Noise Sniffer

If you have an iPhone and some kids, it's quite fun to play with this app called Noise Sniffer.

Last night, my toddler was crying out of hunger, my 6 yr-old was incessantly going "MUMMY, LOOK! MUMMY LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME!" and a plastic elephant toy was blaring it's digital elephant trumpet on the floor.

Immediately, as an opportunistic fun individual, I grabbed my iPhone and switched on my Noise Sniffer apps.

It read 105 dB. "Extremely Loud"

On a daily basis.....

To My Dear Boys: About You

Dear Daniel,
You are an awesome kid, I mean it. TRULY. You're like my BFF from the start, almost like my soulmate. I love chatting with you when I tuck you to bed every night, we're like friends who share secrets and our innermost fears and desires. Though you're 6, you seem to understand and feel a whole lot more than I can imagine. I know this will cease when you're older so I'm cherishing every moments of our mom-son chit-chats.

You are a sensitive, compassionate, loving and expressive boy. You have shown your care and concern when I needed it most. When I was unwell in bed, you'd pop into the room and ask me if I wanted something to eat or drink. And you'd cover me with my blanket, and touch my forehead. And that turns my heart into mushy goo of warm fuzzy love. You have also shown strength and maturity beyond your age in time of crisis. When I was in hospital, and your papa had to manage you and your brother in an intense situation, you tried to help as much as you could. When your baby brother was screaming and crying in his carseat, you distracted him, entertained him, sang a lullaby and soothed him to sleep, and you did all these on your own while your papa had to drive. Your papa and I think you did a KICK-ASS AWESOME job. TRULY. You worried for me silently, and you were brave. I'd give you 11 stars out of 10.

Don't ever forget to be awesome. *high five*
ps. I think you'll be a romantic guy who gives flowers and writes love notes to your lady, just like what you do for me now.


Dear Darren,
You are an awesome baby, I mean it. TRULY. If all babies were fun and easy like you, I can have ten of you. Your demeanor is almost like your brother when he was a baby. Sweet and cheerful. You are such a delight. These days you cling to me like a panda. I love how you wrap your little arms around my legs and you stick your head between them, and whimper when you want to be carried up. EVERYTHING you do is adorable, including your tantrums and your cute little crunched up face when you cry. But the best moments are the ones when you look at me with your two round Precious-Moments eyes and flash the most genuine sweet smile in the whole world.... that turns my heart into a mushy goo of warm fuzzy love :)

Be awesome everyday.
ps. I think you'll be into cars like your papa.

Peekaboo

I really hate to post this again but yaaaaa... it's another dead baby post. Bear with me.

Last night, I started revamping and reorganizing my craft room. The husband was out for network drinks. Yay! Free time for me!
I found a slip of paper and it took me 5 seconds to realize what it was and then I just broke down. My entire body stopped to allow the tear duct to launch big-time. What's strange was that it was TOTALLY OUT OF CONTROL. Like I was looking at myself as another person and going "WHOA,WHOA, WHOA SLOW DOWN SISTER, WHAT'S GOIN' ON!"

There I was, kneeling on the floor, clutching the slip of paper, as two souls, one wailing out of control and another wide-eyed jaw-dropped flabbergasted. If there was a conversation, it would go like this:

A1: WWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
A2: YO, wassup.
A1: MMMMMM MMMMMMMM (trying to suppress cry)
A2: STOP
A1: I *gasp gasp* CAN'T *gasp gasp*
A2: Come on, it's over.
A1: FUCK YOU IT'S NEVER OVER! *sob sob sob*
A2: Okaaaaaaayyy... Let's talk about it then
A1: *sob sob* *sniff sniff* No. MMMMMM MMMMMMMMM
A2: *whistling Katy Perry's Last Friday Night tune*
A1: WAAAAAAAA WAAAAAAAAAAAAA
A2: *finished whistling the entire song*
A1: *sniff sniff*
A2: You okay now?
A1: Shut up.
A2: Let's continue putting stuff in the boxes, okay?
A1: Ok *sniff*

It was a Permit Menguburkan b/o Lau Lei Yin.


"for me it isn't over" by beth retro

Fine Dining Tera Thai @ JB

Back for second photographical review. The first one is here.

The gorgeous colonial bungalow.


















As usual... when the food comes, my camera is tucked away. Next time, I promise!

Anyone needs direction?

