the bottomsup blog

I spotted this home organisation guide recently and thought it was pretty ironic that while most of my own stuff was in a mess, I’d taken some care to store Layla’s things nicely and neatly!

I use these for Layla’s dolls, doll accessories, and furniture, as well as her cooking toys and personal memorabilia (cards and such). I know exactly what’s in all of the suitcases, and so does she! The girly suitcases are from The Little Happyshop and Papermarket, and the Smurfs vintage suitcase is from Junkie’s Corner.

I used to worry a lot about dust traps; I think most Asian moms do! With this home I’ve decided to relax a little and use open storage methods, and we haven’t been sneezing any more than usual. The tin pails are from IKEA and Daiso.

I’ve discovered that you can pop anything into a glass bottle or container and it’ll instantly look like a collection fit for display! Glassware from IKEA.

This was a Christmas pressie from Layla’s grandmother but I wasn’t too crazy about having Layla get on it. It’s a bit on the small (and flimsy) side. But I like the colours and it works great as shoe storage!

How do you organise your kiddy things?

I wrote a short post titled “Confessions of a WAHM” back in ’08. Sounds like something I could’ve written yesterday, so much for progress!

Sometimes I envy stay-home moms who don’t have to figure out how to fit work into the equation and make something meaningful of it. Other times I look at my peers with their fast cars and fancy apartments and wonder how they got there so quickly.

I guess that sums up the WAHM’s state of mind: We’re always caught in the middle.

With full-time working mums pining for their kids and stay-home mums wishing they had cash to call their own, work-at-home mums would appear to have the best of both worlds.

Well I’ve been a work-at-home mum (or WAHM) for 19 months and counting now, and here’s the deal:

* There hasn’t been a whole lot of paid work—I consider myself lucky if I make enough money to spend each month, and Alf has already bailed me out a couple of times with bonus money. Not to mention he usually pays for dinner.

* I’m not the best housekeeper in the world, and we have a part-timer coming in to pick up the slack for me.

* I haven’t cooked a single meal in the past month, aside from instant noodles for myself.

* I’m often sleepy in the mornings.

* I haven’t taught Layla all that much. (Lately she says “fart” every time she farts but I don’t think she got that from me.)

* I vacuum a lot though!

Photo courtesy Ron.

I‘ve been a mother for all of six years, and in the last couple of years I’ve stopped doling out parenting advice. Why? Well I’m the sort of mom that if you passed me on the street, you might catch me saying such unsavoury things as “I’m gonna whack you if you spit out your antibiotics later!” I’ve stopped paying attention to the details, like how much Layla eats or the state of her poo or whether the paracetamol she was prescribed was the 125mg or 250mg version. Every kid-filled moment in my day is no longer a potential teachable or treasured moment, but one that will get me closer to the ultimate goal of 8.30PM, where my two kids shut down and I can finally live for me and me alone.

But now and then I imagine a first-time mother-to-be coming to me for the truth, and I think this is what I would say to her:

#1 You’ll have to work at loving your kids. Sometimes you’ll have to fake it.

I never realised until I heard the Aimee Mann song “Save Me” that one of my deepest fears was that I belonged “in the ranks of the freaks, who suspect they could never love anyone.”

I’ve been called a few names in this lifetime. Cold. Disconnected. Self-absorbed. When I decide someone is no longer relevant in my life, I walk and I don’t look back. I don’t have too many encounters with guilt—not even mom guilt—and I can’t remember the last time I felt truly sorry for someone in real life. I’m better at relating to something that’s up on a screen, with a reality that’s a million miles away. I’ve looked up the antisocial personality disorder and found myself nodding at some of the symptoms. I’ve even entertained the thought that, in an alternate universe, I might’ve made a good contract killer. Except I can’t aim to save my life, much less shoot to kill. That, and I’m so bad at recognising faces that Layla needs to help me out. Well I guess the world is a better place for it—one less psycho to worry about!

When I had Layla, I hadn’t spoken to my family in three years, which meant Alf was my only family. In those days we had the sort of relationship where you woke up not knowing if it was going to be a good day or one that would end with one of us (i.e. me) reaching for the other’s throat. I dreaded Layla’s arrival, mostly because I didn’t need another anchor in my life that I couldn’t love.

