Summery

I got a bit grumpy this morning when dark clouds rolled in as soon as I'd finished hanging out the washing, but it turned out hot and sunny after all. The three of us went to a free outdoor concert at a local park and playground, and it was such an enjoyable afternoon.

There was a live band, a sausage sizzle (i.e. hot dog stand), free sporty toys to play with (supplied by SPARC) and a nice, comfy family atmosphere (even the punky people had their kids with them).

The boy usually takes TLM shopping or to the zoo, rather than to the park, and I think she really appreciated having a taller parent around to guide her through the trickier parts of the climbing frames. She even danced a little to the reggae music, attracting a couple of amateur photographers (though I'm not expecting to see her photo in the newspaper).

What made our outing even more fun was running into a couple of families we know, whose kids are the same age as TLM. They ran up to each other with grins and wild laughter and then abruptly went off in different directions to play, though checking up on each other occasionally. I do love seeing TLM in the company of her friends. It's the one thing that makes me sorta want a second child.

I think summer might have arrived.

a fun free morning

This morning, while TLM was at daycare, I could have: gone shopping for my brother's birthday present; had coffee at Ernesto and made another attempt at eavesdropping on people's conversations; updated my CV; burned some new children's world music onto backup CDs; watched The Power of Myth on DVD (a birthday present from the boy - and I only thought of it because Rory from Gilmore Girls mentioned it); or even worked on my languishing painting. But I didn't do any of those things.

I spent most of this morning fitting our new toilet seat (no Jon, I didn't get a Toto brand, I just got a cheapy plastic thing from the hardware shop). First I tried to screw the bolts in upside down, then I tried to screw in the connection panel upside down. If you're doing this screwing, unscrewing and re-screwing while maximising the distance between yourself and the toilet bowl, it's very physically tiring.

But it's done now. At least until those mysterious permanent burn-like marks start reappearing, we've got a nice clean seat.

How old people can be a little bit like toddlers

This won't apply to all old people, nor to all toddlers. Actually, it's about just my mum vs my toddler:

Needing help crossing the street

Refusing to listen to advice

They say what they think

Often won't acknowledge when they need help

Thinking that their respective needs are more important than anyone else's

Stubbornness

They nag and nag until they get their own way

Wispy hair

Both probably love me to bits, but can't or won't say so

There are of course, many differences, which is just as well.

Bums on seats

I'm in the market for a novelty toilet seat, to replace the...erm...nasty and un-novel one we're currently putting up with. I quite like this one. But I've bid on similar loo seats before, and always end up at a Mexican stand-off i.e. the bidding goes up to, say $35, the time runs out and next thing I know it's being offered to all interested parties for $55. And I'm too stingy to pay that much, regardless of the sealife decorations.

What I should do, and haven't bothered to yet, is check out the retail prices of both novelty and straight toilet seats. It's the only way to know whether the trader is trying to rip us off or get us a bargain.

And if I get one, maybe I'll look for a mini version for the potty. Because TLM sure isn't interested in sitting on the plain white one.

Together again

I was afraid that we wouldn't be able to get to the airport in good time, because The Little Madam (who has a cold after all, and not some kind of hayfever) was still asleep 5 minutes before the boy's plane was due to land. I was afraid that, halfway between here and there (about 15 mins drive off peak-time), the boy would get tired of waiting and get a taxi home, and I'd have missed the text that he sent to tell me.

But he was waiting at Arrivals for us, and TLM was all grins and squeals when she saw her daddy. Once we were home again, she pulled out all her favourite toys and demanded that he play with her, jetlag and all.

And then there were the presents - TLM liked her Dora the Explorer pjs so much she wore the top half right away, over her other clothes. There was also a Thomas the Tank Engine toy that that talked and whistled and a Maisy toy. The fluffy teddy bear handbag is in bed with her as I type. She's now got tons of summer dresses to wear - I just hope we actually get a summer this year - and enough over-sized Dora gear to last her until school.

