Many a time while picking a book for leisure read, say during flight, people would find one which appears to be less serious. Preferably not related to work.
Me too. Even though I'm in the middle of reading Glass Jaw: A Manifesto for Defending Fragile Reputations in an Age of Instant Scandal, somehow I cannot resist putting away this book from my luggage for my short conference trip this weekend. Instead, I brought with me a novel not yet started: Small Great Things by Jodi Picoult.
As the story unfolded, I realized that's about a labour and delivery ward with an emotional - a very emotional one, I might add - epic of childbirth. After a few pages, I had a hunch (and it later proved to be pretty accurate) that it would remind me of recent stories in my hospital. As my eyes adjusted to the lighting in the air cabin, I tried to see what the mother see: the saddest story of leaving the labour ward without the baby she went in to have. There are few things scarier than those three letters CPR in a labour and delivery ward. My heart tightened. Every page I turned, I registered a little jolt of electric shock.
Page after page. Jolt by jolt. More than enough to keep my pulse throbbing in my eardrums.
Saturday, February 18, 2017
Friday, February 17, 2017
Morning
When I decided to take half day off for my daughter's parent-teacher conference, I envisioned a pilgrimage to meet her class teacher. I made plan well ahead and booked the time slot as early as we were allowed. Perfect plan.
Only it wasn't. As it turned out, the conference was cancelled because the teacher had urgent family matter. I smiled. My wife smiled, too, when she heard that I won't drop my leave plan.
I looked her square in the eye. "I know I should spend the morning with our daughter, after hearing the common and repeated regret from many others that they'd worked exhausting hours through their children's preteen years and later, when they had the bounty of the time this work produced, their kids were gone."
We then started to go through the plethora of plans to celebrate this extra holiday. As my daughter picked the playground next to our previous home, my mind drifted back to the days when she learned walking and running there.
Within minutes of entering the playground, we were surrounded by a crowd of Japanese students who were having school outing. Which is why we need more than one plan. After a while, we headed to the public library right next to the playground. Oh great. Lots of lots of books, from fictions to science books. Another heavenly place to spend a morning.
Only it wasn't. As it turned out, the conference was cancelled because the teacher had urgent family matter. I smiled. My wife smiled, too, when she heard that I won't drop my leave plan.
I looked her square in the eye. "I know I should spend the morning with our daughter, after hearing the common and repeated regret from many others that they'd worked exhausting hours through their children's preteen years and later, when they had the bounty of the time this work produced, their kids were gone."
We then started to go through the plethora of plans to celebrate this extra holiday. As my daughter picked the playground next to our previous home, my mind drifted back to the days when she learned walking and running there.
Within minutes of entering the playground, we were surrounded by a crowd of Japanese students who were having school outing. Which is why we need more than one plan. After a while, we headed to the public library right next to the playground. Oh great. Lots of lots of books, from fictions to science books. Another heavenly place to spend a morning.
Tuesday, February 14, 2017
Valentine
Just because you've tied the knots for long time doesn't mean that Valentine's Day has to be boring. Not when you've married a lovely wife and fathered a thoughtful daughter.
You'll know when your wife bought a card and your seven-year-old wrote with oodles of heart. Guess what? My daughter didn't just write a card to her "super duper silly daddy" tonight. She went to buy chocolates for my wife after her clarinet class.
No wonder we love Jasmine a lifetime and are so thankful she is in our lives.
You'll know when your wife bought a card and your seven-year-old wrote with oodles of heart. Guess what? My daughter didn't just write a card to her "super duper silly daddy" tonight. She went to buy chocolates for my wife after her clarinet class.
No wonder we love Jasmine a lifetime and are so thankful she is in our lives.
Sunday, February 12, 2017
Home
One of the most important things I have ever learnt from John Ahern's family story is the meaning of home to children.
Pretend that you're bringing your family to a year-long European vacation on a campervan, like what John Ahern did. One day, you find a furry grey mouse scurrying around the campervan floor. Wait - there is a lot more. I haven't told you the next thing you see is smoke billowing out of the engine.
Well, there isn't much you can do except sending the campervan to the mechanic and moving into a one-bedroom apartment with your wife and two kids. Few activities are as boring as waiting for the engine parts to arrive, which is more or less like putting out rat poison and then waiting for the rat to die.
And then your kid raises a question with the gravitas of a grown-up who knows everything, "When are we going home?"
