drive my ass through busy traffic to the hospital by myself, which was about 15 minutes away, up the narrow carpark building, and my licence was just one month old then.
For 52 days, I cried everyday, blaming myself for whatever it was I did that made me go into pre-term labour, praying to God to spare Skyler's life for whatever I did wrong. On the 53rd day, I cried tears of joy because the doctors let me take her home – but not without making sure I could care for her on my own (she had apnea).
People say you start to look at the things you take for granted when something bad happens. That is a shame, but it is true. I never appreciated my blessings until Skyler came along, making the 53 days not only the most challenging, but the most contemplated time of my life.
I breastfed Raeven only for two months and blame my confinement lady then for secretly feeding her formula when I could've stayed vigilant about giving my daughter the very best I could give.
I took my in-laws for granted, letting them care for her while I continued to work, thinking that she was better left with them than a maid, when all I was doing was depriving a child of the attention and love only a parent can give. I could've re-evaluated my priorities (I was a freelance writer) given the blessing that my husband was earning enough to keep us moving along. Instead, I chose to work for that extra money which I thought would give us a better life with the expensive vacations and 4X4 car and branded clothes.
I took the easy way out – yes, working hard and earing money IS the easy way out – and never thought that I would be missing out so much on my kids. And more importantly, that they would be missing out on me, especially Rae, who was practically raised by my in-laws until we came to the US.
Giving up your career and opting out and breastfeeding or being a homemaker or stay-at-home mom – these things are not about trying to be a hero. They are not regressive or backward but rather, life-changing, heart-breaking decisions that took a LOT of sacrifice to make, particularly today when anything is possible for a woman.
But being a woman is nothing compared to being a mother.
Parenting will be the most important role you'll ever play as a person. Sure, many working career mothers who never breastfed or coslept with their kids still raised great individuals. But I'm pretty sure it's not because of the designer clothes or expensive holidays or big house your hard-earned money and time away from them bought. And frankly, I would like to meet one of these women whose kids have now become useful individuals and shake their hand, because God, I sure could'nt have done it without sacrificing something essential, like my sanity.
Or my kids.
I'm not advocating that you should give up your career to be mother of the year. But ask yourself one question: of all the sacrifices you are NOT WILLING to make, which is the LEAST painful that you can make, that will benefit your child the most?
The answer is breastfeeding.
After two kids and knowing perhaps close to a hundred other young moms, I find the decision NOT to breastfeed the most selfish one a mother can ever make. I cannot tell you how much I regret not having nursed Raeven (I nursed Skyler until she weaned herself off at nine months) as long as I should've, and all because some people told me I wasn't producing enough and I believed them.
You probably have read and heard about all the benefits of nursing, so I won't reiterate them here. And still, the decision can be so difficult to make, simply because of how it inconveniences one's life.
The thing is, it's not even inconvenient.
So mothers-to-be, and new mommies who are on the verge of giving up – heed this. Without my breastmilk, Skyler would've stayed at the hospital with PDA much longer. Think about all the benefits of breastmilk you are depriving your child that no formula in the world in the world can substitute. Think about the fact that your baby has no immune system until he or she is six months and relies on the antibodies your milk contains to protect them.
And if that doesn't work, think about the fact that you won't even need to get up five times each night if you learn to nurse your baby with him/her sleeping next to you. Or the fact that you won't need to lug out warm water and tupperwares of formula and bottles everytime you go out. Just your boobs, diapers, wipes and you're good to go.
Breastfeed, my friends. It's the least you can do.
Watch what you say. Or not.
Speaking out and speaking right seems to be the underlying theme in today's Seattle Times.
Browsing the 10-inch thick Sunday edition, I saw several truly engaging pieces, one of which struck a chord in me that resonates with all that I believe in the power of words. Especially racially charged ones.
Fortunately, there's an online version.
I could not help but wonder what will happen 50 years in the future when one is allowed to say anything one wishes, using whatever language one sees fit to use, abusing honourable concepts such as 'freedom of speech' and blaming it on evolution and/or popular culture.
And then there's this piece. And this.
