Organic-Ally

After my last post I realized that some readers might think that I am really old-fashioned. What do you expect but for 13-year-old girls to be rowdy? I don't know about that. I wrote this next section in my son's school newsletter recently: ======= As I mentioned books for mothers last week, I should also mention a very good book for both mothers and fathers: Raising Boys by Steve Biddulph. Biddulph divides boyhood into three parts. Age zero to six: the boy ‘belongs’ to the mother; age six to thirteen: their father becomes the ‘hero’; from thirteen onwards, with the second surge in testosterone, boys wish to ‘declare their independence’ and look for influences outside the home. This division makes a lot of sense to me as a social anthropologist. We know in many ‘pre-modern’ societies, boys reaching puberty are taken away to undergo special tutelage by their fathers (and often mothers’ brothers). They go through a stage of ‘liminality’, of feeling ‘between and betwixt’. Then, w

Been feeling a bit down with the cold. Husband has been working the weekends. Son has got a golf lesson to attend. So we decided to eat at the restaurant where the golf lesson was taking place. For the first half hour we could not hear ourselves think, let alone talk. A few metres from us were a group of 14 to 16 young girls at a birthday celebration. They were talking so loudly -- you would think it was a hen night party -- with the birthday girl's brother and parents looking on. Shrieks, screams, loud raucous laughter. Noise. The parents looked on and even joined in conversation, sometimes shouting across the table. I stared and caught the attention of one young girl, but she pretended that she didn't see me. Then I caught the eye of another diner and he shook his head in disgust. Our meal at this otherwise good restaurant was ruined. Girl's father came back with a bin liner of birthday presents. Girl opened the presents in turn. I saw a card which declared that it was he

At one point I was hoping to make my name as the social anthropologist to make the study of 'anthropology of junk' fashionable. Yes, people will say at my funeral, 'She will be remembered for her rubbish.' As a mother, though, how does one respond to a six-year-old who is convinced that he is 'rubbish'? Son was clearly distressed when I picked him up yesterday. The Form was preparing for a football match against another school. My son isn't any good at kicking a ball. Offers to start him on lessons (like many of his classmates have done) were turned down. He was just not keen on football. The school requires him not only to play football, but in inter-school matches as well. He was not a happy bunny. Today they were supposed to have a first football lesson with the Games Master (or whatever his title should be). I was dreading the tears that would greet me at the school gates. We did think perhaps he should impress on the Games Master that he is utter rubbis

Yesterday was Speech Day at son's school. Son was joyous that he had won -- second year running -- the 'Attainment Prize' for his Form. Husband and I went in a bit later than most other parents although we were not late. The church where this took place was quite full. We were sitting second row from the back. The Headmaster came round and said, 'Like your hat,' to which I politely muttered 'Thanks'. I think he was just checking my presence as he called me up with a few other ladies to accept bouquets for the work we do for the school community. (I organize fund-raising projects.) It was an embarrassing walk right from the back of the church to the very front. I was thinking, 'Hmm, the last time I did this was at my wedding!' Later on, husband quizzed son, 'Why is it that you've got a prize, and mum has got a 'prize' but I haven't got a prize?' Son, without hesitation, 'Of course you've got a prize. You've got a pr

Wednesday morning: Mum of son's mate stopped me to ask if son was OK with what she felt was a miserly show of a party bag. They had included a note to explain that instead of filling the bag with 'more toys', they had given the money saved to a boy they support in Africa through a charity. The amount given is enough to buy the boy a year of education. What a good idea, I thought. Was my son bothered? Did he complain that there were no expensive toys in his party bag? Or colour pencils? Finger puppets? Balloons? Whistle? Not at all. He was pleased that he had sweets that he normally does not get from us. (And he's going through them very, very slowly.) Compare that to the previous party where he was given a lot of goodies, including a tamagotchi (or whatever you call it). Unfortunately the tamagotchi does not work despite our putting two expensive LR44 batteries in it and you can imagine the frustration caused. Moral of the story: more expensive gifts do not necessarily

Just back from a much-needed break with husband and son, to a holiday place with lots of children. 'Family-friendly' they are called these days. It was fascinating to see very tiny babies being taken on holiday. Some didn't look more than two or three weeks old. We didn't go any where when our son was that young. I think my first trip out of the HOUSE was going to the local sub-post office two minutes walk away. Son was about three weeks old. Even then it took me a long time to pluck up enough courage to do that. I was so nervous. Never used that pushchair before. Not sure how things click and unclick in and out of place. What if I failed to secure the seat and baby falls out? After 30-plus hours of labour and an emergency Caesarean-section I was still feeling a bit sore where they had cut me open, and I wasn't sure I could lift the pushchair (just one end of it) across the threshold to get out, and then to come back in again. It was like I had to will myself to com

