Of Mice and Men

As of a week ago, we have an unwelcome addition to our home. No one (save Daughter) has set eyes on it, but evidence of its presence is turning up everywhere.

It started off with little bite marks on the apple and kiwis in the fruit bowl. We guessed that the little Phantom was a possum, and concluded that it had taken up residence in the roof (a fairly common occurrence in Australia) and found its way down into the house when hubby cut a hole in the ceiling for some DIY work. So we started hiding our fruit in the microwave and fridge, plugged up the hole, bought a possum cage online (the extra-big version at $44 a pop) and hauled it up into the roof cavity, using an apple as bait. Phantom accepted our offering, but evaded capture. Some cage! (We are now trying to see if we can get a refund).

Every morning for the next few days, I was greeted by the sight of poo (ie excrement) on the stove. Then I discover that it’s been chewing on the oven gloves I hang up near the stove. From there, it moved on to the kitchen floor rug, and a few days later to the rubber mat on the kitchen floor. With such a varied diet, we conclude that Phantom is no possum – he must be a rat. So I bring home another trap and some rat poison secured from my office groundsman, and set that up around the kitchen. Despite setting up an elaborate obstacle course for rodents, Phantom side steps both trap and poison, and continues taunting me with its droppings on the stove. So now, in addition to the human toilet I have to clean, I also have to clean Phantom’s toilet… every evening and every morning.

Emboldened by our feeble attempts, Phantom ventures further afield to the boys’ bedroom. I walk in there one morning to discover bits of B1’s $85 school bag on the floor. Turns out that B1 had a cookie in the outside pocket… since late last year! B1 denied any prior knowledge of the cookie, saying that a classmate had baked cookies for every person in class but that no one wanted it, and a friend must have put it in his bag without his knowledge, as a joke. To rephrase the well-worn excuse explaining why you didn’t complete your homework, B1 can now respond (with some truth) “The rat/mouse/possum ate my homework!” B1 thought this would be quite some story to share with his friends, but I wasn’t too keen, fearing the Department of Child Safety would remove all 3 kids from my care for being an unfit mother with a filthy home. Despite disposing of the offending cookie, Phantom revisited the bag and enlarged the hole, probably just to make sure that there were no crumbs left.

As last night was particularly humid, the family camped out in the only room in the house with air-conditioning – the living room. As we live in an open plan house, the living room, kitchen and dining room are in one big open area. We closed up all the bedroom doors, and were fairly sure that Phantom would remain in hiding for fear of detection. No such luck – he took another bite of the oven gloves, and we’re pretty sure he was in the air-cond unit (we had switched it off in the middle of the night) as we awoke to the sounds of scratching inside the unit. Hubby thinks he went there for a drink of water… or perhaps, like the rest of us, he was hot too.  

My research into the psychology of rats has revealed that they have what’s called “bait shyness”. They are naturally suspicious of anything new in the environment, and often won’t touch a bait until it’s been left there for several days/weeks. As for poison, it has to be slow acting – if it kills a rat instantly, the rest will know that it’s died from ingesting the poison, and they will stay away from it.

I don’t know how long more this will continue. The longer it drags out, the higher the chances are that he’ll destroy more things and (and this is highly likely) if there is more than one, they’ll breed and produce many more little Phantoms to drive us crazy.

The only thing that seems to work so far is B1’s schoolbag. I’m wondering if it’s worth investing another $85 in another school bag so that we can use the existing one as bait! But every cheapskate bone in my body is screaming out in protest – how can one (or God knows how many now) little pest cause so much damage?

Down but not out, Down Under

Since my last post on 12 December 2007, much has happened. My family of 4 emigrated to Australia in June 2008 (kids and I came first, Hubby came 6 months later after liquidating our meagre assets) and in December 2009, we welcomed our third child, a gorgeous boy. Between our arrival in Australia and younger son's arrival into the world, we held down 5 part-time jobs between the two of us, moved house three times and worked hard at building new friendships and understanding a whole new culture.