How does someone like me deal with motherhood? My favourite mantra for dealing with life comes in handy here: Fake it till you make it. (I’m not the first parent to advise this.)

I’ve lied to my daughter only once in all this time, and that was when she asked me if I loved her right from the moment I met her as a baby, fresh out in this world. And I said, yes, of course.

The reality is that when I first saw Layla, I felt nothing. Nada. Zilch. But she was mine and I was supposed to mind her, so I did. I’m a responsible person. My lack of emotion wasn’t a surprise, and it didn’t bother me. But months passed, and one day it dawned on me that I did love her, although it probably wasn’t a healthy sort of love. I regarded my baby girl with a reverence and devotion typical of someone who had discovered true love for the first time, and I vowed to keep her growing years perfect and free from anyone or anything that could taint the possibility of what she could become—woe be to you if you should say the wrong thing around her or even get her the wrong toy (plastic! battery-operated! Disney!). I was a mom on a mission, and it filled my whole being.

Layla turns six in August, and recently after one of those days that had gone on too long, where everything had morphed into something to be complained, whined, or cried about, she came to me with a question:

“Mommy do you like me?”

And this time I answered with the truth.

“Sometimes you can be hard to like.”

Here’s the thing, it’s easy to lavish affection on a baby or a kid who hasn’t outgrown his cuteness. It’s easy (relatively speaking) when you’ve only got one kid to worry about. I read mom blogs—the serious, earnest ones that I no longer relate to—and I recognise that I used to be exactly the same way: Infinitely patient, encouraging, and accepting, and constantly fretting about how each new experience might affect my child. It sounds like a chore but it was practically effortless.

These days I’m generally underwhelmed by my motherhood duties, or maybe I’m too sleepy to care. “Mommy I won a prize for raising my hand and answering a question!“—which once upon a time was a cause for celebration—is now met with “Mmmmmm… great. Come get your lunch.” As my daughter grows older and develops a mind of her own, it takes more effort to ruffle her hair, smile sweetly at her, and say “I love you” with feeling. It takes even more effort to forgive transgressions, however minor in the grand scheme of things. (She did spit out the meds—in three places!—and she did get a smacking, but she’s over it and instead I’m the one who’s still smarting.)

I once thought Layla and I would have the sort of relationship where we could talk about anything (a mom said to me it’s because we’ve all bought into the Gilmore Girls fantasy), but two days ago she came into my room in tears to “confess” that she’d made a mark on the wall, one so tiny that I could barely see it. Honestly I’m more likely to be mistaken for the wicked stepmother than Lorelai Gilmore! I have no idea what those Mothers’ Day cards are going on about, but surely they’re not talking about me. My point is, it takes hard work to love your kids right, but sometimes just getting through the day is work and you don’t have anything left to give.

#2 If pregnancy doesn’t wreck your body, there’s always the delivery.

I know we all dread the post-delivery tummy, jelly belly, mum tum or whatever you might call it. But at least we’re all in it together. And it’s almost adorable to tell the story of how you peed by mistake the first couple of days after, and thought maybe it was your water bag bursting all over again. It happens to enough people and it’s easy enough to fix. Most times Kegels will do the trick.

Less common is what I had after Z: Postpartum anal incontinence. This strikes only one in four moms and here’s what it’s about:

You’re struggling with postpartum fecal incontinence, which means you have difficulty controlling bowel movements or passing gas after you’ve given birth. (Not too common and not too pretty, either.) You might experience anything from a feeling of pressure to actual soiling without warning. In addition, most women with fecal incontinence find it difficult to control when (and where!) they pass gas after pregnancy or even to differentiate gas from that got-to-go feeling.

I didn’t actually soil anything but the gas bit was true for me, which made me feel like one of those loser characters in a slapstick comedy except that it really wasn’t very funny. If this happens to you, DO NOT take acidophilus pills or anything that’s supposed to aid digestion. I did, and I spent one night dashing into the bathroom every five minutes so that my hospital room wouldn’t turn into a total stinkfest. Thank god I didn’t have a roommate!