Good question. The question makes your stomach crawl.
"Well," you answer nervously, "we've still got lots of places to go. And eventually you'll go home." To get your message across, you know you should hide the fact that you miss your bedroom at home too.
That's exactly the question John Ahern had to answer his kids. I remember my daughter asking the same question when we brought her to camping at the age of three. A question both John Ahern and I had heard wrongly. His son was actually asking "Yes, but when are we going home? When are we going back to Franki (the name of campervan)?" And my daughter was referring home to the tent.
Lesson learnt: Home is about the people, how we connect and care for each other, not some designated pile of bricks and mortar with new couches and the latest flat screen TV.
Pretend that you're bringing your family to a year-long European vacation on a campervan, like what John Ahern did. One day, you find a furry grey mouse scurrying around the campervan floor. Wait - there is a lot more. I haven't told you the next thing you see is smoke billowing out of the engine.
Well, there isn't much you can do except sending the campervan to the mechanic and moving into a one-bedroom apartment with your wife and two kids. Few activities are as boring as waiting for the engine parts to arrive, which is more or less like putting out rat poison and then waiting for the rat to die.
And then your kid raises a question with the gravitas of a grown-up who knows everything, "When are we going home?"
Good question. The question makes your stomach crawl.
"Well," you answer nervously, "we've still got lots of places to go. And eventually you'll go home." To get your message across, you know you should hide the fact that you miss your bedroom at home too.
That's exactly the question John Ahern had to answer his kids. I remember my daughter asking the same question when we brought her to camping at the age of three. A question both John Ahern and I had heard wrongly. His son was actually asking "Yes, but when are we going home? When are we going back to Franki (the name of campervan)?" And my daughter was referring home to the tent.
Lesson learnt: Home is about the people, how we connect and care for each other, not some designated pile of bricks and mortar with new couches and the latest flat screen TV.
Friday, February 10, 2017
Silly Dad
A confession: I’d dreamt of nomadic adventure on a campervan when I was young. Hands up if you think the dream is romantic. Yes, it might seem so at first blush, but it’s a big leap out of our comfort zone.
So before you get fooled into craving a year-long campervan trip with your wife and kids, go read the book On the Road … with Kids by John Ahern. He quit his job, rented out the house and spent a whole year on the road. With his wife, a four-year-old girl and a two-year-old boy. That’s a story funnier and sillier than Peppa Pig. I nearly fell off the chair laughing at his struggle with the chemical toilet.
As I read on, I couldn’t hide the flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck. Those are the oh-so-familiar silly stories of Daddy Pig (read “every daddy” – me included). When his kid bumped his head or had nosebleed, there was the oh-so-familiar calling “Mummy! I want mummy!” Ditto for playground fight and disaster. The daddy was so accustomed to being second fiddle to Mum in those moments. To put this in John Ahern's terms, daddy usually stands by, “as wanted and useful as tits on a bull.” I have to agree.
So before you get fooled into craving a year-long campervan trip with your wife and kids, go read the book On the Road … with Kids by John Ahern. He quit his job, rented out the house and spent a whole year on the road. With his wife, a four-year-old girl and a two-year-old boy. That’s a story funnier and sillier than Peppa Pig. I nearly fell off the chair laughing at his struggle with the chemical toilet.
As I read on, I couldn’t hide the flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck. Those are the oh-so-familiar silly stories of Daddy Pig (read “every daddy” – me included). When his kid bumped his head or had nosebleed, there was the oh-so-familiar calling “Mummy! I want mummy!” Ditto for playground fight and disaster. The daddy was so accustomed to being second fiddle to Mum in those moments. To put this in John Ahern's terms, daddy usually stands by, “as wanted and useful as tits on a bull.” I have to agree.
Monday, January 30, 2017
Technology
Those of us born before 1980 learned by literally reading. Page by page.
Not any more for the newer generations. So often in the current day-to-day lives we're inundated with information from the Internet, with twenty-four-hour accessible information juxtaposed with digital images. Click after click.
Embedded in devices like the iPod, iPhone, and the iPad are clues to the whole new world - be it the virtual world of Pikachu or that of Khan Academy's electronic blackboard. The fact that we're all hooked on technology means there is no exception, not even my seven-year-old daughter. Rather than saying either an absolute yes or no to the screen, we can still be a wise guide to our kids, finding ways to navigate the electronic pedagogue. A wise parent knows at what point in the learning tool each is best.