Rough August

The brain is an amazing organ. Subconscious memory is an amazing phenomenon. Usually, PMS moodiness don't linger for more than a few days, but it did. I have been upset, teary and melancholic for two weeks. I checked my diary and apparently I had my pregnancy weeks recorded until week 18. I counted forward. This week I would be at my 37th week, the same week Daniel and Darren was born. So I figured, this must be the week Damien would be born too.

So, I think I should commemorate his phantom birth with a tattoo of his name. Damien18 or D18 but the latter sounds like a durian's strain doesn't it. We'll both have a good laugh :)

To My Dear Boys: About Marriage

Sometimes, we forget that a marriage needs work and attention too. In fact, constantly. But when work projects and kids consume your daily life, it's easy to put it aside. The danger comes when putting it aside becomes a constant thing. The marriage gets cob-webbed and still.

That is what my hormones feel today. It is usually a passing phase, but I have never recorded how I felt during these 'possessed' phase. So here's a little insight.

I feel like the world is unfair. Unfair towards women. Especially working mothers. Whose husbands are businessmen who needs to network-drink and network-golf with similar businessmen and their drinking/golf buddies.

Take a look at this scenario. When the husband is stressed at work, he goes for drink at night. When the stressful project is over, he celebrates by playing golf and/or drinking with the pals. Now, when the wife has a stressful day, she still comes home to carry out her daily responsibility of making sure the kids are alright, done the homework, or deal with a cranky child. And when everything is settled, all she wants is a good shower and a husband to rub her feet or just blow-dry her hair and talk about anything under the moon.

Like I said, that's what the hormones feel today.

A Void

When I was pregnant for the third time, I created a space in my heart for another child to love. I think this happens with EVERY pregnant woman.

And then, he was gone. The space is still there and I can't seem to fill it up, not even with my two existing amazing boys. Nothing can fill it up. Weird isn't it.

Zzzzzz

TOO cute.


Darren is almost 17 months old. He has 8 teeth, and growing more, and drooling me a river. He can say Papaaaaaa, Mummiiiiiie, Titaaaaaaaa, koh-koh, poh-poh, ble (ball), ble (bird), nenen, nana(banana) and pika-pika in the most adorable baby voice. He loves snacks, piggy-back rides, remote controls, phones, plastic bottle filled with water, cardboard boxes and his bolster. He loves shoes too. He scratches his head when he's sleepy. He's not afraid of strangers.

An absolute charm in his own way.

Pouches pouches

This is what I do to keep sane.

White Woodboard

There's something about white painted wood that I simply adore.




And they make great photography backdrops, like this one made by the husband for my birthday present earlier this year.

Next will be an entire feature wall of white painted woodpanels... when there are no more kids armed with crayons in the house.

Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep

You know one of those moment where you're in public, sitting at a cafe by yourself perhaps, or at the office on your computer, and then something compels you to cry, and you try very hard to resist, but you can't. Your vision becomes blurry with tears and you feel your nose tingling and your ears heating up and you can't stop it. You take deeeeeeep looooong breaths and try to psycho yourself with happy thoughts. You play this mental war game with yourself called "STOP CRYING NOW". But somehow that something that makes you cry just takes over your mind and then you break down.

This one just did that to me.

Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep. This is their mission statement:
To introduce remembrance photography to parents suffering loss of a baby with the free gift of professional portraiture. We believe these images serve as an important step in the family's healing process by honoring their child's legacy.

I typed 'legacy' wrong 15 times because of blurred vision. I couldn't even get pass their mission statement, I don't think I'm strong enough today to read through their stories, I know I'll be breaking down at the end of every sentence.

It's not just breaking down in tears. You have to 'climax'. You know that right? The point-of-no-return where you just decided to let it ALL out. Go vocal if you like. Then after that, you feel better while gasping for breath.

I had to watch Robert Pattinson say funny things to distract me.I will be making several attempts to browse that website again.

Bad Funny Dream

Last night, in my dream, I saw my miscarried baby. But it was a tiny tiny blob of something. I was looking at it, then IT MOVED!!!!!

IT FUCKING MOVED!!!

AND I FUCKING CRIED!

And then it slowly grew into a baby dinosaur! It was slimy and was trying to walk like a newborn calf.

Maybe it's being reborn somewhere in this world today. As a child of a nice normal sane rich and famous Hollywood celebrity, or producer, or director... of Jurassic Park.

Yes, it must be.

Obedient Wives Club

I feel lucky to be in Malaysia because I have news like this to make me laugh.

Ultimate shock value.