It took me about eight weeks and thousands of Kegels to get everything working properly again, or at least enough for me to have a normal social life. Not everyone recovers without treatment, and there’s no average timeframe for healing. I didn’t have the blues but I was pretty miserable about this, and I was already googling treatment centres and spending hours reading horror stories about other incontinent folk and how they coped, as well as how natural deliveries could even lead to tears that cause your bowels to leak into your vagina or urinary tract! That’s called a fistula, it’s nasty, and it ruins lives.

If I had to give any advice, I’d say go with as natural a delivery as you can, preferably without the drugs, and get a doctor who can support you through this. My delivery with Z was definitely over-managed, which led to unnecessary pressures and injuries. Well, that’s my opinion anyway.

And oh, my belly’s still a lot fleshier and saggier than I’d like it to be. But I’m quick to remind myself that well, it could’ve been a hell lot worse. Continue Reading »

It’s my turn to ‘fess up on my feelings about motherhood and I’m working on it. Oh all right, here’s the awful truth: I haven’t started yet!

In the meantime I’ll have to redirect you to two of my favourite bloggers and their posts, which were written straight from the heart.

My friend Jayne, a mom of three, has linked to this blog with a list that she made on a day that wasn’t all happiness and sunshine. List-making can be quite therapeutic really! I once decided not to mope around after a fight with Alf, and I’d love to tell you that I channelled my energies positively, but what I ended up doing was creating a list dedicated to my husband and his flaws.

Unfortunately, the list went up to over 100 items. Even more unfortunate: Alf discovered and read the entire list.

In one of my stories next week, I’ll be talking a little more about this list and how it affected our marriage.

Just a couple of hours ago, my best buddy Ron wrote a reflective piece on boredom and trying to keep your soul from emptying out, which I reckon some of us can identify with:

A couple of years ago, I was constantly bored with my life. To fill the void inside of me, I signed myself up for driving lessons and tap dance classes, and I announced to myself that I’d try anything once as long as it didn’t kill me. I even took up Hindi classes and went out with people I didn’t usually hang out with. I was scared of being bored, I felt I was wasting my life away.

But that void in me was insatiable. It kept wanting more. So the more I stuffed things into it, the hollower I felt.

I’ll be back tomorrow! And remember, if you have a B-side story to share, you can leave a comment here or e-mail me.

It can be difficult to reconcile that something so universally associated with love—expansive, deep, unconditional—can be intertwined with so much dysfunction, anxiety, and resentment.

Mother and child photos overwhelmingly project tenderness, affection and warmth—think radiance, toothy grins, and spontaneous laughter. Same for the modern day family (consider condo ads).

Since I became a mother in September 2011, I’ve frequently been asked: “How is it?” Non-parents seem curious or expectant, while parents appear knowing but vague; “You know how it is” often litters our exchanges, but I’m frequently left pondering: “Do I really?”

Many a weary, teary, vomit-soaked moment (usually when I sneak off to the bathroom and have a satisfying body-trembling-but-no-sound-emerging type cry), I wondered: How come no one told me about this? “This” being the other moments and emotions besides the delight and excitement that accompanies baby’s “firsts”—the first smile, the first rollover, the first wobbly step. Then one day, instead of typing “latching” or “sleep schedules,” I decided to Google some other terms— motherhood + isolation, motherhood + ambivalence, motherhood + envy—and unearthed plenty to keep a sleep-deprived mummy occupied.

Still, I didn’t find it easy or comfortable to tell people (even those really close to me) how I really felt about motherhood. So when Eve asked if I would contribute to her blog with some “B-sides,” I thought it was the perfect opportunity to reflect on and be honest about how I feel/felt about motherhood. Here are some ugly truths:

#1 I hated breastfeeding. I attended postnatal classes, and was utterly convinced of the merits of breastfeeding. The chart that compared breast milk to formula sealed it—why would a woman feed her baby something so nutritionally inferior (formula, bleurgh!) when we have something so complete that is produced naturally? What a wonderful system God created! I convinced my husband to buy me a special breastfeeding chair, seeing as I was going to be using it “all day,” and “at least a year.” Pfffffffffft!