What in Pete's name is going on with people?
It’s good to question
Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe (John 20:19-29).
That is one verse that is harder and harder to live by these days.
Being one of the gullible, dim and sadly wayward Christians – if I can still claim that affiliation not having gone to church or picked up the bible in more than 18 years – who thought the Da Vinci Code was one of the most intriguing works of fiction ever written about my faith, this is exactly why I still think the book is worth a read.
Excerpting…
In fact, Brown's conspiracy theories can be portals to knowledge. Before "The Da Vinci Code," the general public had little interest in the legitimate historic actors and events Brown mangles and misconstrues, including the Council of Nicea in 325 and medieval phenomena such as the Priory of Sion, the Knights Templar and quests for the Holy Grail. Numerous books and Web sites about them have been produced since the novel's publication in 2003. Just as Brown captures readers by convincing them they're hearing a dangerous truth, these works are especially exciting as they reveal the truth Brown won't tell us.
Nevertheless, truth is a complicated matter. Although unacquainted with facts, "The Da Vinci Code" has become a phenomenon because it encompasses so many larger truths…
At a time when most writers confront "small" ideas — often an individual's search for self-understanding — Brown's book satisfies our hunger for big ideas. At play is nothing less than the greatest story ever told.
Perhaps what is so scary to the faithful, is if the Da Vinci Code will drive the 20 million or so dim-witted half-Christians who have bought and read the book to apostasy. The irony is while we believe this book and movie to be nothing more than silly fiction, we are still afraid of its impact that we have congregated by the millions to protest against it.
Love it or hate it, it raises one important question: Is it so wrong to question what we think we know about Jesus, God, His word and the church, even if it is prompted by popular culture? Is our faith so shaky that it will not withstand worldwide scrutiny?
At best, the book makes Christians strong in their belief stronger.
At worst, it will prompt those of us in doubt to search harder for the truth.
Thing is, those of us who find it hard to believe but still do even when we have not seen, are protecting our right to WANT to see. Blind faith isn't the only kind of faith worth having.
Or is it?
My Idol take
Okay so I just got the news about Chris.
Although I'm also tired of the whole rocker thing after last season's Constantine and the whole INXS shindig, I honestly also thought Daughtry will sail through to the top. What a shocker, eh?
Now there's no clear winner. Only Elliott is left in my top four list which I made at the beginning of the season. And as much as I like Hicks for his goofy persona, he isn't as marketable as McPhee.
Or is he?
I'm officially stumped. Plus you never know what American mobile phone owners and American Idol fans will vote for in the end. I mean, c'mon. Outing both Paris Bennett and Chris Daughtry really shows you the musical leanings of the demographic's majority.
I sure as hell am not going to spend $$ voting now that the two best Idols are gone. Sorry, my (husband's) money is only for real talents!
Hurting to heal
It is reading reports such as this, that makes me feel blessed.
Sad, but blessed.
I don't know how it feels to want to hurt myself physically. Of course, I hope I never will. I guess this is the blessing I speak of, not coming to a point where the only way to deal with pain, is more pain.
Not a lot of people in Malaysia – people close to me included – think about depression, much less take the effort and time to understand or accept it. It is a frou-frou non-ailment to us. It isn't physical, like cancer or leukemia, and therefore it cannot exist. It cannot be healed, and most of the time, it cannot kill, and therefore it is paltry.
And when it does manifest itself physically through deeds such of suicide or murder, we shake our heads at it, dismissing it as a random act by a crazy person who is already beyond help.
Thing is, people get depressed all the time, and not know it. It is not so much as suspecting that one is depressed and then refusing to take control of the situation before it gets worse, than just going through episodes of semi-conscious sadnes. You know you feel crappy but think it will pass, and before you know it, you can't remember the last time you smiled or laughed.
"It's all in the mind," Lokes would say. That is true, and that's exactly why depression is so hard to manage. If we could all command our brains to think properly so that we can act properly, the world would be a much better place. And if we know we cannot always tell our thoughts not to misbehave, why do we find it so hard to accept that they can very well run wild one day?