I got something too, including a rune stone necklace that's supposed to encourage creativity (or childbirth - the former I hope), and another beautiful journal to fill up with something interesting (I hope).

I'll wait till tomorrow before bringing up the household repairs he needs to get on with...

A goth! A goth!

That's what TLM cried out, pointing to the trio of punks walking their labrador to the supermarket. She's been learning words at a scary rate, but I couldn't figure out where she'd heard the word "goth". And besides, they were punks - goths wear mostly black clothes and makeup, punks wear mostly tartans and safety pins - its important to get your subcultures right.

But anyway, it turned out I'd misheard TLM. She was talking about the dog.

Independent living

It's still 2 1/2 days before the boy gets back from his business trip, and though I've managed to single-parent without any major problems, there are some things that are just so much easier when he's around.

For example, anything to do with our entertainment system. One evening I leaned funny on one of our 4 remotes, and next thing I knew we had big ugly subtitles that covered half of the tv screen. It took me nearly 2 days to figure out how to get rid of them.

If the boy had been home at the time, I could have complained about it to him, and then left it up to him to fix it for me. Also, it's impossible to change the bedroom lightbulb unless he's around. Oh yes, I have a ladder. But I'm so short that, even when I climb up it, I can't quite reach the damn thing.

But when I see him next, I won't bother going into all that. It'll sound much more romantic if I just tell him I missed him.

A to-do list

There are many things that I really ought to get onto, except they keep getting forgotten in the busy-ness of day-to-day life. So this list really ought to be written in thick marker pen, on an A2 sheet of paper. Some of the items listed have been waiting for months...

buy marker pens for the hardcopy of my to-do list

Source washable name tags and labels for TLM's stuff that she takes to daycare

Get a will

Get TLM's Dora the Explorer tent mended (it was only a month old when the air mattress collapsed on us, and we never did find our proof-of-purchase)

find someone to clean out the guttering and fix all the water damage to the front porch

chase up my ex-workmates at the Bank, and ask them to find me a part-time documentation job.

file the stack of old bill statements, which is currently crowding my desk

think of wacky things to do, so I have something interesting to blog about in future (this is a nod to nigel patel)

donate my unwanted CDs to TLM's daycare (they might like the Hasselhoff I got last Christmas)

refresh my undie stock

change the bed sheets

finish the abstract painting I started in July

do something to those high-waisted jeans that I ripped the waistband off of (to allow breathing), so that the top of them doesn't stick out like an extra proboscis.

remove the two boxes of unwanted paperbacks from the hallway and take 'em to the Salvation Army store.

I need you guys to nag me every so often, to remind me to tick something off the list. Okay?

Professionally good-looking?

A fellow parent today suggested that The Little Madam is so cute she could do it for a living. I've thought of it myself, but this is the first time someone else has mentioned the idea. Of course, I'd never want her to be a teen model - I've heard scary things about what happens to 13-year-olds when they get sent to Milan for "finishing". But modelling little kids' clothes, that would certainly earn a few dollars towards her education fund, eh?

Snot much fun

I used up a whole box of tissues today, what with all the sneezing and the nose-blowing - and that doesn't include the snots coming out of TLM's nostrils.

The whole bath-bed routine becomes much more difficult when I've got a head cold. Bathtime takes longer because I keep having to stop to blow my nose; storytime is a lot messier when my nose is dripping like it's an ingredient in a chemistry lab; and singing those two lullabies, at the very end of the routine, sounds much...gluggier...when my sinuses are full to the brim (despite the dripping and blowing).

I've taken Sudafed, but they've been about as effective as a couple of sugar pills.
Got any drugs that work?

The wrong time to go feminine

Geez, it takes me more than 25 years to work out what clothing styles suit my body shape, and as soon as I have a baby it's back to the drawing board.