It was hardly smooth sailing at the hospital, but from the day we left, it was downhill all the way. Soon, I was deep in the throes of feeding phobia—a sickening knot would develop in my stomach each time baby woke up, rooting for a feed. I would try to latch him, my body tense—he would latch (wrongly, and painfully), I would unlatch, he would howl, I would struggle to latch him again, and it either ended up with him poorly latched but suckling, me too exhausted to correct him, or both of us with tears streaming down our faces at yet another unsuccessful feeding. (And my husband would go: “Relax! You can’t breastfeed when you’re anxious!” Fortunately for him, it’s physically impossible to cradle hold a baby and curl your hands up into a fist at the same time so he escaped a black eye.)

Basically, it was less this:

And more… well, actually, I can’t seem to find a breastfeeding image of a sweaty, surly woman with crazy hair sticking out from behind a cheap hairband, struggling to latch.this.*#@&.little.monster on to her *@#*#.sore.nipples.

Two months and four (expensive!) sessions with three different lactation consultants later, I gave up latching baby completely. I spent the next month pumping (and labeling, chilling, warming up, washing, sterilizing—and again!) and supplementing with organic formula (guilt makes you pay more for what you believe is the best of the worst). Then I stopped pumping too.

There was, of course, guilt—then relief. Followed by a REAL cappuccino (bye-bye decaf).

*Disclaimer: I am not trying to discourage mothers from breastfeeding. In fact, if I ever have sex again and conceive another baby, I would give it another try.

#2 I hated having a baby. This is different from hating my baby. I would admit, though, that there were times in the first two months when I was seriously, deeply irritated with him. What sort of high-pitched, skin-crawling whiney cry is that? Will he just SHUT UP ALREADY? Doesn’t he know I’ve not had more than one hour of uninterrupted sleep since the day he was born? Speaking of which, does he know how PAINFUL that was?

While—thank heavens—I never harmed my baby physically, I did do a few things that scared me as much as it terrified him: I slammed a saucepan lid down on the kitchen counter and screamed: “QUIET!”; I also flung a box of baby wipes across the room and then sobbed as I hugged my wailing baby, blubbering: What do you want from mummy? What?

I never seriously considered “throwing in the towel” (whatever that means for a mother) but frequently fantasized about running away to a nameless (they’re harder to find!) seaside resort and sleeping 12 hours straight. Rather than be jolted awake by a piercing scream, I would rise to the sound of gentle ocean waves, sprightly and nourished; I’d have an uninterrupted hot shower, followed by a leisurely warm meal, and a luxurious afternoon of being engrossed in a book that had nothing to do with babies.

Reality would intrude slowly—I would mentally draw up a list of things I would have to prepare before secretly running away and, halfway through the exercise of determining what needs to be stocked up, washed/sterilized, frozen/unfrozen, and how maybe I should organize my runaway after Matt’s next vaccination (just in case, you know, he gets a fever), it would dawn on me that my dream of escaping drudgery had just been crushed by a running list of mundane tasks.

#3 I hated my husband. He who could still head out at night for jam sessions and “talk cock” with his band buddies, while I battled raging hormones and was confined to the house for my primary duty: lactation. He who could still wear the same pair of jeans he has worn for the last decade (though it is getting a wee tight around the waist). He who still wrote music, mixed music, and played music (his passion), while I feared constantly for my ability to think, write, or critically analyze anything more complicated than a soiled diaper. He who took on interesting new assignments, while I enacted little funerals in my head for the career I was hoping to revive in 2012. He who could stay up late to watch a “live” soccer match one night, but would be dead as a door knob the next when baby started hollering (again?).

#4 I hated other mothers. Ok, this is a little misleading. More accurately, I envied other mothers, and hated myself. There are the mothers with multiples—mothers who luurve being mums (I want that feeling!), who raise rambunctious but happy broods, and are cheerful and energetic. There’s also the crafty mum, who makes pretty, whimsical art from everyday items (and has time to blog about it!). Don’t forget the cooking mum, who whips up nutritious, organic meals, creates cute animal bento boxes and bakes delightful little party treats. I also idealized cool, laidback moms and wished for some of their laissez-faire chic—aah, kids, they seemed to shrug, unfazed and unirritated.

