by You Jin
The American soldier replied calmly, “The reason is very simple. I always focus on the things I have, but you focus on the things you don’t have. I remember during the Vietnam War, my comrade lost both of his legs, and he told me how he envied me for having one leg, because I could move around better than him. See, even though I only have one leg, I’m still the object of somebody’s envy.”
If you are always looking for greener pastures, not only will you not find happiness, you will also miss out on a lot of opportunities to enjoy beautiful scenery. But, “contentment is happiness” does not mean I will just sit idling on the grass, watching the days go by. I do not engage in useless competition with others, but I will make use of all available resources to forge the life I long for.
I like the idiom “dripping water wears through a stone”. Water is so formless that it does not seem to have any strength, but over a long period of time, dripping ceaselessly, it can form holes in rocks too huge for even typhoons to move.
“Whatever you sow, you reap”, and “if you plant apples, you’ll get apples” are some of the factual theories I love and believe in. After putting in a lot of hard work, I will enjoy the fruits of my labour, and even if I do not have a balanced budget, I will not complain, because “man proposes, and heaven disposes”.
Here is a true example of doing things my way:
My house is about five hundred meters from the main road, with no public transport in between. When my son entered secondary school, I did not chauffeur him to and from school. He had to “take bus 11” (Singaporean slang for walking), walking to the bus stop to catch a bus to school. As a result, my domestic helper heard a discussion behind my back, expressing two different viewpoints, which she narrated to me. One person frowned and said, “The child is only thirteen, how could she be so heartless as to make him walk such a distance to the bus stop!” The other raised her thumb and said, “She wants to train her child to be independent, and not blindly spoil her child. That’s great!” After hearing both criticism and praise, I smiled, refusing to let it bother me. I continued to do it my way and let my child walk to the bus stop.
I do not want my children to be “strawberries”, because this fruit has a beautiful outer layer, but bruises easily. I want my children to be coconuts, with a hard shell impenetrable to poison, but with a world of sweetness inside.
When it comes to teaching our children, we should lay down our own rules and act according to our own principles. The story of the “Father and Son Riding the Donkey” taught me a lesson I would never forget:
A father and son went on a long journey. The father put the son on a donkey, and passers-by criticised the son for being unfilial, so the son gave up riding on the donkey, and the father took over. Other passers-by began criticising the father for being heartless. In the end, both father and son gave up riding the donkey, and just walked beside it. Yet more passers-by then shook their heads, and sighed: “Look at this father and son; instead of riding on the donkey, they make themselves suffer by walking. So stupid!”
Everyone will have an opinion on any given decision. We should not be needlessly influenced over what others say.
Here is another thought-provoking story:
A farmer went to a restaurant to drum up some business, proposing that he supply the restaurant with five hundred frogs a week. The restaurant owner asked, “How can you get so many frogs?”
The farmer replied confidently, “The pond behind my house has millions of frogs. They are in bountiful supply.”
They signed a contract, but when it was time to deliver the frogs, the farmer only delivered two. In depressing tones, he said, “The call of the frogs was so loud, I thought there were millions upon millions of them. Who knew there were only two!”
We may be troubled by people talking behind our backs, but in actual fact, it might only be a handful of people doing all the talking, so it is really much ado about nothing.
Throughout my three children’s growing-up years, when I was helping them deal with problems and guiding them, these proverbs would always pop up in a timely way. My children became familiar with them after hearing them so often, and were unconsciously influenced to change how they saw and dealt with things.
When Ke Jun was six years old, her cousin had a birthday, and our whole family was invited to the celebration. After the meal, a gigantic chocolate cake was brought out and each of us got a big piece. I casually scooped a big bite and put it in my mouth. I bit into it gently, and to my surprise, there was neither the softness nor the sweet flavour I was looking forward to. Something hard was lodged in my teeth, salty and strange. I spat it out in a hurry and at just one glance, I nearly passed out.
It was a small lizard, and I’d nearly bitten it in half!
Everyone screamed and threw down their spoons and forks, pushing their plates away. Chaos broke out. Amidst this riot, Ke Jun was the only one to continue sitting properly at the table, eating her cake heartily, not at all bothered by the ruckus around her.
Someone yelled, “Ke Jun, stop eating! There’s a lizard in the cake!”
Unexpectedly, she answered nonchalantly: “Wasn’t the lizard already found?” Then she turned to her cake again, and ate it with relish. When she saw the shocked expression on my face, she said, “The little lizard must have lost its way and fell into the cake. His parents did not lose their way, so there shouldn’t be another lizard in the cake.”
Of course, due to hygiene considerations, we forbade her to continue eating, but her “doing it my way” personality shone through.
Ke Jun was also, without a doubt, a bookworm. She visited the bookstore every few days, and when she saw new books from her favourite authors, her eyes lit up. At home, books never left her hands or eyes. When outside, her books did not leave her either. She read while sitting, reclining or walking. As she read, her wisdom grew, but it also affected her eyesight. After coming home with prescription glasses, she mutely looked at herself in the mirror. Her round, clear, double-lidded eyes were less attractive; as she stared at herself, tears fell like a sudden rain. She gave way to loud, breathless, inconsolable sobbing, until her new glasses fogged up.