I've been on my never-ending mission to find tops that I can wear with skirts, without ending up resembling a barrel of peanut oil. And I've come to realise that only fitted tops (i.e. neither Catwoman-clingy nor baby-doll poufy) will do. But this season's styles spit at me and smirk at me with scorn, because today's shopping expedition uncovered only two types of women's tops: 1) baby doll stuff that would've been damned useful when I was 6 months pregnant, and 2) clingy stuff that looks amazing on models and 14-year-old girls, and which might've looked good on me when I was 6 months pregnant.

SO, this summer I will wearing out my jeans.

Something I learned on Monday

On Monday, when TLM and I were visiting my mother, I commented to my mother how good TLM was to wear her sunhat the whole time she was outside. And in exactly that precise moment that I uttered those words, TLM knocked off her sunhat and refused to put it back on. Mum's response was that I should never have praised TLM in the first place.

For years, my mother never praised me for things that might have deserved it. When I won school prizes or got A's, she always sounded like it was the least I could do to thank her for raising me. At first, I thought it was because she was simply impossibly hard to please. But I talked to family friends and learned a little about customs of Old China. Chinese kids are told they're lazy, stupid or ugly because it protects them from being kidnapped by evil spirits, who'd much prefer a cute, clever and diligent child.

After Monday though, I know the real reason my mum avoids saying nice things about me. She's just trying to cheat Murphy's Law.

Dropping no eaves, here

I try to spend an hour or two every week doing the cafe thing. By this I don't mean socialising with my buds over caffeine and cake, but sitting alone with a flat white (okay, and cake too) and my writing notebook. But I'm very bad at people-watching, and even worse at eavesdropping on their conversations (to develop my ear for dialogue, of course!).

Sometimes there are plenty of people around me talking, but I can't make out what they're saying because of all the background noise. Sometimes those inconsiderate people just aren't talking loudly enough for me to hear (hmmm...maybe I need a hearing aid?).

But most of the time, I live too much inside my own head when I'm sitting on my own.

So I'm thinking, the writers who can create great, believable characters, and can write believable dialogue - they're the ones who'd make good spies and private detectives.

I'm thinking, I should start having coffee with friends for a change.

Too cunning for her own good

TLM is still having a hard time with the separation that comes with naptime. While she was eating lunch, I mentioned that once she finished we would do our books'n'naps routine. So she took a really long time to eat. Every time I started to take her food away, she'd go "no no no", and once I put it back she'd spoon a grain of rice into her mouth, trying to make lunch last as long as possible.

When I was in my early teens, there was a time when I would force down many, many bowlfuls of rice gruel for breakfast, refusing to stop until my stomach threatened to give it all back, all at once. I did this to avoid beginning work i.e. working in my mother's hot, steamy kitchen where she made Chinese goodies for the evil, exploitative locals willing to pay for them. Small wonder that I ended up with an eating disorder.

Anyway, not only is TLM about a decade younger than I was when I went down that particular track, but really it's not the sort of message I want her to learn. So I promised that today she would have her nap in the hammock, in the lounge - without the 20 minutes of howling in her room first - because I didn't want her making herself sick.

She's a smart girl, that one.

For pity's sake

My last post didn't attract any condolences, and it's obvious that I'm hopeless at expressing emotional stuff. Is this any better at conveying how sorely we miss the boy?

Readers, I miss him. The king-sized bed is far too empty with just me in it, and this tiny cottage is a big pit of despair when the boy's 6'2" form isn't stomping around in it. TLM misses him too, though of course she doesn't say so explicitly. There were some idle moments this weekend when she should have been cadging steak and cheese pie off him, and couldn't. She misses his boisterous play, his endless patience with her, and the spelling lessons he gives at bathtime. Naptimes are horrendous because that's when TLM becomes hysterical with the knowledge that I won't be with her - and the fear that I'll be off next. Bedtimes are easier only because she's too tired to keep up the sobbing.