I struggled to find my “niche” as a mother and found myself neither sufficiently committed to be an attachment parent nor disciplined enough to implement a Ford-ist regime. I wasn’t dysfunctional enough to wave a white flag and surrender, but certainly didn’t feel I’d achieved anything exceptional (does the world rotate differently if my baby eats the lentil puree I made from scratch? Thought not!). So I inhabited this off-kilter place I’d call Neither Here Nor There, and would constantly be looking over my shoulder/into prams/websites/library books for validation, and wondering if there was a better, kinder, greener, healthier and overall less aggravating way to do all the different things a mum is expected to do.

I would also be anxiously peering outside the “Mummy Circle,” trying to contain the heartburn each time I had to reject an invitation (to a workshop, seminar, screening etc.). Potential job offers—regardless of whether I was really suited to such positions—could result in spontaneous combustions of the bewildering kind (for whoever was unfortunate enough to be present at the time). Continue Reading »

Someone recently told me that she hated reading Mommy blogs. She complained it gave her esteem issues. All these mommies did was to blog about the beautiful stuff they would bake with their kids and how life was all beautiful and how they loved every second of every day as a mother. I assured her that we weren’t all like that. In fact, I knew that I wasn’t. It took me a long time find my Mommy groove and even now, I go through periods where I feel like I am a bad mom.

I wanted to write something where I told the truth. I don’t think I have camouflaged the truth but blogging is about picking highlights and talking about them. It’s easy to not highlight the ugly bits or the bits that no one really wants to hear about. So anyway, here’s what I go through in a typical day:

I don’t usually get to wake up after it is light because Muffin has a body clock of a school-going child. He is up and chirpy at 6AM. He then potters around the house and waits for his siblings to get up before descending upon them, and depending on their morning mood, they either run amok around the house or screech at each other like banshees.

I try to remind myself that they are children and they will get up to shenanigans where they use the scissors and cut confetti-sized bits of paper and strew them all over the house. I try to not swear when I step on matchbox cars and have them give way under my feet only to get berated by my son for spoiling his toys.

Mostly, I am used to it and zen about it. But on occasion, it causes me to snap and I become a crazed, shouting mother. Nothing gets forgiven or swept aside. I go on a war path.

Today was one of those days. The house was already a mess by 7AM and every room in the house was fully lit and the fans whirring. Muffin climbed onto my expensive aluminium clothes rack and bent a bar like he was the Hulk. The twins, for whatever reason, chose to think that everything that came out of Mommy’s mouth could be ignored, so breakfast was half eaten for the longest time, the iPad was fought over as if it were the last electronic device on earth, my specific instructions to NOT use the pair of scissors was blatantly ignored. On top of that, there was whining to want to bring things like rulers and random pieces of paper and books to school, all to be done in the five minutes before the bus was due to pick them up.

So something in me snapped and I started yelling. I yelled at them for making more work for me to do. I yelled at them for not listening to instructions. I threw down what I was carrying because it was easier for me to accede to the whining than to have them go on like a broken record. There have been times when I kept up the yelling because at the back of my mind, I wanted to yell at them till they cried just because I was so frustrated with them.

It is not a good side of me. But it happens.

Often I am contrite about it and I remember the article I read some time ago (“You Just Broke Your Child“) and I wonder if my children will be scarred by the times that they’ve been yelled at by me.

I wish I could say I had it all under control. I wish I could be the Stepford mom, beautifully groomed and not a hair out of place. Most of the time, I would be lucky if my hair were in place and I didn’t look like I just got out of bed. There have been days where there was so much handling of the kids to do in the morning that it is only at 10AM where I remember I haven’t yet brushed my teeth.

As a mum, I know I shout too much, I sweat the small stuff, I get worked up over things I have no control over, and I make a big deal out of everything. When I was sick recently and I lost my voice, Jordan took to reminding me that I couldn’t scold them because I had no voice. I think they actually enjoyed the silence and my lethargy, which led me to just plop them in front of the television.

The truth is there are probably more days like that than days where I am totally in love with my kids and want more kids. It is the rare day or hour where my heart soars for every moment that I am with them. I remember thinking about my own mother that it was weird how she could be so affectionate to me in the morning but would constantly scold me during the rest of the day.

I do however, regardless of how angry and frustrated I am with my children, try to make it a point to tell them that I still love them, and that no matter how angry I am with them, my love doesn’t lessen.

