by You Jin
Another incident in which I was in a rush ended in a minor catastrophe, and left a residual effect I never recovered from. It was a Sunday morning, and I wanted to fry luncheon meat for the children’s breakfast. When the can was half opened, I impatiently tried to pry the lid open with my hand. Because of my carelessness, the jagged edge of the lid cut my hand. Blood shot everywhere. I looked closer and—my thumb! The sharp edge had sliced it so badly that it had nearly cut the tip of my right thumb off. It was barely hanging on by a sliver of flesh. It was a horrifying sight, and Fung Teck and Ke Jun started screaming. Fung Yee raced to the phone and called for my sister and parents to hurry over. They rushed me to the hospital. The hospital staff did not waste any time in sweeping me into the operating theatre, where they reattached my thumb.
Even now I have no feeling in the upper part of my right thumb. This injury is the best evidence of this busy, chaotic period of my life.
When the weekend arrived, I was always filled with mixed emotions. What I loved about it was that the family had time together. What I feared was that I would be on my own caring for the children, since James was often away. Looking after three children by myself was quite tiring, requiring more energy than I had ever imagined.
When Ke Jun was still an infant, she cried all day, every day. At night, her crying destroyed my hope of a good night’s sleep. It was a hundred times harder than the year I spent studying for exams. Once, it took half the night to get her to sleep. I was so tired I could practically hear my bones rattle when I moved. I put her on the bed, but just as I stepped away to get some much needed sleep, her cries again pierced the air. I pulled myself up and inched to her bed like a worm. I felt like I was sleep-walking as I prepared her milk, and as I fed her, I pulled at my hair, using the pain to keep myself awake so I would not drop the baby.
Even as Ke Jun was wrecking my sleep, Fung Teck was at the age of wanting to know everything. From morning to night, he followed me around asking, “Why…?”
“Why does the puppy bark? Why does the cat meow? Why doesn’t the ant say anything? Why do I have so many teeth? Why doesn’t Ke Jun have any? Superman can fly, why can’t you? Why can’t the lizard build a web like the spider? Why? Why? Why?”
I was drained of all energy by his endless number of questions, and turned things on him by asking, “Why don’t you go find out the answer to that question?”
He sucked his thumb, tilted his head to one side, and thought really hard, but could not come up with an answer. He opened his mouth again, “Mama, why don’t I have a tail like a monkey?”
Fung Yee was another case altogether. He was extremely active, never sitting still or being quiet for even a moment. He ran here and there, jumping around like the Monkey King, Sun Wukong, treating the house like his own peach orchard. He was so noisy I feared he would bring the house down. Sometimes he would get his little brother just as riled up when they played together.
Once when I was upstairs taking care of the baby, I heard the two of them playing rowdily outside. I looked down from a window, and saw them running wildly in circles around the house, full of joy. As they ran, Fung Teck was not careful, and he tripped on a stone. His brother in turn tripped over him and they ended up in a pile of limbs. Fung Yee knew from experience that “heaven helps those who help themselves,” so he quickly picked himself up. Fung Teck sat on the ground, crying. Fung Yee yelled, “Get up! Stand up!”
But Fung Teck just kept crying, “Mama! I want Mama!”
Fung Yee snorted. He said, “Mama can’t help you.” Fung Teck continued to cry long and hard. Fung Yee lost his patience and adopted a commanding tone: “I’m going to count to three, and you have to stand!” As he said this, he jumped to Fung Teck’s side, and yelled authoritatively, “One, two, three…”
Fung Teck saw no help coming, so he scrambled up, and wiped the tears away with his sleeves. Fung Yee, now transformed into a general, commanded, “Run!”
And they started their game again, running in formation, commander in front and soldier in back. It was a raucous game. As I witnessed the scene from upstairs, I smiled with gratification.
When a child falls, parents with different views of life will handle this situation differently. Some parents will rush to their child’s side when they fall, pick them up, and comfort them to no end, as if they were responsible for their child falling. When the child later grows up and encounters life’s problems, he will always wait for others to solve them.
When their children fall and cry, some parents buy them sweets or biscuits to try to stop the tears. Once this happens, the child knows that crying is a valuable weapon. Once they fall, even if they aren’t hurt, they cry loud enough to make the sky drop. When they grow up, these children, even if they have the ability to stand up on their own when they fall, will not do so because they mistakenly think the whole world has betrayed them.
For other parents, when their children fall, they strike out at the floorboards, saying childishly, “Bad floor!” Before he knows any better, the child will start to believe it is the floor that hurt him. When he grows up, each time he falls, he will find someone to blame or lash out at.
Not me. I have always told my children very clearly that, when they fall, it is because of their own carelessness, and they are responsible. Only when they really need me will I reach out a hand to pick them up. My children know this well, so when they fall, they find a way to pick themselves up. Having been trained this way all their lives, they have become strong and independent.
When I had free time, I liked to play educational games with them. We would build cars, boats or airplane models, create things with Play-Doh, or colour in colouring books, learning while we were playing. Through these interesting games, I hoped to open their minds and make them think.
