In The Mind Of A Four Year Old

Small fry can be a morbid little thing, as witnessed by her creative endeavors:





Exhibit A: a snowman with his head dropping off





Exhibit B: another snowman with his head almost dropping off with a snail on the lower left whose features are a little grotesque, specifically, according to small fry, with a big eye and a small eye.

Then again there's the more 'normal' aspect of her imagination:



Purple the cat, as drawn by Daddy with a purple fountain (purple squiggle) and a blue banana, both penned by small fry.




A black and pink crescent moon with the sun next to it. The purple squiggles is not the sun. That's the 'stuff' that the sun is hiding behind. The sun is that faint orange blot, which incidentally, was drawn on the reverse of the paper.

I'd like to see her in a graphic arts class one day; who knows what will spring forth from her psyche?

Hm, maybe I wouldn't like to find out.

Sunday Scribbles

Early on a Sunday morning, small fry waxes creative; her dancing name, her new stuffed cat, Purple and a black fountain grace the sheet of paper.





It still baffles me how a four year-old can be so energetic and wide awake at 7am on a Sunday. By 8am, while I was still dozing on the couch, she'd already had two breakfasts, taken a dump, read her chinese books and made several messes of her bookshelves, and turned the living room rug into a war zone of colouring pens and pencils.

As I write, she's making a mess of the guest room.

Thank goodness for weekdays and playschool.

Sewing Into The New Year

Time spent not on the blog is cobbling and sewing fabric together to make:


1. A pair of leg rests (poufs) for my parents:

Lovely fabric finally back in stock at Ikea

2. A bag for a friend who's just delivered:

Left side

Right side

3. A 'replacement' bag for sis (who's using the one I gave her more than a year ago, day in and day out for work without a single wash since):

This is nicer than even my own bag!

In the works: too many to mention and I have a way of leaving projects unfinished, so will not jinx myself and post only when done.

What It Would Look Like If They Danced

This is one of the various cards that small fry leaves around the house either for us to find or made specifically for us. You can just about make out her name written haphazardly over the card in no order whatsoever. Or rather, in this case, the letters of her name over the card.

I asked her why the letters of her name were not in order and all over the place.

"Oh, I think they're dancing, Mummy. See, they have music! The music is brown."

How do you argue with logic like that?

Year Of The Bunny

Here's a thought: I hope people are not rushing out to buy bunnies since it's the year of the rabbit, knowing the Chinese and their penchant for all things to hail in prosperity.

Here's another thought: what happens to those bunnies when the year of the dragon rolls in?

Nothing bad, I hope.

Here's to all the bunnies out there, especially those at the pet stores.

Shop Till We Groove

My friend Anis is one of the best aunts I know. Not only is she the daytime caretaker of her nephew, Musa, she's every inch the doting aunt and in many instances, I feel as if she treats Musa like her own. All of which make Musa a very lucky three year-old. Of course, if I tell Anis that, she'd just brush aside my comments, modest person that she is.

Anis and Musa recently made a trip down to visit us. On the agenda: shopping for Anis and playdates for Musa. It was a fun-filled and full schedule; three full days of shopping interspersed with romp and play for the small ones.

When we weren't out shopping and looking for play areas for the young ones, we were at home supervising small fry's and Musa's antics. And then there was the cooking.

Musa hit the jackpot staying at our place. It had all the elements he adored: playmate, planes and trains passing by overhead and underfoot, and a mosque next door. Small fry got someone to lord it over and boss around, "Musa, you must drink more water or your lips will be dry", "Musa, don't throw your rice cake out the window or no more rice cake for you!", "Musa, share!", among other admonishments and orders.

While they did spend a fair amount of time in their strollers, the small ones took it in stride, entertaining themselves whichever way they could.

Small fry had so much fun with Musa over the weekend that she refused to go to playschool the next two days. Since she'll be enlisted into the school grind soon enough, I saw no reason to turn the table on her wishes to play.

It was a lovely albeit tiring change of schedule for all of us. When the time came for Anis and Musa to leave, I could see Anis was ready to head back home and hand Musa back to his parents.

Small fry on the other hand, when presented with news that Musa was to leave that day promptly bawled, "I don't want Musa to go home! I don't want Musa to leave. I want him to stay!" repeatedly all the way from Paragon to Somerset 313.

Thankfully when it came time for the actual parting, both toddlers parted without much drama. They were positively civil, doling out hugs and saying goodbye.

I'd say it was a successful venture by Anis to travel with Musa on her own. Even though she appeared harried at times. And she didn't find the shoes she was looking for.

We'll be looking forward to our trip back before CNY and another play date with Musa. In the meantime, here's proof that they had fun even while we shopped:

Too Much Alike

The day before, after repeatedly asking small fry to clean up but not getting a response, I said to her, "If you don't pick up your toys, I'll throw them away then you know!"

Yesterday in the kitchen she said to me, "I throw away the ginger then you know!" and went on to include, "I throw away the onions then you know!"