Not much of a celebration around here because we’re all either recovering from something or about to go down. Also I had three quarters of a 120-page magazine to proofread, which meant I was too busy to call my Ma and too grouchy to say anything nice to my mom-in-law. I’ll try again next year.

But, there were presents in store for me: One silly, sleepy, gummy grin and one bag of handmade soapballs. Thanks to my babies!

I’m almost done with work; it took me longer than it should’ve. With two kids around, our open-concept workspace is only great when there’s no real work going on, and I’ve taken to shutting myself in the bedroom when I need to meet a deadline in dead silence. But I bet you know what happens when you put a mom and a bed together! I’ve definitely got to tweak my work routine to be more efficient.

While in the shower earlier, I was dreaming up a Mother’s Day wishlist for Alf’s benefit, y’know of the things that I really, really want. (Aside from sleep and plenty of money.) It’s not very long!

#1 Stop spamming me. (Or start fixing your hacked-into account.)

#2 Particularly on special days, I would like to hear more “Now” and less “Later.” I did buy you this book for a reason.

#3 I know I said no more fun cameras, but that was before I read about The Polaroid Z340.

#4 Stand aside and allow me the childish pleasure of slamming a door once in a while. It means I’ll be fine in 10 minutes.

#5 Get me that lifetime supply of Pigeon wet wipes already! (Or make sure they never run out!)

What’s on your Mothers’ Day wishlist?

* Guess what? We’re going camera shopping! I can’t wait!

I‘ve thrifted at Cash Converters and the Salvation Army but I’ve never been to a garage sale, and when my very resourceful friend E-lin told me about the annual SAS White Elephant Sale, featuring over 40 families selling stuff on their front porch, I knew I had to sneak out of the home for this even if it was a work weekend!

It was totally worth the trip; I spent $9 (not including cab fare) and I’m mighty pleased with my buys. I’m a total garage sale newbie so I felt weird haggling over stuff that cost a few dollars, but E-lin gave me this tip: There’s really no harm in asking. In fact they’d be surprised if you don’t try to knock the price down.

All in all, a fun and fruitful morning—it’s also the first time we’ve met without the kids! Definitely up for this again next year.

Some of our loot, in pictures:

If you’ve been with someone long enough, at some point you’re going to ask that tricky question: “Are you attracted to him/her?” I think this is a condition that particularly afflicts women, where we ask questions based on a gut feeling, but to which there is only one correct answer.

I once asked Alf that question and his answer was “Yes.” But there was also the explanation—he was attracted to someone who reminded him of what I used to be like, of what we used to be to each other. It was sad and almost flattering all at once.

On my end, I would’ve answered “yes” as well. I had convinced myself that I was in love with someone who wasn’t actually physically present in my life, and this lasted for many years, from before the marriage till after Layla. I started to build on that fantasy about a year after Alf and I got together—our relationship had soured for me but I dunno, I think a bit of sexual chemistry can go a long way when you’re in your early 20s and make a lot of things tolerable. And after a few years, what you have is someone who’s woven so deep into your life and your being that you can’t figure out how to cut him loose.

Silly as it was, I am thankful for that precious illusion with my almost-imaginary hero, because there were a lot of hard days and I needed the possibility of something magical happening in my life. The thought that there was someone out there who could make things right kept me going. All I needed to do was find a way to make our paths cross again.

It never happened.

But something else did: I fell in love with myself again, and I started to build back up.

We’re still honest with each other. Alf will sometimes ask me if I found so-and-so attractive and I’ll say yes, if he’d been around 10 years ago you wouldn’t have stood a chance!

But the truth is, I think Alf and I are a better match now than when we first met. He’s more sensitive and thoughtful, while I’ve mellowed out and am more open all-around. We give each other space, and there is trust. We’re not the sort of couple to finish each other’s sentences; in fact we often can’t wait for the other to get through his/her sentence so we can get on with life! But we’ve been around each other long enough to know what to expect. I know my husband will be unlikely to record that solo guitar album that he’s been talking about since he was 25 (he’ll turn 40 in two years). He knows that I’m better at telling people what to do than actually doing it myself. We don’t talk about forever, and sometimes during a bad argument I start setting timelines and making solo plans again. But he tells me he loves me, more often than I deserve. I’ve been thinking for a while that what we have right now is good enough for me. At least it’s real.