The day we figure out what makes us tick (or rather the bombs in us tick), we just need to take better care of ourselves, both physically and mentally.
"I'm not crazy," said a friend of mine whom I thought could use a few sessions on the couch.
"Well, not yet," I'd told her.
The changing face of journalism
Another interesting Digg I dug.
This makes me think about three things.
First is literacy. Believe it or not, literacy rates in the US have changed little. What is our literacy rate in Malaysia? Still, more and more people will read one day, especially since emphasis on education has been strong everywhere in the last few decades. The generations born on and after 1990 are hitting blogging age (the youngest are 16 this year), and we will see the blog explosion continue to ripple through. What will a child of 16 years do today, if he doesn't read or write? 11 years still seems insufficient to me.
Second is separating the REAL reporting from the bad. Citizen journalism is on the rise, MSM is on the decline and/or looking to 'supplement' reporters with bloggers. This results in:
- more bloggers, good AND bad
- less jobs for reporters/writers/journalists – MSM becomes even more discriminating of who they hire.
- maybe rise in more jobs for fact-checkers and editors?
Which leads me to my third point: The rapidly declining worth of a Mass. Comm. / Journalism degree. Good luck to all who are still taking it. Might as well change your course.
And start your own blog.
As it turns out…
…Jesus might've walked on ice instead of water.
And the parting of the Red Sea was actually the result of strong winds instead of having been separated by the very hand of God Himself as commanded by Moses.
As a Christian, I have NO doubt that these scientific explanations can be true. Does it make me less of a Christian? Not at all.
I believe these miracles happened. If strong winds were to part the Red Sea today, and ocean water froze hard enough to be walked on, we would still call them miracles.
Well, some would call it global warming.
A rose, by any other name.
Finding a scientific explanation for a biblical miracle doesn't take away the miraculousness of the event. In fact, you might even find God if you drill down to the molecular level of every living being and every miraculous – and everyday – occurence.
And that is faith.
Will we never learn?
It is EXACTLY things like this that make me ashamed of being a Chinese.
And this.
And this.
And this.
It's one thing to sell fake handbags to willing buyers.
And quite another to sell fake milk powder to unknowing mothers.
And now chemically created eggs.
What other people in the world openly commit so many of such crimes, without remorse and without restraint, all in the pursuit of wealth?
When will we ever learn?
Talking nonsense is the new black
We, human beings of the 21st century, are finding it harder and harder to restrain ourselves.
And what with things like blogs where all and sundry can read about what we do or think, the temptation of having one's voice resonate across the universe is just too darn difficult to resist.
Last weekend, the indefatigable Scoble got lynched by the Let Blogging be Free! mob for suggesting that all bloggers who link to non-credible media like The Register be derided.
I cannot help but notice:
- Australia’s Smarthouse, which is said to be untrustworthy, publishes a story about 60% Windows Vista’s code having to be rewritten, and people jump on the hate wagon ever so readily
- Microsoft’s famous corp blogger bitches about people who link to these sites and he ALSO gets mobbed
It’s like watching gazelle sweeping one way and then another.
Or coyotes, rather.
No doubt, Scoble might’ve over-reacted but the question he seems to ask is valid: Whatever happened to finding out the truth, and people's better sense of judgment when deciding to give (or not give) their support to a certain issue, even if it's just a link? It's not just that everyone's always so ready to deride Microsoft or Apple or Google simply because they're mega-gajillionaires. It's also because when they see something 'scoopalicious' and just jump on it because of the traffic it will bring to their blogs.
Never mind editorial truthfulness. What happened to plain INTEGRITY?
It’s as though everyone’s so intent on their right to free speech that they’ve forgotten that sometimes, it’s better to just keep quiet.
No, cannot. Must. Blog. Must. Grab. Traffic!!
Is NOT blogging about something you think might be iffy censorship? I call it good old-fashioned self-restraint, which is the mark of any mature, sensible person.
The Chinese have a saying: If you don't say anything, nobody will say you're mute. So the real challenge isn't in blogging intelligently.
It's in keeping mum.
Shutting up now!
Ps. For something truly ridiculous, read this.