One of the first things we learnt about how things work in Australia was this: they don't, at least not in the Christmas holidays (although Christmas is technically on 25 December, the holiday period can stretch through all of December and January). That meant that Hubby couldn't secure any interviews upon arrival - people had better things to do (family holidays, DIY projects etc) than to think about expanding their workforce (and workload). He did end up getting a part-time job at a fish shop, but only because he accepted a lower rate of pay. The upside was that we ended up with lots of unsold fried food, although by the third day, I had tired of it and would gladly have traded it for fresh seafood instead!

Hubby's second job was in fact very similar to my very first job in Australia years ago when I was a student. This job involved dropping off shopping catalogues into letterboxes, then returning again after about a week to see if anyone had placed any orders, then forwarding the orders to the company, picking up stock and going back a third time to the relevant houses to deliver stock and collect payment. In a sense, it was harder work than what I did - in my case, I only dropped off the junk mail once a week and didn't have to deal with any orders or payment. I'd like to say that Hubby was rewarded handsomely for his efforts (trudging around in the hot Queensland sun with a big bag full of catalogues is hard work),but that would be a huge exaggeration. He did get fit, develop a tan and slim down a lot; so you might say that the work made him more handsome, anyway. He also made friends with elderly and mainly housebound Australians, who appreciated the magnified reading glasses, long-handled grabber tools, mobility aids and other assorted stuff the catalogue offered.

For a long time after he quit this job to start work in a position that made use of his qualifications and paid enough to support a family (ie a job which offered prospects and financial security), I still tried to look for little items to buy from the catalogue that was delivered to our house, hoping to help the person who was doing the job that Hubby once did. I finally stopped when I realised that most of the stuff ended up unused, adding to the clutter that seems to follow us everywhere we go.

Looking back, I have to say that it was a difficult time in our lives. Although we had some savings, the fact that Hubby felt unable to support his family placed him under emotional and mental strain. Because neither of us had full-time jobs, it was hard for us to be even considered for rental properties - weekends were spent dragging the kids to view one rental property after another, putting in multiple applications and ultimately being rejected.

One particular instance stands out in my memory. We had left the kids with my parents and gone to view a rental property on a street aptly named Lemon Street. The agent was late, probably because he thought there would be no takers for a property that was quite possibly not fit for habitation. It was an absolute dump! When he weakly apologised for his tardiness and the condition of the property, one prospective tenant replied "That's ok. I was looking at it as a place to house my dogs, cos they don't allow pets at the place where I'm currently staying!" Out of desperation, we put in our application anyway; and at that point, I wondered if this is what depression feels like.

On the way home, we were stopped by the police for speeding and copped a whopping fine (I can't remember the exact amount, but when you have no money coming in and the savings you have is whittled down to 1/3 thanks to a weak Malaysian ringgit, any amount is 'whopping').I remember thinking that this was a fitting end to the day, right before I was seized by an absolute certainty that we had hit rock bottom. And in that certainty came an immense sense of relief, because from now on the only place we could go was up!

Testing

Testing. Testing. I'm coming back from the dead after a 7 year break! Let's see how long this burst of activity lasts...

Less Is More

The dust has settled in thick layers everywhere, and we can no longer justify the endless hours spent searching for missing items. So with the kids out of the way, (no – they were not the missing items we were searching for!!), we started our spring tidying with a vengeance.

Lest you think that we subject the kids to this state of madness daily, let me assure you that things had to get worse before they got better. So this is when things were at their worst.

BEFORE

Living Room

Entrance Hallway

Children's Play Area

Photos were strewn everywhere, the result of a long overdue (it’s been 2 years since we moved here) attempt to put up some family mug shots. Drawers and cupboards were turned out, in the vain hope of disposing of some of the contents. Christmas music was played to spread some cheer and drown out the sound of my disgruntled muttering at Hubby’s hoarding tendencies, the extent of which will be written up in another post.