But strangely, the next day, she acted as if nothing had happened. She read with her glasses, and when she came to funny parts of a book, she laughed out loud. Even though I knew it was unkind to make her revisit her pain, I could not help asking, “Why aren’t you sad any more?”
She answered complacently, “All’s not lost. My outer beauty may be gone, but I still have inner beauty.”
Watching her bright, sunny face, I could rest assured that if she had such an open-minded attitude to turn things around, even if she met with difficulties in the future, she would definitely be able to nurse herself back to health.
Life’s Lubricant
That afternoon, it was extremely hot. My daughter had just been promoted to Primary 6, and we were each in our favourite spots in the living room. I was on the couch reading, while she was doing her homework at the desk.
Feeling very thirsty, I called out, “Ke Jun!”
She lifted her head and answered, “Yes?”
I said, “Do you mind getting me a glass of water?”
She put down her pen and went to the kitchen without hesitation, then emerged carrying a huge glass of ice water.
I took a few gulps, then put down the glass on the side table and got lost in my book once more. But I had only got through a couple of lines before I realised my daughter was still standing there, unmoving. I looked at her questioningly. She said, “Mum, you always teach us to be courteous, to say our thanks for big and small favours. Why didn’t you thank me for getting you your water?” Oh dear! I had taught with words, but not with actions. I was ashamed of my double standards.
When outsiders lifted a finger to help, like holding the door or answering the phone for me, I never forget to thank them, but I had taken my children for granted by being stingy with my thanks. Perhaps my daughter had tolerated
this silently for a long time and could not contain herself any more, so she questioned me. Adults often neglect the fact that children need respect too. Unconsciously, we treat ourselves as their troupe boss, always using a commanding tone to order them to do this and that. Think of the following:
“Hey! Go wash the dishes!”
“Why can’t you clean the floor? It’s so dirty!”
“Go buy ten eggs!”
“Carry the old newspapers to the door!”
“What’s the telephone number for that restaurant?”
“Change the batteries in the wall clock!”
The children obediently wash the dishes until they sparkle, clean the floors until they are spick and span, buy the exact number of eggs, tie the old newspapers up and carry them back and forth to the door, look up the telephone number, and put new batteries in the clock so that it ticks with life again, but how many parents will sincerely thank their kids without being prompted?
The phrase “thank you” is actually life’s lubricant. It is able to improve family relationships and add harmony. Another sort of lubricant, which is able to transform foes into friends and evil into kindness, is “sorry”.
Parents who uphold authoritarian supremacy, even when they falsely accuse or punish their children for something they have not done, will refuse to apologise. The word “sorry” is like a stone embedded in their throats, and they are unwilling to spit it out. The children keep silent, as if they are not bothered by it, but deep in their hearts, this stone might have already scraped a permanent scar.
Take the Japanese writer Arai Hifumi as an example. During her childhood, her mother always accused her of being a liar. Whenever something suspicious happened at home, she blamed it on Arai, weakening her mentally. When she grew up, she was haunted by the same nightmare over and over again. In the nightmare, she was interrogated by the police, as if she had committed a crime, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not think of what she might have done wrong. In order to break free from this horrible shadow of her childhood, she resorted to seeing a psychiatrist.
When a child does something wrong, they are usually reprimanded. But when parents are teaching or disciplining their children, a lot of times they make unintentional mistakes.
Once, our whole family went out to eat with my in-laws, and we took up an entire table. My daughter was chatting happily with her cousin; I was displeased with something she had done earlier, and so was casually narrating the incident to one of the relatives. I did not expect my daughter, who had exceptionally good hearing, to pick up everything I said in the noisy restaurant. She left the table quietly, and did not return for a long time. Later, I found her in the toilet, tears on her face. She said, “This is our family matter; why did you have to tell it to outsiders? You could say it to my face clearly, and that would have been all right.”
I knew I had done wrong, so I hugged her immediately and apologised.
At the same time we are teaching our children, they are also teaching us.
A Box of Feelings
I never saw my grandmother hug my mother, and my mother never directly declared that she loved me. That sort of love was separated by a layer of gauze. We knew it was there, but it was hazy and could not be seen clearly. Sometimes, I had something that I wanted to confide in someone, but I did not know what the situation was on the other side of the gauze, so I stifled my urge. The more I stifled, the more I ended up not confiding.
After I became a mother myself, I intentionally parted the hazy layer of gauze. I wrote love clearly on my face and articulated it with words. When my children were little, I hugged and kissed them, and I still do now, when they are grown.
I have never covered my face with the mask of an elder’s authority, so they looked upon me as a “box of feelings.” Whenever they feel angry, scared, or worried, they never hesitate to open the “box of feelings” and confide in me, and I help them overcome their difficulties and worries. Whenever they feel joy or pride, they will not hesitate to open the “box of feelings” and place those emotions in it, allowing me to share them at my leisure.