When I saw them sitting among their toys, totally absorbed in playing, it was apparent that they were very fortunate. My parents were born in a time of war, and had few possessions. By the time I came along, my family was quite poor, so we had to wait for Christmas, when we could look forward to the sack of toys hanging by the bed.
My children had whatever they asked for. In fact, things were showered on them even when they didn’t ask. As a result, they did not understand what it means to cherish something. When they received a new toy, they played with it for a while, then asked for something new.
Because I wanted my children to learn to treasure their things, when they were a little older I started giving them an allowance and made them take care of their own expenses. If they wanted a toy, they had to buy it with their own money. In this way, they not only learned to control their own spending, but also learned how to evaluate what they really liked before buying, so that they would not waste money on useless items.
Watching Ke Jun grow up really brought me a great deal of joy, but when she learned to walk, my nightmares also started. We lived in a rather large house, with dangers everywhere, including stairs, electrical sockets, cables and all sorts of sharp-edged furniture and breakable items. She was very unsteady while toddling around, and I followed behind, not wanting to let her fall, for fear that one misstep might bring about a huge regret.
Raising children can be a truly exhausting task. Sometimes, parents feel like a wilting plant, but the playfulness of a child while she or he grows is like the sun and rain, fertilising the plant, breathing life into it. The interesting things kids do are like a bottomless well, and drinking from it every day will not drain it dry.
Watching a child who is jumping around like the Monkey King, a parent will be filled with inner conflict. On the one hand, he wants the child to grow up quickly so that he can be released from the bondage of fatigue. On the other, he is always concerned the children will grow up too fast, and he can no longer enjoy the pleasures of the children’s innocent world and the wonder of their words.
The Kite Stage
Once she starts secondary school, the Monkey King child suddenly turns into a kite. She has her own circle of fr
iends, and has her own way of thinking. It is the first time tasting freedom, and the child sees only the vastness and goodness of the world around her, never giving a second thought to the hidden dangers.
The kite’s long string remains in the parents’ hands. As the kite flies higher, it struggles to free itself from the parents. The parents have to let the string go bit by bit, gradually relaxing their grasp. They absolutely cannot let go completely, but the child has no clue of the anxiety that the parents feel and their good intentions, so they are constantly pulling on the string, while the parents are constantly trying to hang on. Inevitably, this tug-of-war results in conflicts.
One night after dinner, when Ke Jun was in Secondary 1, she rushed to wash the dishes. I thought, What a good girl. She knows I’m stressed, so she’s helping out with the housework.
When she had finished with the dishes, she came and asked sweetly, “Mama, do you need a massage?”
“Okay!” I said happily.
Because I had been working at the computer for long stretches of time, my shoulders and back were often unbearably sore. Just as I was settling in and beginning to feel comfortable under the work of her hands on my back, she asked coolly, “Mama, can I spend the night at my friend’s house this weekend?”
Without a second thought, I said, “No.”
Seeing her hurt expression, I quickly added, “Invite your friends over. When you’ve all played enough, Baba will drive them all home. You don’t need to stay over. I will worry if you spend the night elsewhere.”
“But tomorrow is Lili’s birthday. Everyone is spending the night at her house.” Seeing I did not respond, she said, “Mama, please! Please, please, please!”
I did not respond right away. Instead, I called Lili’s mother to verify the situation, then reluctantly agreed to let her go.
She packed her bag, absolutely thrilled, and could not wait to go the party. She was like a bird seeing the door of her cage opened, flapping her wings eagerly and flitting out of the house, leaving her anxious mother behind.
On another occasion, with a serious face, she asked me, “Mama, don’t you always say helping others is the root of all happiness?”
“That’s right.” I said.
“My friend has some problems now. I should help her.”
“What sort of problems?” I asked playfully. “Is someone threatening her life?”
“Mama!” she said angrily. “I’m trying to share a problem with you. How can you joke?”
I quickly wiped the smile off my face and said more seriously, “Okay, go on.”
She said miserably, “My friend Hui Lan has been abused by her mother. She wants to leave home. I think we should take her in. Is that all right?”
I asked, “What if her mother reports it and the police come to our door looking for her. What would we do?”
She replied innocently, “We could hide her.”
I gave her a strict warning: “This solution does not solve the root of the problem. What I mean is that family problems are always quite complicated. It’s hard to say who is right in such circumstances, and even harder to say how matters should be settled. If she really has proof that her mother is abusive, we can go to the welfare department and get help for her.”
Because I did not allow her to become the heroine who rights an injustice, she was quite cold toward me for several days. Seeing her sulky face made me uncomfortable, but thinking of how fragile a child’s psyche could be at that age, I tried to endure it, pretending not to notice. I tolerated it for some time until finally her face suddenly brightened one day. She said, “Mama, I want to drink your ginseng chicken soup.”
Seeing this as a sort of olive branch, I did not say anything else, but simply rushed to the market to buy chicken and ginseng, then washed my hands and got to work so I could fulfil my daughter’s request. When the soup was ready, she slurped it down. The sweetness of the soup was reflected in her expression. Comforted, I looked at her, then she suddenly blurted out, “Mama, Isabella invited me to stay at her house for a few days…”
My spirit had just been lifted, but now I had to quickly put on invisible armour to prepare for battle.