'Wives can curb social ills like prostitution by being obedient and alluring'

Obedient Wives Club to offer sex lessons on how to pleasure husbands

I gotta hand it to them for being upfront, honest and explicit about this. I can understand from an Islamic point of view/law because Christianity also have similar duty scope of a wife and husband albeit in a more 'loving,reasonable and new age' form. I think it's called The Five Languages of Love, and it is taught in pre-marital courses conducted by churches. It's like a little private guideline to keep your marriage healthy and happy.

But this club's belief and views are absurd beyond jaw-drop. Domestic violence, abuse and social ills are caused by disobedient wives who do not sexually satisfy their husbands?

This is my favourite quote from one of the founders, Dr. Rohaya:
"When husbands come home, wives do not welcome their husbands with warm alluring smiles and sexy dressing ... That is the reality today". Wow, she must've been living in some neverneverland.

Anyway, I expect this coming raya to be more 'sexy', like these Kuih Raya ala Obedient Wives Club.

It Wasn't Meant To Be

It is called an inevitable miscarriage. By definition, an inevitable miscarriage (or spontaneous miscarriage) is one where the miscarriage is imminent or is in the process of happening.

To me, it was a death sentence for my perfectly healthy unborn 18 weeks baby boy with impeccable heartbeat.

18 weeks. After how hard my body worked to make this little miracle, my body still failed him. From two cells to fingernails, his time came before he could even live.

Miscarriages usually happen in the earlier weeks, way before fingers are even formed. And most miscarriages happen without the mother knowing. They say it’s like a heavy period with clots and cramping. My miscarriage felt like it was an actual childbirth, with an outcome we had to accept. An inevitable outcome.

It started with an urge to poo. At 4am. In Genting Highlands. In our hotel room on the 9th floor. Surrounded by tourists and gamblers. I just wanted to poo. The sensation became stronger and little different. No contractions, no pain, no water breaks, no blood. I sat on the toilet, reminding myself to have a banana later. And then I felt it. Something was somewhere it shouldn’t be. I reached down and felt something membranous filling up my woowoo. That was the membrane bulge from the waterbag, the sentence of the inevitable. Have you ever panicked? This was 100X.

By then, it was already 6am. The boys were still asleep. The husband called for an ambulance as I tried to relax and to resist any bearing down urge. We waited. A minute felt like an eternity. Daniel had woken up and was lounging around, oblivious to the crisis we were in. My mind was in a crisis. A shitload of emotional crisis.

The stretcher team finally arrived. One woman two men team garbed in uniform that looked like police. Daniel felt the crisis. You see, Hollywood taught him that when there is ambulance there is big trouble. He didn’t cry, he was just stunned as everything happened so sudden and fast. As I was lying on the stretcher, I told him calmly, “Daniel, ambulance take Mummy to hospital ok? Because mummy is sick. My stomach hurts. Don’t be scared ok? I’m ok, I will see you later”. With that, he nodded. I wasn’t in pain actually.

I was wheeled to the hotel clinic at ground floor for a quick examination by a very nice young lady doctor who was the first one to utter this word to me. ‘Abortion’. Doctors use this term which is the same as miscarriage. There, medical lesson 101. I asked her what it meant though deep inside I already knew what it was. She said the baby was already coming out and there’s nothing we can do. I lied there, trying to process my thoughts as they tried to process the paperwork fast to get me to the nearest hospital. I tried to dissect and ‘decipher’ that phrase ‘there is nothing we can do’, as if it was a code that actually meant ‘there is hope that your baby will switch to reverse gear and move back inside like a car, and continue growing to become a full term pink mushy little bundle of joy’. I enjoy bullshitting myself like that.

Deciphering the ‘code’ helped me in enduring 40minutes of journey to the hospital. Was it 40 minutes? Who cares. I was in an ambulance, going down the winding Genting road. All ambulances should be GTIs, you know what I mean.The clinic nurse was beside me, observing me throughout the ride, holding the familiar big yellow biohazard waste bag. I resisted any bearing down urge. No way my baby is going into a biohazard bag.

I arrived at Hospital Selayang at about 9am. It is an ‘upper-standard’ government hospital right smack in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t care where I was as long as there were doctors and a bed. At the ER ward, I was checked again. By now I was already bleeding a bit. Bad news. And more bad news. Cervix has dilated. And came the worst news. As I watch my baby’s heart beating away on the ultrasound monitor, it hit me. Has anything hit you so hard that you feel that your spirit is leaving your body? The MOs, oh I love them MOs, earnestly explained to me.

“OK madam, your OS is dilated and you’re going through an inevitable miscarriage now. Since your baby is only 18 weeks, it will not be able to survive when it’s born…” I went deaf after that.