Hint: she does not like spice and will reject anything too spicy or strongly flavoured, hence the admonishments.

Sigh. Every day she's beginning to sound more and more like me. She scolds like me, talks like me, uses my choice phrases and cuts me off just like I cut her off, "I tell you what, I tell you what," or "No, Mummy. I tell you what, I tell you what," without even a pause when I try to cut in.

She delivers cutting reprimands to her toys, "If you don't eat your food, I smack you then you know!" and hold my face in her hands as she tries to drum some sense into me, "Listen to me, listen to me, Mummy!".

And when I speak a little too softly, "I can't hear what you're saying; I can't understand you," or "Hah?" gets thrown in my face a little too often.

Shudder.

I'm sure when she's a teenager and reading this, it will make her shudder too.

More Than One Way To Mop The Floor

It's the second last day of Jona's two-week holiday. I'm feeling industrious after a bout of vacuuming and have brought out the mop and the bucket. Small fry sees me, hops off her dining chair and trails after me into the bathroom.

"Mummy, are you mopping?"

"Yes."

"Can I help please?"

"No, why don't you sit down? It'll be wet and slippery. You might fall."

"I'll walk slowly. Can I help you mop please?"

"No, I think it's better that you just sit down."

"Please, please can I help you mop?"

Pause.

"Please, please, please Mummy, PLEASE?"

Oh no. Oh nooooooo.

I've seen the way she 'mops' and it's not my idea of mopping. She's had occasion to help Jona mop and it's not pretty. Her idea of mopping is pushing the mop a few paces and dragging it every which way haphazardly. Then dumping it and running off to do something else before coming back to it and continuing. It would take me twice as long to finish the job if she 'helped'. Oh no.

So I grit my teeth and reply.

"OK, you can help me but let me finish first. Then you can mop to your heart's content. OK?"

"OK."

So I finish the round of mopping with small fry trailing after me BEGGING me to let her mop. Please, Mummy, can I mop yet? Please, please, please can I mop? Mummy, can I please mop? By the time I'm done, she can't wait to get the mop off my hands and do her share of the mopping. Of course, that includes dragging it from the bathroom to the guest room and remarking, "Mummy, look! I'm so good at mopping!." Then sitting on the carpet and saying, "Look, Mummy! I can mop sitting down!"

Then lying down and saying, "Now I'm very tired, I can mop lying down."

Soon she takes a break to play with her toys and telling me, "Mummy, I'm leaving the mop here. Don't touch it or take it, ah!" After 10 minutes, she takes the mop and proceeds to 'mop' saying, "You have to walk slowly coz I'm mopping. Be careful, it's very wet."

Next, "I'm flying on the mop, Mummy!", astride her mop broomstick-Bewitched style.

"Are you done yet?"

"No, not yet."

"OK, time to finish up, it's your last round."

"OK, Mummy."

Then she proceeds to heave the mop up and stick it behind me, between my back and my chair, and starts angling it up and down like a see-saw. "Look, Mummy! It can be a see-saw too!"

"OK, we're done!"

"All right. I'm done," and throws it down onto the floor and walks away, her attention focused on something else in the bedroom now.

About five minutes passes as she gets distracted with the curtains in the bedroom. Then she's out again and sees the mop lying on the floor, picks it up and starts 'mopping' again.

"Oh, I'm not done yet. A little bit more coz there's so much stuff on the floor."

The next thing I know, there's a 'plop' and small fry runs into the room. I look behind me and see the mop, broken off the handle. 

Oops. 

I run after her into the room to calm her down and reassure her the world is not going to end because the mop disintegrated. After a fierce round of hugs and a string of "It's OK", she stops hyperventilating. 

After a while, she says "I'm really sorry that I mopped so long, Mummy and then I broke the mop. I'm REALLY SORRY," and hangs her head.

Who could be angry with that? Also, the mop was old and it was time for a replacing. I just didn't know its death would come at the hands of the small fry. At least I can now chuck that old thing of a mop and get a new one. And I have this post to remember the incident by.

Ah, the pleasures of the small things in life.

A Stark Reminder

We don't have a stellar history when it comes to plants. In fact, I would say our history is downright dismal, when it comes to plants.

So when I was at Ikea with the small fry, on a mission to get some new shelving and bric-a-brac, I spotted some lovely bulbous plants with fairly pretty pink blooms. They smelled great, to boot. Given our sorry history with plants, I stood there for a few minutes contemplating if we should give our green thumbs another try. As an added measure, I thought I'd ask small fry's opinion.

"Sayang, what do you think about this plant? It's pretty, isn't it? It's pink! Should we get it?"

She looked pointedly at me and then at the plant.

"But it will DIE, Mummy!" (emphasis hers, not mine)

Right, leave it to the 3 year-old to point out the obvious.

Of course, I put the pot back and we walked away sans plant.

Breather

Taking a short break. Trying to figure out what to do with all the pies I have my fingers stuck in. Or maybe not. Hence, the breather.

In the meantime, hugs and kisses, good health to all.