Alf told me that this morning, when he’d tried to snuggle up to me in bed, I’d grumbled and tried to free myself, even pulled my hand away.

I vaguely remember doing something like that—I was half asleep so it was totally a subconscious reaction.

I’ve always felt that my body liked Alf a lot more than my heart did.

But maybe my heart’s been a bad influence.

Just having one of those days where everyone in my life feels like a wrong fit.

Except Layla.

Layla smiles in her sleep as I place a blanket over her. She won’t wake up till tomorrow morning, and we’re done playing mommy and daddy for the night.

Alf’s looking forward to late night soccer.

I’m looking for love.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what love means lately, and I keep coming back to this:

If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

I guess I’m looking to love.

There was a time when I did feel perfect, in the sense that I was perfectly happy with the way I looked, what I’d accomplished, and everything to do with me.

Several months after I met Alf, that feeling flew out the window and it hasn’t returned.

So I’ve turned someone who maybe had a fleeting interest in me into an enduring fantasy. Although he’s a stranger now, he reminds me of a time where I was young, idealistic, and looking to rule the world.

In searching for him (or someone like him), I’m also looking to find the old me, because that girl is who I want to be.

So, ___’s getting married.

Like I told Ron, I’m not sure what to feel. I suppose I’m alternating between indifference and something close to devastation, depending on whether or not I’m having a good day.

There’s absolutely no reason for me to be in love with an almost stranger, who flitted in and out of my life over a decade ago, but I’ve come to accept that sometimes things are just so.

We could’ve connected, but we didn’t. I could’ve done more, but I didn’t. Years ago I played it too cool and our friendship fizzled. And just last year, there was a chance for us to meet, but I didn’t take it.

In the end, I gave nothing and I got nothing. But it was a good dream while it lasted, and I’m sad to see it go.

Maybe I’m wired differently from my fellow female species. Back then, my buddies used to call me Samantha Jones, the sexually liberated tart from Sex and the City. Welcome to the Cheating Wives Club. It’s a reality that does exist. Just like men, women have their physical needs too, and they can experience sexual frustration when these are not met.

Before I proceed with my story, here’s some advice I’d give to attached/married ladies who are ever tempted to cheat: You can actively seek out partners, place yourself in situations where there’s opportunity to hook up and get laid, or sometimes, attraction unexpectedly happens and you can choose to indulge in harmless flirting or let it take off (your clothes included). If you do, however, I’d urge you to leave your emotions at the door. And don’t assume that all males desire a no-strings-attached f**k buddy. Like women, they can’t stand being just a piece of meat and the last thing you want is some hung-up stalker who can’t get over you. So get your motives clear before it gets complicated. If you’re going to feel hurt, used, or start missing him and fantasizing about beginning a relationship, then stop. Quickly.

Anyway, I’m frankly bored with promiscuity. It no longer gives me a rush to know that I’ve still “got it.” Every dog has its day after all; I’ve had my fun and now it’s my husband’s turn. Yes, seriously. I’m not going into how I discovered his infidelity, but it’s happening and he’s confirmed it. It’s like a hostage situation: He knows I don’t have the grounds to put my foot down and walk out on him when my own track record is terrible. It’s like telling someone not to steal when at the bottom of the drawer you have a stash of shoplifted items.

Given my sordid history, I’m tolerating my husband’s visits to prostitutes. My grudging acquiescence takes into account all that he’s endured: A wife who has consistently cheated throughout more than 10 years of marriage, with no money-back guarantee that she won’t again.

And that’s not even the worst of it. I conceived a child with an ex-boyfriend. Imagine if your spouse came home and told you (s)he’s made a baby with someone else. I believe almost anyone would immediately flip and demand a split. I myself don’t think I could be that generous and forgiving. So when I say I’m willing to overlook his current indiscretions, that’s because I really do feel obligated to him for converting my bastard child into a legitimate one—his. For accompanying me on every prenatal checkup, holding my hand during labour, and paying for all expenses with his Medisave. For being a father ever since day one, showering the second with the same love that he gives freely to his biological kid. Continue Reading »