Siblings

If my sis and I weren't blood-related, I don't think we'd even be friends. We are THAT different.

I don't get how she can be so anal at times and she can't stand my guts. I'm not the most sensitive person in the world and she's got skin as thin as an onion skin. I'm loud and garrulous and she shoots me the evil eye when I get carried away. She's black-and-white; I'm all shades of grey. She's meticulous; I'm, well, I'm... .

Some time back, I elicited her anger when I inadvertently blurted a remark during dinner. I didn't know I'd caused offence till I realised I was getting the cold shoulder and there was a mighty frost coming my way not even halfway through dinner.

Last night sis texted me; she apologised for snapping at me over the phone. She'd had a long day and was tired, so she'd barked. Huh? I didn't even realise she'd snapped at me. Actually, she barks quite a lot, so maybe I'd just gotten used to it.

Bloody connections aside, we'd probably not give each other the time of day. And for all our differences, I do know that she's got my back. Of course, I've got hers. Oh, and we both love to read.

So, thank goodness for blood.

And thank goodness for sisters.

Why I Think My Cat Is A Dog

Sophia and Pixel. She only does this to/with him. She isn't this way with other cats. Thank gawd for that coz her behaviour borders on (probably is) cat abuse.

She's incorrigible. He doesn't know what to do with himself and with her. I don't know what to do with him allowing her to do what she does to him.

I don't think he's a cat. I think he's a closet dog.

In The Morning

Houston, we have lift off!

Bed's dry. Small fry's dry. Everyone's happy.

Dry

We've had two nights of dry diapers. Wow. Another milestone.

So today we decided, or rather, I decided to try the small fry out without diapers for bedtime. Of course, I actually asked her first if she'd rather go to bed with diapers and just as I suspected, the answer was a negative.

So I lined her bed with a large sheet of plastic (just a precaution, it's early days yet) and placed her thin cat mattress on top of her spring one and we're ready to go. She was excited just hearing the scrunch of the plastic as she moved around in bed.

We'll whether everything remains dry in the morning.

Fingers crossed.

Where Are Mine?

Putting Sophie to bed is something that fills me with equal parts enthusiasm and equal parts dread. I love reading to her. I do not like lying in bed with her. I am required to lie in her bed with her, all scrunched up in her shorter-than-normal bed while other adults, daddy included, get away with just a regular reading.

Worse still if I end up falling asleep scrunched up on that bed, right hand behind my head, curled up in a fetal position. Nothing sends me into a funk more than waking up blur and groggy after an evening nap that wasn't scheduled.

So there I was, all curled up and trying to get the small fry to quiet down and get to sleep already, and she's having none of it. She's tracing the lines of my face and pointing out my features: eyes, nose, eyebrows.

Then she gingerly touches her face in search of her eyebrows. Her hand misses them by a mile and ends up on her forehead. She paws her forehead in search of the elusive brows.

"Oh dear. I've got no eyebrows," exclaims the small fry.

It takes me a gargantuan effort not to guffaw.

"No, baby, of course you have eyebrows. Here, mommy will show you where they are. Give me your hand."

And I spend the next five minutes or so retracing her eyebrows with her hand just to reassure her that yes, she wasn't born bald. No, my Chinese gene wasn't so cruel as to render her without eyebrows, just flat-nosed.

Noah's Ark

Her bed.

That resembles Noah's Ark, minus the animals in pairs. The wall is filled over with decals of animals - mother and child.

Her bed has a menagerie of critters: dog/panda and crocodile bolsters that also serve as barriers; a porcupine, an armadilla and a tiger puppets; four different sizes of Totoros; her Mickey and Pooh pillows; magnetic dog, giraffe and cat (the latter of which is her personal version of Miyazaki's neko-basu); Miffy the rabbit; Senget the cat; baby bolster and pillow.

That's not including the other collection of stuffed toys that can't fit onto her bed and are sitting in one of her toy boxes.

The rascal has too many toys.

The Things That We Do With/To Totoro

We try to feed Totoro while he's on the stove and his blue buddy watches from the side, on his side.

We try to scoop some water from the tap while Totoro is in the sink. Not sure if we want to wash him or not. Note his blue buddy cooking in the pot on the stove.

And we try to feed Big Totoro something while he's in the sink.

Poor thing! Being slow-boiled must not be much fun. Even the carrots and other food don't want to join him in the pot.

A New Love

I love the library. And I like taking the bus there; after all, it's a short two stops away and the bus stop is right outside of our apartment.

I may have passed on this love to the little one when I first took her on the bus (her first bus ride!) to the library a couple of weeks back. She loves the novelty of being in a moving vehicle, having the opportunity to swipe my EZ Link card on the bus and looking out the windows and exclaiming at the trees and everything that passes by outside.

And she loves the library too. Specifically, at this point in time, she loves Ian Falconer's Olivia. We have a couple of Olivia books at home in KL but we don't make it a point to bring books from KL to Singapore and vice versa. So I thought it'd be a good idea to pick out some Olivia books for her since she likes them and she doesn't get to read them if she's not in KL.

We left the library with 3 copies of the exuberant little piggy that day. Of course, after we had our reading session at the library. I read all three copies to her while she excitedly exclaimed over some of the details in the books. Loudly. If there were a hearing-impaired person at the children's section that day, he would have had no problems hearing the little one.

I also assume that there is a no eating/drinking policy at the library (dunno if that's really true or not) so of all the things I had to teach the little one that day, I taught her how to sneak snacks into her mouth as discreetly as possible.

"Leave your snack cup in the Mickey bag, babe. Just take out your snacks one by one and pop it into your mouth."

It was either that or deal with a temper tantrum.

So that went well.

And we've been heading to the library, on average, once a week since then. With the exception of the library being closed for a function that one morning Sasha was here, we've enjoyed our trips to the library immensely.

She makes daily references to going to the library, reminding herself and anyone else who is willing to hear, about going to the library, taking the bus there, and how it was closed, or how we borrowed the Olivia books from the library.

This is one love I wouldn't mind cultivating in the little one. I just have to be ready to explain to her about the libraries (or lack of) at home in Malaysia when we're back there one day. Better yet, I'll just let her visit one herself.

Don't You Touch My Totoro!

Don't you dare, Pixel! You already maul my tiny little Totoro to bits on a daily basis. Paws off my Big Totoro!

Yes, the fat boy seems to have a fascination for the teeny tiny little Totoro (not pictured). No matter where it is, he finds it and treats it like a ball of yarn. Whether it's on our bed, her bed, on the table or lying around somewhere within his sight and reach, he will take it and give it a toss and a swat around the house. When we can't find it, his is the first name we call out. And then we cross our fingers and hope the little Totoro is still intact.

So far, so good.

Messy Hair

Even though I try my best, I can't seem to get her hair just right. Maybe it has something to do with cutting it in the bath. There are too many distractions: water, suds, bath toys, falling clumps of hair....

Luckily for me, she still looks adorable anyways.