It was cruel to schedule this business trip to coincide with the first long weekend since June, because I don't feel I can impose myself on friends who've probably either left town for the holiday, or want to have extra family time to themselves. I can't even give TLM an extra daycare session, to give me a break, because it'll probably exacerbate her anxiety.

I don't like this solo parenting gig.

Security

I guess I spoke too soon when I posted about the end of The Little Madam's separation anxiety.

Recently she's started to get upset when I've left her at daycare, even though for a long time it hadn't been a problem. And it's even worse now that the boy is out of town for business. When I tried to put TLM down for her nap, she cried so hard it made her hiccup and I ended up putting her in her old baby hammock in the lounge (where she slept for a record 2 1/2 hours). She started to do the same thing tonight, but I was firm this time and walked out on her even as she bawled (thankfully she went quiet shortly after.)

On the whole though, I'm not worried about her in the longer term. I have this theory that the clingier they are at age 2, the more likely they'll end up hitchhiking though Africa (or something equally adventurous) at age 22.

Writing what I know

I've just finished the first draft of my second short story (it took me 8 tries, but it's still a first draft). Just like my first story, it's about people who aren't Chinese New Zealanders. I'm wondering whether this is a bad thing.

The latest short story anthology I've been reading has stories by Asian Americans i.e. ethnic Chinese, Taiwanese, Indian, Filipino, Japanese or Korean (in this book, anyway). And just about every story in this collection is about Asian Americans.

I suppose that isn't surprising, since we are supposed to write from our own experiences of the world. But if that's the case, how come it's no easier for me to write about Chinese New Zealanders, than to write about white folks? Is this some kind of manifestation of a subconscious rejection of my own culture? Am I simply expressing a view that storylines are universal? Have I been too thoroughly influenced by the white culture I've grown up in? Am I over-analysing?

It's just something I find interesting, that's all.

Gimme V-necks

Apparently it's Love Your Body Day on Wednesday. EDEN (Eating Difficulties Education Network) are selling a range of t-shirts that say "Love Your Body". The designs on the t-shirts are attractive enough, but I'll never buy one. Why? Because those high, round necks make me look fat. Serious!

Superstition

Tea-towels with little children's handprints on them (including my darling daughter's) - a nice Christmas present for the family, no?

Except I'm worried that there's some Chinese superstition which regards children's handprints on tea-towels as bad luck.

It's not as silly as it sounds, you know. I once had to ruin a perfectly good painting of my nephew gazing at a toy truck, because my mum was terribly offended by a picture which included both a child and a truck. Another time, when I was a kid, she was offended by my present of a set of pretty candles and candlesticks. And then there was the time we couldn't order duck for my mum's eightieth birthday - something to do with the duck's bill - I never did figure out the reasoning behind that one.

I had a quick Google, and though I found some very interesting superstitions that I didn't find last time I looked, I wasn't able to find out whether the tea-towel gift would be a bad idea.

Perhaps this is why she prefers cash.

Yesterday's scary activity

For years, I've always thought of those petrol station car wash services as a waste of money. Because, if you want your car cleaned, it only takes 20 minutes to soap, spray and wipe it yourself. But as I haven't managed to wash my car once, in the 18 months we have owned it, I decided to throw money at the situation and take it to the car wash.

Remember, this was the first time I'd ever been in one of those automated thingummies.

First of all, I couldn't work out how to get my side mirrors to fold in, as the sign instructed. So while I was in there I worried that they would snap off with the pressure of those enormous rubbery brushes.

And the other thing was that it's really noisy, it makes the whole car vibrate, and from the inside it looks and feels as though I'm being attacked by an oversized, multi-coloured St Bernard dog. Or a creature from a comedy version of Supernatural.

Even the hot-air-blowing gadget made me nervous. How did it know not to hit the roof of my car?

I was glad I hadn't taken TLM with me - she was at daycare - because I could imagine her being at least as uncomfortable (okay...scared) as I was.