These guys are trained well. They never use the word ‘die’. They say ‘will not survive’. All throughout my stay, all the different MOs had never said the ‘d’ word. Only the cleaner. She said the ‘m’ word.

I was wheeled to the gynaecology ward. Another internal examination. Another scan. That was the last time I saw him. The grainy black and white blurry image of him cozy and snug in my uterus. The lady gynae was also pregnant, far more along than I was. She was nonchalant as she performed her job like any other job. She examined me, read out the diagnosis and treatment to another MO and left. Now I was under the MO’s care. He was nice. He looked like Mark Ruffalo (Just Like Heaven with Reese Witherspoon). Back on my bed, he asked me a series of standard medical history questions and wrote it in a folded A4 paper. Did I mention he was nice? I’d give him A+ for bedside manners. He was sensitive, kind and polite. I was put on ‘conservative management’, meaning I lie in bed and rot naturally. No drugs, no surgery, only painkillers if I needed. They would do nothing to speed up the ‘abortion’ because ethically, my baby was still alive. Doctor Mark Ruffalo told me to just rest and wait. That was the last time I saw Doctor Mark Ruffalo.

And wait I did. A whole lot of waiting. A whole lot of crying in between. 36 hours felt like a week had gone by. Three other MOs came by to repeat the series of medical history questioning. All of them writing in a folded A4 paper. One was a first year MO, and she nervously memorized all my information in front of me, like she was preparing for a slide presentation. And then I understood why she was nervous. The ‘teacher’ doctor and her entourage of MOs were doing rounds at the ward. There were first years, like herself, second years and maybe third years. All crowding around bed by bed.
My turn. I felt like a specimen for show and tell. I was sitting on my bed, actually lounging around in my pink top and sarong. My nervous MO recited my diagnosis and prognosis and all the hoolabaloo while looking at her folded A4 paper intermittently. The first years were paying attention. The rest were lounging around like me. I must be a boring case because at midway, the ‘teacher’ doctor and the final years started talking about distochia (where baby’s shoulder get lodged in the mother’s pelvis thus prolonging childbirth)

Final year MO: Sorry, I’m late. Just now got distochia case.
Gynae guru: * jumping animatedly * REAALLLYY?!!! OH MY GOD! I SHOULD’VE SEEN IT LA!
Final year MO: Big… There was another one.
Gynae guru: SERIOUUUUSSS?!!!
Final year MO: Haaa… took some time to get the baby out. 4kg. Both mother GB.

I sat there, enjoying the medical jargon tennis game. I was chopped liver. But I didn’t care. I was numbed by all the waiting. I just wanted everything to be over. I just wanted to go home. Then they turned to me like I was a boring case. I was told to ‘just rest’.

The body is amazing. It really does work in its own pace and process. My body was doing what it had to do. I felt like it gave me time to say goodbye to my bunnyboy. They say there are 5 stages of grief, and my body was giving me time to go through them. As I lay on the bed, finally accepting reality, I decided to speed things up. I wasn’t scared anymore. I got out of bed and started pacing up and down the aisle. Sir Isaac Newton is a genius. Gravity had somehow ‘pulled’ my membranous bag further down. I could feel it. I alerted the nurse and went back to bed. I was told to push when there’s the urge. But I didn’t feel any urge. This was the hardest part. How can you push when there’s no pushing urge. A final year MO was nice, she stayed by my side and gave me support. She would make a good coach because she kept saying “Very good, very good” and boy that really helped! So I just pushed. A number of MOs came in and out to take a peek. Some were seeing it for the first time, some were just curious. I didn’t care, I was so focused like it was some competitive sport. For one looooong hour, I was so focused. I just pushed. I didn’t care what came out anymore, pee or poo. There was no room for embarrassment. I was tired and delirious. Surprisingly, I felt no contraction, no pain, nothing. Not even the bearing down urge anymore. I just lied there, knees bent, holding my ankles like a yoga pose, and I kept pushing whenever I had the strength and lung power.

On the 7th of April 2011, at 4.25pm, our third son was born. He was still inside the membranous 'pouch'. I think the MO made a slit to 'release' him. My coach asked, “Do you want to see your baby?” At this point, overwhelmed with so much emotions, I panicked. I spent all those hours waiting for this moment and I didn’t plan on whether I would look at him or hold him, or what I would do at this moment. Shit shit shit shit shit. I chickened out. Part of me wanted to hold him so much, but part of me was scared shitless. I felt I won’t be able to handle it. I thought what if the image haunts me for the rest of my life and I get chronic depression and become a nutcase. Seriously, I was afraid that I wasn’t as strong as I believe I am. People say certain visions will psychologically affect you for life. This was a traumatic dilemma. To see my dead baby or not. I wasn’t prepared for this.

