Afternoons

I’m of the opinion that my children are learning enough playing on their own most afternoons. They indulge in imaginative play, their double-decker bed serving everything from a ship to South Africa, to a bear cave, to a rocket. Sure, they turn the room upside down nearly everday, but they’re happy in their world and I’m happy to be left alone with M.

But apparently, this is not good for them. They should be in phonics classes, or extra Mandarin classes, or in ballet, or soccer, or gymnastics, or art classes. There’s loads of literature out there talking about the dangers of over-scheduling our children and the importance of play, and yet when I choose to allow them to play, I get all sorts of flak suggesting that they should be in one class or another rather than playing.

So I’ve now decided that instead of sending them to class, I will attempt to educate them a little on my own, outside the regular curriculum at school. I’m not sure if this will give them any headstart over their peers (frankly, I think the best I can hope to achieve is to bring them on par with their peers who are probably already way ahead of classwork), but at least it gives me a good grasp of what they do know. It will also instill in them the habit of doing a bit of work everyday before play. And it will save me the effort (and money) involved in sending them to extra classes.

As for the extra classes that involve activities like dance or sport or art, I’ve decided that my children can’t do everything. I work on the idea that I will try to expose them to as much as is feasibly possible, but there are priorities and those will be fulfilled first before any others. So if S never gets to dance or N never gets to formally learn soccer, tough. 

My ultimate goal with the children is to allow them a chance to have fun. There will be time enough for endless tuition once they get into primary school. Really, is it necessary to start now?

She would know, wouldn’t she?

Today, we were pleasantly surprised coming out of church in the evening. Up in the sky was a beautiful rainbow, perfectly formed, a colourful arch all the way across the sky in an impeccable semi-circle.

S and N gawk in awe for just about a minute, and then launch into the two-thousand-and-thirty-eight questions about rainbows. Then, suddenly, S sniffs disdainfully.

“But Mommy, it’s not a REAL rainbow. I mean, look, it’s only got three colours.”

Snip

D and I had this discussion with some Aussie and Brit folks recently. Well, it really wasn’t a discussion, but more of a cultural exchange exercise. Apparently, with Westerners, there never is a question when it comes to who should get the snip for birth control. The man goes for a vasectomy. Not even discussed. The huz just goes get it done one free afternoon.

Here in Asia, it appears tubal ligation is still the dominant way to permanently stop having kids. I mean, the hospitals market it as a package with your upcoming delivery. We deliver your kid and tie your tubes, all for the discount price of $9.99. No one even stops to think if it should be the man who should go in and get his tubes tied.

And then D pipes up with a gem of a rationale. Of course the women should do it. Men never know when they may need their sperm again – they can father up to a ripe old age. Women, on the other hand, come to a point where they can’t have kids ANYWAY, so they should be the ones to get their tubes tied.

Sexist idiot.

Separately, I had this really bizzare thought the other day as I was running through the hospital trying to get my medical claims in order (did I ever say I hate my medical insurers?). Bill Cosby’s Cliff Huxtable was never ever an accurate depiction of an OBGYN. I mean, the man positively had time to spare. No real OBGYN I know has that. Most don’t even have a life. Still, it made for good TV. Good ol’ Bill.

Facebook moment

When the guy you thought was extremely cute a decade and a half ago unearths you on Facebook, you can’t help but laugh.

First thing you do is pour over his photos. His profile pic is so vague you have no idea what he looks like now, so dig through the photos to get a better look.

And then be totally disappointed he’s not much of a photo junkie. Not many pictures of himself.

Then you see some photos posted by others – ah! A much clearer look.

Cue “MEOW!” Gee, he’s, erh, not thin. Not that he ever was, but he’s heavier set than before.

Then you remember you don’t look great either. I mean, you are all lost in the thirties now. Time to sift through your own photos to see how dreadful you look. Funny how you assume other people have time to even bother going through your photographs.

Sigh with relief – you don’t put many photos of yourself up anyway. You mostly put up flattering shots, if not extremely vague pictures.

Finally sitting back and logging out of Facebook, you realize how totally dumb the whole exercise was. Wondering now how to de-friend him since you actually haven’t spoken since…….. a decade and a half ago.

Really, why do you keep accepting random obscure friend requests?

Getting religious

S: Do animals go to Heaven?

S: How old is God?

S: God made people, ya? So who made God?

N: Why no air con in Hell?

N: Hell got fire, so can burn?

S: Is there air con in Heaven?