After a good two weeks of consistent, after-work tidying, the end still seemed no closer in sight. In near panic at the thought that the kids would be back soon, we actually welcomed the flood-induced cancellation of our Taman Negara trip as this bought us more time to complete the tidying. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d willingly pass up a holiday to Taman Negara to clean house. Aargh! I am slowly but surely turning into a domesticated old woman. Anyway, 5 garbage bagfuls of rubbish later, here are the results of our blood, sweat and tears…

AFTER

Living Room

Entrance Hallway

Children's Play Area

Allow me to share with you some insights gained from this experience of spring tidying

1) Avoid it at all costs. Can be achieved by zealously throwing out all junk mail and clutter, preferably at point of entry. Unfortunately, Hubby finds credit card and supermarket mailers scintillating reading while sitting on the throne, and vetoed my idea for the placement of a dustbin at the front door for junk disposal. Sigh! File or put away everything else instantly, and get the kids to do the same. They’re slightly easier to train than husbands.

2) Institute an in-out policy. For every new item that comes into the house, at least one old item (preferably larger in size) has to leave in order to make space. This is not wastage, but wise resource management. Sell off your pre-loved items via websites such as http://www.lelong.com.my/ or http://www.ebay.com.my/, and let someone else experience the joy the item gave you. Better yet, give them away. NOTE: The only exception to this rule is children – they’re the only ones who get to stay!

3) If it must be done, do it when the kids are not around. That way, when you’re ready to call it a day, you can just drop everything and know that curious little hands will not come and move things around or break a treasured family heirloom (which you kinda forgot you even had until your momentary excavation unearthed it. Now, where did I put it again?).

4) Have a sense of humour about the whole exercise. A wise woman once told me that when she was confronted with the decision of whether to have a clean house and lose her husband, or keep her husband (and the clutter he generated), she chose the latter. As a result, my parents’ home always looks lived-in and homey (so long as you don’t open the cupboards or enter the store room) and I have a good model of marriage to follow.

They Love Us, They Love Us Not, They Love Us…

From the time the kids flew off to Grandma’s, an eerie stillness descended on our home. Three glorious weeks of blessed peace, the luxury of curling up with a good book and knowing I could actually finish it without interruption.

They say you never really know how much you miss something until it’s no longer around. In six years, I’d never been away from them for longer than a weekend – and I had no idea I’d miss them this badly. Gone were the spontaneous hugs, slobbery kisses and endless chatter. Heck, I was even beginning to miss the screaming, squealing, squabbling and whining. Obviously, the sudden ‘overdose’ of peace and quiet was driving me a little crazy.

I thought about them almost every spare minute, and resisted the urge to call them several times a day. It would be nice to say that they missed us as much as we missed them, but Hubby and I were soon painfully aware that we were no match for the combined force of 16 cousins and 21 days of unbridled play. Son was reluctant to abandon playtime to speak to us, and only did so to launch into a string of complaints about his sister and various other offending cousins. Daughter was a little more responsive, and passionately declared her love for us … and for the 3 pairs of new shoes her aunts bought her.

Is this what the Empty Nest syndrome feels like? I guess we should be happy that the kids are secure enough to be away from us for so long. After all, the goal of parenting is to raise kids who are happy, secure and independent, right? We should grab this chance to take that holiday to Taman Negara, the one we’d put on hold for a few years due to the un-kid-friendly nature of the wild and untamed outdoors.

All that remains is to quell the rising bout of kid-sickness welling up inside me. “The kids are happy, secure and independent. And I look forward to our holiday in Taman Negara.” Repeat 1,000 times. Or maybe we’re lousy parents, and they can’t wait to get away from us? “We’re good parents and our kids are happy, secure and independent. We’re good parents and our kids are happy, secure and independent.” Repeat 1,000 times.

Intruder Alert

I gate-crashed a funeral yesterday. Well, at least that's what it felt like.

What led to this strange turn of events, you ask? Contrary to popular belief, I did not hire myself out as a professional mourner (Chinese funerals sometimes engage the services of professional mourners to lend a suitably dolorous air to the proceedings).

Funerals are sad occasions in their own right. Yet this one was particularly heart-wrenching, even for a stranger like myself. The deceased was a widow who lived on her own. Concerned friends discovered that she had died… alone at home in her own bed.