“No”, I sobbed harder. My memory of him will remain as the happy little fetus with his heart beating away and his tiny little limbs waving at me. At the same time, I felt so ashamed and guilty. Why can’t I just look at him? He’s my baby! By then, it was too late. He was taken away for a tissue sample test and was wrapped to be ‘collected’ later. Did I mention I was overwhelmed with intense emotions of all sorts and delirious? Did that cause me to make such poor judgement and decision? This would be the biggest regret of my life.

Nature won’t let you off so easily. I still had the placenta to expel. I was given a shot of something to make me contract. Great, back to pushing. Push push push, sob sob sob. A shot of vodka would be nice. Are we there yet? No. Push push push, sob sob sob. Everything went vague after that. I was cleaned up and the privacy curtains were drawn away. Oh hey, I forgot I had 5 other roommates! Who probably heard me sobbing and pushing away like I was in my own private 5 star labour ward. Ah, who cares. Where’s my Doctor Mark Ruffalo? By the way, has anyone seen Shania Twain, I thought I saw her earlier.

That was my drug talking. Way way earlier I had a shot of painkiller when my contractions kicked in. Oh ya, I did feel pain after all. Now, I was woozy. And dreamy. And VERY sleepy. So I slept. I had the knowledge that the hubby came by but all I wanted to do was close my puffy eyes to sleep. I had the best sleep. No emotions, no dilemma, no goodbyes, no guilt. It was like a calm sea after a tumultuous storm. Calm sea indeed because I woke up soaked in my own pee. My muscles were probably still ‘relaxed’ or numb from all that pushing. Oh great, I’ll just go back to sleep in my pee-soaked hospital clothes. I didn’t care anymore. I was glad that it was over. Pee-soaked clothes? Blah, that’s peanuts.

I woke up at 10pm, in time for my dinner that turned cold. I didn’t care. I ate a few spoonfuls of rice and went back to sleep.

I woke up again, at sunrise. The world looked different. I felt different. I stroked my flat belly and tears streamed down my sticky cheeks. I don’t think my eyes have ever been dry since the last scan. I felt the aftermath-calmness. Yes, it was sad and traumatic, but now it felt peaceful. Like I have forgiven myself. The morning was like a usual day at the ward. The nurses did their usual rounds, the cleaner mopped the floor and cleared the toilet bins, my neighbour brushed her teeth, the other patients woke up too and was lounging around, waiting for breakfast. It felt like I just had a bad dream. So surreal. So real, yet it felt unreal.

On the brighter side of things, I got a lot of ‘sympathetic’ treatment from the staff. I’m probably one of the hundreds of miscarriage cases there, but they were still compassionate. Even the cleaner who was grumpy and whiny smiled at me when she passed by my bed. As she was clearing my bin, she said “Baby sudah besar ya”. I smiled back and said “Ya… sayang”. She must’ve seen him. Even the cleaner seen my baby, what kind of mother am I. I closed my eyes and said a soft “Sorry baby”.
By now the husband had arrived and was preparing for my discharge, and arranging for the baby’s ‘departure’ ritual. Apparently, this is a common practice for miscarried fetuses, maybe older ones. There was a special room somewhere for religious servicemen to carry out rites and prayers, after which the body would be cremated and the ashes would be tossed into the sea. All this was done with a small fee. The husband stayed to witness the rituals while I waited at the ward.

I said a prayer of my own. A little prayer to the little one who came into our lives, just like that, and then left, just like that. I earnestly prayed that he is at peace and is in heaven with angels. I prayed for forgiveness and that he won’t be mad at me. I prayed he will have lots of mummies and daddies, brothers and sisters, friends and pets to play with him all day. I prayed he will have all the collections of Transformers, Ben 10, Spongebob Squarepants and Ultraman paraphernalia(just like his brother). I prayed he will be kept warm and snug in bed when he sleeps, I prayed he will wake up smiling everyday to a beautiful crispy morning with yellow birds and blue birds chirping by his window. I prayed he will find joy, warmth and love in the arms of God.