Children going through the kite stage, will find ways to free themselves from the string held by their parents, but if parents know how to pull and release the kite, releasing a little when the time is right, and then a little bit more, and pulling back when called for, and then pull back a little more, they will find that their children are still within their guidance.
I think the most difficult period of a parent-child relationship falls after the kite stage in the porcupine stage. If matters are not handled carefully then, hurt feelings will be stored up in the hearts of both parties.
When Fung Yee and Fung Teck had been through their kite period, at age seventeen, they went overseas to study. Only Ke Jun stayed in Singapore for junior college, and the two of us went through a difficult period of adjustment.
The Porcupine Stage
Chinese New Year was approaching, Everywhere we went the atmosphere was warming up, with lively songs and the smell of New Year goodies filling the air. But at home, the atmosphere was very different. My daughter and I were quarrelling over what was appropriate attire for Chinese New Year.
Every year, we travelled as a family back to Ipoh to celebrate with my mother-in-law. I always bought new clothes for the children, choosing bright, cheerful colours to suit the mood. The red decorations in the whole house were like silent firecrackers, ushering in auspicious blessings.
The year my daughter started junior college, she asked if she could choose her own New Year clothes. Thinking, she’s grown up now, and she has her own taste and knows what she likes, I agreed to let her choose. I never imagined she would come home with spaghetti-strapped, short black dresses. They were black as midnight, black as ink—black as the tomb! As soon as I saw them, I cried sharply, “It’s New Year! How can you wear black?”
She mumbled, “Black is the fashion this year. Why not wear black?”
I declared firmly. “There are three hundred and sixty-five days in the year. There’s just one of those on which you can’t wear black, and that’s the first day of New Year.”
“What’s so special about that day?” she retorted sassily.
I explained patiently, “It’s Chinese tradition that wearing black on the first day of New Year is inauspicious.”
With an indignant expression, she said, “That’s the old generation’s superstitions. Why should I follow it?”
Holding back my temper, I went on, “Even though it’s superstition, is it really that big a deal to give up wearing black one day of the year just to please your elders? If you wear this dark black dress in front of your grandmother on the first day of New Year, how do you think she would feel?”
Looking very unhappy, she went back into her room and slammed the door.
We argued over clothes frequently. She had always worn what I chose for her. But now, no matter what I bought, she didn’t like it. Sometimes new clothes would remain quarantined in the wardrobe. Helpless to do anything else, I let her choose for herself, but the things she bought looked awful to me. If it was not low-cut, then the hem was too short. I thought the colours were too dark, or styles too revealing. But the minute I commented, she would accuse me of being oldfashioned. We butted heads, and it was like one stone hitting another. Sparks flew, and caused a good deal of pain.
While she was going through puberty, she got thinner as she grew. >She became thinner because she was dieting. Oil was anathema to her, and meat was her great enemy. Carbohydrates were like poison to her, and she refused to eat any. Her intake consisted solely of fruits, vegetables, and steamed fish.
Each time we ate out, we had to make special requests for less oil to be used when the vegetables were cooked and no oil for the steamed fish. When the fish and vegetables arrived at the table, if there was the slightest shine on the dishes, she would refuse to eat. It infuriated me, and I wa
s constantly scolding. It made meals a miserable affair.
I was very afraid she would develop an eating disorder. But with two hard heads butting against each other, we ended up with nothing more than a huge headache, so I decided to change strategies. I cut out pictures of people with eating disorders who looked like skeletons and left those on her desk as a sort of silent warning. I also bought her some vitamins to boost her immune system. She saw the vitamins as an expression of my maternal love and concern. Those prickly spines standing up all over her back gradually lost their sharpness.
What was hardest to adjust to when my daughter entered the porcupine stage was her transformation from a chirpy little magpie to a silent brooding gourd. In the past, she would snuggle up to me every night and talk nonstop about all life’s little details. It was easy for me to differentiate between her joys and sorrows, her pride and disappointment. Now, she answered only when I asked, offering no more information than was absolutely necessary, reserving her communications for her friends. Every day after school, the phone was practically glued to her ear. She chatted as if she would never run out of things to say. When she wasn’t on the phone, she was writing in her diary. She wrote and wrote, filling up one notebook after another. I was quite at a loss.
But intuition told me this rebellion was what all children contract during the porcupine stage, just like measles or chicken pox, breaking out for a period of time, then fading away. Then, their focus turns towards the parents again; the guardian angels they have neglected and ignored for a while will suddenly become visible to them once more. All I could do was wait.
During this period, the question of her going out was another point of tension. At home, she had her own room, and it was well equipped with everything she needed. When she did not come home right after school, she would spend long hours hanging out in fast food restaurants with her friends. When I asked her to come home, she would object, saying she could study better with her study group. So I said, “Bring them here and study.” But she said her friends were not comfortable with that.