Well, cousin has flown in again to attend classes as part of her PhD programme. She looked at the stuff we have in the fridge. 'Wah, you're buying all organic now.' My reply was, 'You know, in my mother's time, everything we bought was organic. Then they brought in intensive farming. And now we are paying a premium for "organic".' While we were both growing up in Singapore we could drive down fairly main thoroughfares and catch a whiff of organic manure. (I am thinking of Potong Pasir and Braddell Road.) There were vegetable farms and pig farms where now high-rise flats are standing. Fruit and vegetables were plentiful and not too expensive. Meat was dearer. Chicken was only for celebrations. I remember my sisters having a school reunion in our little flat. Can't imagine how brave they were to even think of that. They gathered a group of school friends from primary school and they partied in our tiny little two-bedroom flat in Queenstown. The highl

I was brushing my son's teeth. Once or twice a week I feel I have to make sure his teeth are brushed properly. While I was doing this he raised his hand and ran a finger down my face. 'What's this?' he asked. 'What's what?' I replied, being a bit miffed. 'What's this?' son repeated, running finger down one side of my nose and past the corner of my mouth. 'That? O, I suppose it's a line. Your mummy is old. She's an old woman. Old women have lines on their faces, you know. You don't mind your mummy being an old woman, do you?' 'No,' son said, 'I don't mind.... Actually I do, because that means you would soon die, isn't it?' 'Yes, but I hope to live a lot longer and not die so soon.' That is what happens when one has children late in life. We have never tried to hide from son the painful realities of life -- like death. And he has worked out that Mummy and Daddy, being older than most (possibly all

The title to this section of Letters to The Times is 'Poor kids can't have their cake and eat it'. One letter-writer pointed out that the 'humiliation of poverty is a reason for truancy' as poor families 'are unable to respond to the peer pressure in the playground that results from brand targeting by advertisers'. When in my first year of school in Singapore I was asked to bring in twenty cents to buy a plastic cover for a workbook. My mum could not find those twenty cents. Instead my eldest sister sacrificed an old plastic cover from one of her old books. A wealthier girl at school laughed at me. I was so embarrassed I went home and cried my heart out. The following week, Mum squeezed twenty cents from the housekeeping money and I had my new plastic cover like everyone else in class. So I understand where this letter-writer is coming from in terms of peer pressure. But he goes on to note that the same single mother of four children on unemployment benefi

Would you believe me if I said my son has never had a M... hamburger? He's had their chicken nuggets and fries but never a hamburger. He only had those nuggets because we were a 'captive market' at the Science Centre in Singapore. From a very young age we talked about 'junk food' and 'good food'. Maybe too much. For a long time he had problems with children's party food. Took him a long time to bite into his first pizza. Now that he has tasted it, he likes it. He's also not allowed fizzy drinks and salty crisps, especially if they are laden with MSG. Are we weird parents or what? Thankfully I've found other parents who are just like us. We sit around at parents' committee meetings enjoying the crisps and hula hoops, etc, because 'We don't get to eat these at home.' It all goes back to one blue M&M. Took son to a Christmas story-telling session at the local library. He was coming up two. A kind lady there gave him one blue M&am

Writing in the Times recently, Mary Ann Sieghart praised the use of buses to ferry children to and from school. Not only are they more environmentally-friendly, it could – potentially – mean that children might think about applying to schools more suited to their needs even when they are further away. I have a particular aversion to doing the school run by car. I have the unusual experience of being ‘taxi-ed’ to and from my primary school. Being the youngest of six children, the only school that my parents could get me into without the hassle of balloting and endless finger-biting, etc, was the school my older siblings went to, on the basis of sibling connections. However, while we used to live about a minute’s walk from the school, my family had to move several miles away before I started school. So father had to arrange for a private taxi to ferry me to and from school. The first driver proved to be unreliable and father stepped in for the rest of the year, but this was too much of

It’s the end of an era at the nursery my son attended as a three-year-old. Myrna, who’s been running that school for 35 years, has finally decided to retire. From September 2005, it becomes part of – with some irony – the nursery section of the school my son currently goes to. Myrna is another of my major role models of the recycling habit. She’s been able to run her school on extremely low overheads partly by being able to engage all the parents in recycling. Parents are asked to collect milk bottle tops, cereal boxes, colourful card, yoghurt pots, bits of fabric, egg cartons, etc for use in craftwork. Apart from paints, pens and glue, everything that is used at the school seems to be recycled, even address labels and name badges. Milk and drink bottle tops are used in sorting exercises and in craft activities. Someone drills holes in them and children thread these onto string to make their models. Cereal boxes are cut into various animal shapes for the younger children to learn gluei