Then the husband came back, bearing frustrating news. Because it was a Friday (Muslim noon prayer), all patients can only be discharged at 3pm, after the pharmacy opens. This applied to me too although I didn’t need any prescription. The nurses knew we were from Johor and was hoping to get back fast, and mainly because the husband was infuriated at the system, I was off the hook. I could finally go home. As I was preparing to leave, my due-to-discharge ward mate softly asked the cleaner why I could go home first and she couldn’t, to which the cleaner replied, “Baby mati”.

Life is funny isn’t it. Who would’ve known that I would be in this exact spot, looking at a hospital ward and listening to those two words uttered about me. It happened. It’s over. We have to mourn and move on. On the way home, I thought about the moment we were surprised by his creation, I thought about the moment we first saw his little mass which grew into a recognizable baby, I thought about his heartbeat, his head, his body, his first kick, then I thought about the unfortunate events which led me here. We didn’t have a name for him yet. Maybe I’ll do it now.

Goodbye Damien, my little bunnyboy. We love you. So so so much.

Here's a little poem I found called The Cord.

We are connected,
My child and I, by
An invisible cord
Not seen by the eye.

It's not like the cord
That connects us 'til birth
This cord can't been seen
By any on Earth.

This cord does it's work
Right from the start.
It binds us together
Attached to my heart.

I know that it's there
Though no one can see
The invisible cord
From my child to me.

The strength of this cord
Is hard to describe.
It can't be destroyed
It can't be denied.

It's stronger than any cord
Man could create
It withstands the test
Can hold any weight.

And though you are gone,
Though you're not here with me,
The cord is still there
But no one can see.

It pulls at my heart
I am bruised...I am sore,
But this cord is my lifeline
As never before.

I am thankful that God
Connects us this way
A mother and child
Death can't take it away!

Author Unknown

Letting It Out

Lately, I've been hearing about this health issue which involves letting it out. Keeping your anger and sorrows inside is actually detrimental to your physical health. Everybody knows that right? I wonder if I have been 'letting it out'. They say you have to go through the 5 stages of grief in order to heal properly. Did I go through it? I don't know. Maybe I did without realizing it. Maybe I did, by crying every moment I feel like it. I hope I'm doing it right because I don't want to be nutcase down the road where people say "Oh, she didn't let it out".

Daniel's Impressionist Art

Kids draw the darnest things.

Dan: Mummy, I want the round round biscuit.

Me: What round round biscuit.

Dan: The round round biscuit ah.

Me: Hmm... I don't know what it looks like. Tell me what it looks like. It is big? Small? Black? White?

Dan: Hmm... round, and got chocolate inside.

Me: Hmm... I really don't know what biscuit it that... *turning away from him and checking Facebook on my iPhone*

Ten minutes later, he gives me this.


Can you guess what it is?
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HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAH!!! I tell you, I gotta hand it to the little guy and his pencil.

ps. the arrows pointing down means chocolate cream comes out when he pushes his finger through.

Sharon Montrose

I'm a big fan of Sharon Montrose's animal photography.

I planned to order some prints of her baby animals.

For Daniel, born in the year of the Rooster.


For Darren, born in the year of the Tiger.



And for the little bunnyboy who would've been born this year.


That's a nice set isn't it.

Post-miscarriage confinement

This is harder than I thought, writing about my miscarriage. Too lengthy. What's harder is the post-miscarriage confinement.

If you're Chinese and there was a life growing inside of you, confinement is mandatory.

Confinement is fiiiine. Usually, you just eat special nutritious drunken food, rest and gaze at your newborn sleeping most of the time. But if it's after a miscarriage, it's just special nutritious drunken food, rest and a daily reminder about the unfortunate event. How so?

Everytime I want to drink something, it's not water, it's the red date longan wolfberry herbal drink and it's a reminder of the unfortunate event.

Everytime at dinner, I have to eat the drunken chicken with kilos of ginger, and it's a reminder of the unfortunate event.

Everytime after I shower, I have to dry my hair fast and keep myself warm with leggings and socks, and it's a reminder of the unfortunate event.

Everyday for a month, I get reminded of the unfortunate event.

I'll write my story when I get the mojo.

What the...

For you Jen.

Alexandra Wallace

Recently an American blonde ranted about Asians and posted it on YouTube. I tell you, blondes and YouTube always create news.
Taken from nytimes
Alexandra Wallace is the student at the University of California, Los Angeles, who made the three-minute video seen by millions of people on YouTube in which she disparages Asian students for using cellphones in the library to call family members after the tsunami struck Japan.

Actually, I am not responding to her insensitivity. I think this video that Jimmy made is absolutely awesome!!


Have a good weekend peeps!