Her 2 grown children were noticeably absent from the funeral. The few relatives who showed up seemed distant, both in blood ties and in demeanour. In fact, those most affected seemed to be her friends who lived nearby, the motley crew who formed her real 'family' during her last days on earth.

As I sat through the funeral Mass, I found myself wondering:
What must she have felt as she breathed her last, alone…with no one to hold her hand or pray for her?
Why were her children not at the funeral? What do they feel now, knowing that their mother has died?

Most of all I wondered… I wondered what this lady's story was. What kind of a person was she? What was her youth like? What were her hopes and dreams, her fears and struggles? What was her story?

For the truth is that each and every one of us has a story. At some point, she would have laughed, wept, loved and been loved - much like I now laugh, weep and love. Yesterday, this stranger's life story intersected mine. This elderly widow, whose existence I wasn't even aware of before yesterday, quietly barged into my life and shook it up with nagging thoughts that refuse to go away.

At first, I felt like I was intruding into the private pain of a stranger's family. Later, I realised that the intruder was not me, but her. For it was she who had actually intruded and lodged herself into the no-entry zones of my life, robbing me of my peace - reminding me of my mortality, reminding me of my parents' advancing age, chastising me for not calling them more often.

In some weird way, I feel like I've been given a peek into a sacred moment of a stranger's life. And it has left me humbled.

Naming my Blog

A major hurdle in the journey was giving the blog a name. I had a rough idea of what I wanted (and what I didn’t want), but not much of a clue beyond that.

I knew that I didn’t want my name in it – to protect the identities of the people I write about, (and also myself from defamation lawsuits) and also because I wanted to attract a readership beyond those who know me. (Then again, those who know me might not want to read about me. So not inserting my name might actually make them want to read).

I wanted to communicate with other wives and mothers, so I knew that the name would contain the word ‘mum’.

I wanted something that reflected me. So I consulted the people who know and love me best, a Family Friend and my Hubby (the kids were not around to be consulted). These were some of their suggestions:

www.blurandclumsy.blogspot.com
www.theycallmeblur.blogspot.com

(Note to non-Malaysian/non-Singaporean readers: the word ‘blur’ here means confused/ befuddled/bumbling)

Okay, so I’m something of a bumbling klutz. Let’s just say that the catalogue of my accidents, falls and misadventures would provide plenty of fodder for future posts. Obviously, Hubby (the number 1 victim of my misadventures) thinks so too, since he was the one who offered the first name! (The second was enthusiastically offered by the friend. Between the 2 of them, they seemed to be having a lot of fun with the naming exercise, affording me a rare glimpse into what male bonding is all about – in this instance, having a good laugh at the expense of someone else). Anyway, Hubby redeemed himself somewhat with his next suggestion:

www.BYE.blogspot.com – BYE is an acronym for Blur Yet Effective. Personally, I felt this might be a little prophetic – with a cryptic name like that, I might as well be saying goodbye to any hopes of success for my blog. So that suggestion was scrapped as well. Incidentally, I ditched the first two listed above as I didn’t want to attract overseas readers with eyesight problems, and risk them feeling even worse about their eyesight as they searched in vain for information about eye ailments.

Other suggestions:

www.twistedmum.blogspot.com – This I vetoed on the grounds that I didn’t want to attract weirdos and perverts.

www.2kidsandamum.blogspot.com – This was an attractive proposition, but a bit limiting cos I’m not entirely sure my childbearing days are over. Also, it didn’t make any mention of Hubby, and I guess he does play a role in my being a mum :-)

www.theycallmemum.blogspot.com – Yet another one I seriously considered, cos since my oldest child could talk (a feat accomplished about 5 years ago), I’ve gone for days at a time thinking my name was MUM. Now that they’re older, my name has expanded from plain old MUM to ‘Mum-look-at-koko’ or ‘Mum-look-at-meimei’ (koko = Cantonese for older brother, meimei = Mandarin for younger sister), usually uttered at very high decibels.

After much agonising (on my part) and laughter (on the part of those who purportedly know and love me best), I settled on cheapskatemum. You’ll know why once you’ve read what I wrote under the ‘About Me’ section.