My children formed a habit of running to find me as soon as they got home. I always listened to their feelings, patiently and intently. They felt at ease to talk to their hearts’ content, and because of this, I felt like I had grown another pair of eyes, clearly seeing what they did outside the home. People commonly think talking is an art. Little do they know listening is even more of one.
Children of different ages have different questions. As soon as they enter kindergarten, they begin to have more complicated interpersonal relationships, and problems follow. These problems are trivial to adult eyes, but to kids, they are huge. So when we adults listen to our children, we have to do it with patience and sincerity.
Once, I had a rush of inspiration for a novel, and was pounding away at my keyboard. At a critical juncture, my daughter, who had just started secondary school, came home. Once she entered the house, she rushed into my study, urgent to confide something. I turned towards her and listened, as I always did. But to tell the truth, at that moment, my attention was still on my half-written novel. My ears were only partly open, vaguely making out that she was talking about a small conflict common among friends. I wanted to end the conversation quickly and return to the world of my novel, so I just made grunting sounds in answer. My daughter suddenly stopped her chatter, so I seized the opportunity and concluded, “Since it’s a misunderstanding, can’t you just seek her out to explain?”
She stared at me with her bright eyes, looked at me quietly, and did not say another word. I sighed in relief and immediately put a stop to our conversation: “Mum is very busy right now; let’s talk another time, okay?” She got up silently, and walked away.
That night, I found a short letter she had written me:
Mum, I feel very lonely and helpless. I had things to tell you, but you only listened to me half-heartedly. You always say you are our “box of feelings”, but your box contains other things, and the things of my heart cannot fit in. When you answered me carelessly, I knew you were not listening to me at all. Do you know how sad I was at that moment?
Every word was like a glass marble, striking my eyes and heart one after another, causing me extreme pain. I rushed to her bedroom, but she was already asleep. I stood by her bed, watching her for a very long time, and cried silently in my heart, “My dear, I’m so sorry!”
From then on, when my children had something to say to me, I would turn off the computer immediately and open my heart to them. Even though I multi-task a lot in order to save time, when it came to listening to my children, I gave them my undivided attention.
Now, my adult children have also prepared for me their own “box of feelings”, allowing me to put in it the joy, pride, exultations, and gladness from my heart, and also allowing me to pour into it my feelings of injustice, anger, fear and worry.
One day, when I am an old person with wrinkled skin and white hair, my children will also be sixty or seventy years old. When we reach that stage, I will still pat their wrinkled faces with my wrinkled hands, and say, “I love you, baby!”
My second child, Fung Teck, even drew a beautiful “future blueprint” for me. He said he would try to make me happy every day, so that I would look half my age when I am a hundred. He says, on the other hand, that he’ll look eighty-six when he is sixty-eight, so that people will mistake him as my father when he takes me out!
CHAPTER 10
Growing Up
The Monkey King Stage
WHEN THE CHILDREN were small, I was so busy that I felt I was constantly spinning around like a top without any particular direction. From morning till night, I was constantly turning in circles, until I was a ball of hazy shadows. Sometimes, even I could not stand the sight of me when I saw the haggard state I was in.
When Ke Jun was born, Fung Yee was seven, and Fung Teck was two. Every Monday through Friday, I sent Ke Jun to Tanglin, where a nanny looked after he
r. On Friday evening, I brought her home, then sent her back on Sunday evening. Fung Teck was at childcare all day long. Fung Yee was in primary school, so was only at the childcare centre for half of each day.
At the time, James had to handle many overseas projects, so he often travelled, sometimes making two trips in the space of a few days, so the childcare responsibilities fell mainly to me. I was teaching at Hua Yi Secondary School in the morning session. As soon as I woke at five each morning, I started preparing my mind for the day ahead.
After I had prepared breakfast, I would call the children to wake, wash up, get dressed and eat breakfast. When that was done, I sent them to the childcare centre, then rushed to school. It was an endless, anxious cycle.
Once, my alarm clock stopped working. I woke up a half-hour later than normal, and did not have time to prepare breakfast. I dragged the children out of bed, shuffled them into the car, and started racing down the road. Driving over the speed limit, I reached Holland Road. I saw that the traffic light had just turned red, but I ran it anyway. A police car turned on its lights and ended up following me all the way to the childcare centre. When I got out of the car, the officer asked to see my driver’s license. Reaching out to take it from me, he asked, “Do you know it’s very dangerous to run a red light?”
I replied, “Of course I know, but look, I have three young children in the car. If I didn’t need to, I wouldn’t have done it! As a woman burdened with many roles, life is really hard!”
He leaned over and looked at the three children. Straightening to look at me, he finally said, “I’ll let you off this time. Next time, drive more carefully.” Then he got back in his police car and drove away. The officer’s kind understanding and his warning made me resolve to never repeat my mistake. The magnanimous way he carried out his duty also taught me a lesson I would never forget.