That also calls for a careful balance between form and freedom. When we travel, my daughter is often glued to her book on my wife's car. Of course I love this activity (and that of selecting books for her trip). But heigh-ho. There is no point trying to bring her books every time. (And by "every time" I mean "almost daily and twice on Sundays.") For that matter, wouldn't it be great to give her a break? I passed my iPhone to her, for example, after she'd finished reading the picture book Zen Socks on our way home tonight. That's for her to scroll down the National Geographic pages on my Instagram app. And, voila, what followed are hundreds of "likes" she gave those pictures of natural beauty and landscapes.
Not any more for the newer generations. So often in the current day-to-day lives we're inundated with information from the Internet, with twenty-four-hour accessible information juxtaposed with digital images. Click after click.
Embedded in devices like the iPod, iPhone, and the iPad are clues to the whole new world - be it the virtual world of Pikachu or that of Khan Academy's electronic blackboard. The fact that we're all hooked on technology means there is no exception, not even my seven-year-old daughter. Rather than saying either an absolute yes or no to the screen, we can still be a wise guide to our kids, finding ways to navigate the electronic pedagogue. A wise parent knows at what point in the learning tool each is best.
That also calls for a careful balance between form and freedom. When we travel, my daughter is often glued to her book on my wife's car. Of course I love this activity (and that of selecting books for her trip). But heigh-ho. There is no point trying to bring her books every time. (And by "every time" I mean "almost daily and twice on Sundays.") For that matter, wouldn't it be great to give her a break? I passed my iPhone to her, for example, after she'd finished reading the picture book Zen Socks on our way home tonight. That's for her to scroll down the National Geographic pages on my Instagram app. And, voila, what followed are hundreds of "likes" she gave those pictures of natural beauty and landscapes.
Sunday, January 15, 2017
Clarinet
My daughter joined a clarinet class two weeks ago when I was reading Angela Duckworth's Grit. There are two powerful lessons I take from this book.
First, we need grit but we can quit, as long as we don't quit on a bad day. I still remember signing up my daughter for a music class when she was about three years old. Like a lot of parents (and not necessarily Tiger Mother), I had a secret wish that my girl will commit to music and piano. She tried and struggled. We didn't quit until the term (and that lasted for more than two years) was over, the tuition payment was up, and the end-of-the-term performance had been done. She didn't quit till the day we'd committed ourselves. Phew!
The uncertainty about if my daughter likes music was disturbing to us. So disturbing, in fact, that for the last one year, my wife and I didn't sign her up for another musical lesson. The decision to try clarinet came after a discussion of various other classes my daughter could have chosen. She didn't even have to pick one. Not a must.
The second lesson from Grit is nobody works doggedly on something they don't find interesting. Before hard work comes play. A degree of autonomy during the early years is conducive to building passion in the long run. Clarinet is an instrument of my daughter's choice. As it turned out, we needn't have worried. At the start of her clarinet class, what she needs is encouragement and freedom to figure out what she enjoys. Yes, she needs to practice. But not too much and not too soon. My daughter adjusts well to her daily practice. And daily small wins, I wish.
First, we need grit but we can quit, as long as we don't quit on a bad day. I still remember signing up my daughter for a music class when she was about three years old. Like a lot of parents (and not necessarily Tiger Mother), I had a secret wish that my girl will commit to music and piano. She tried and struggled. We didn't quit until the term (and that lasted for more than two years) was over, the tuition payment was up, and the end-of-the-term performance had been done. She didn't quit till the day we'd committed ourselves. Phew!
The uncertainty about if my daughter likes music was disturbing to us. So disturbing, in fact, that for the last one year, my wife and I didn't sign her up for another musical lesson. The decision to try clarinet came after a discussion of various other classes my daughter could have chosen. She didn't even have to pick one. Not a must.
The second lesson from Grit is nobody works doggedly on something they don't find interesting. Before hard work comes play. A degree of autonomy during the early years is conducive to building passion in the long run. Clarinet is an instrument of my daughter's choice. As it turned out, we needn't have worried. At the start of her clarinet class, what she needs is encouragement and freedom to figure out what she enjoys. Yes, she needs to practice. But not too much and not too soon. My daughter adjusts well to her daily practice. And daily small wins, I wish.
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