A Little Boy's Words of Wisdom

* I found this short story in the net and instantly liked it.


He was just a little boy, on a week's first day.

He was wandering home from evening school,
and dawdling on the way.

He scuffed his shoes into the grass,
he found a caterpillar.

He found a fluffy milkweed pod,
and blew out all the filler".

A bird's nest in a tree overhead,
so wisely placed on high,
was just another wonder that caught his eager eye.

A neighbor watched his zig zag course,
and hailed him from the lawn,

asked him where he'd been that day
and what was going on.

" I've been to Religious School,"
he said and turned apiece of sod.

He picked up a wiggly worm replying,
"I've learned a lot of God."

"Mmm very fine way," the neighbor said,
"for a boy to spend his time."

"If you'll tell me where God is,
I'll give you a brand new dime."

Quick as a flash the answer came!
Nor were his accents faint

"I'll give you a dollar, Mister,
if you can tell me where God ain't."


-Author unknown-
Bella Online

The First Job

* This one has nothing to do with my previous post.


My first job upon leaving alma mater was an executive at Times Publishing Group. I actually underwent my practical training there during student days. As I had performed well during the training, (haha they had no comparison though, I was the only student there) the GM offered me a job right away and that I was eligible to start working once I have finished my graduation course.

Alhamdulillah. I never had to experience ‘petik anggur’ period in my life.

I managed to survive the course with a hectic final semester behind me. I could still recall my final presentation speeches, the hardcover-bound thesis, assignments, art boards, presentation cubicles (we were each given a cubicle with partition to portray the art works and to decorate the space to our hearts’ content, this is a normal thing for design students) and the ancient gigantic printing machine at the lab. It was an old Heidelberg. I was from the faculty of Art and Design, majoring in Printing Technology and Publishing, UiTM.

So I started my first job at Times with gusto. It so happened that though my line supposed to place me in the production department, I spent my six-month-probationary-period in the customer service and marketing division instead, attending to clients that print their books and magazines at the large printing factory.

Simultaneously throughout the earlier months, I also did some planning and scheduling work for the printing jobs before gradually shifted to production planning work entirely. Production planners in Times however, still see clients occasionally to discuss their publication materials. My call cards read Production Planning Executive and that was how my production career officially began.

My job was to fully understand the nature of the publication, some important factors that the clients desired, and from there on I would work out a charted schedule and a whole commencing processes for the clients’ reference so as the internal production’s utility.

The preliminary meetings were exhausting. Since working with Times, I had never looked at any printed materials with the same manner again. Be it books, magazines, newspapers, brochures, pamplets, cards, corporate reports, note books, even Al-Quran, Surah Yasin, bibles, everything on earth that actually had to go through the printing machine. There was just so much work involved before they resulted to their final look now.

A group of production people, sometimes joined by clients, the more lenient ones would pass everything to Times to decide, will sit down and coordinate the format of the book with the urgency of plotting a war plan. What type of paper suitable for a particular book, was it paperback or hard cover, how thick the spine of the book would be, what method were they going to before printing stage, were they going to have the book marking string jutting out from the book, the printability results of the publication and so on. It required at least half a day of brainstorming.

The production planners were assigned to categories of publications that they to in charged of. There were local books, UK books, US books, magazines (only covered local and a few Singaporean mags), and in house books. Quite strangely in Times, ‘local’ defined as books originated from Malaysia, Singapore and sometimes even China. Perhaps they meant Asia instead of local, and the word local derived from the fact that these countries had a Times Publishing office. Books of UK and US were certainly clear as the name suggested, and ‘in house’ meant publication by Times Publishing Group itself.

I was the planner for magazine jobs, the planning and processes were slightly different from books. The most obvious thing about magazines, they were produced every month with bigger quantity than books. So, the turnaround days of production were very very short. Five or six days max to produce 60,000 magazines was a routine situation. Oh, that was for only one title, I mean the quantity. It was almost an unspoken thing that every single soul working in Times aware of, magazine planner’s job was very tough indeed.

Having mentioned that, ‘twas my luck though. When I first started with planning work, the senior exec that was doing magazines was offered a job at Measat Publisher, then all the magazines’ accounts were automatically making their ways to my fumbling two hands.

Times Publishing compound was significantly separated by two large buildings, publishing and manufacturing. My office was the one at the manufacturing wing. I went down to the factory countless of times a day, it was impossible to wear heels. I had mountains of papers on my table, documents related to job planning. If one magazine title needed one mountain of its own, thing was, I didn’t just plan for one magazine, not even two. I planned the schedule and production stages for usually seven to ten magazines at the same time!

The working-hour was from 8.30 am to 6 pm. Up until today, I’ve never been to a 9 to 5 working place, just for the record. At Times, the planners however rarely come at 8.30 am sharp. Our time was around 9 to 9.30 am, had to reach before 9.30 because that’s when the morning meeting started. Bosses never bothered about production planners’ working pace or punctuality. I even thought they were smart to hire responsible, enthusiastic planners in the first place.

Naturally everything had a reason. Planners had no choice but to attend and finish their jobs. Nobody said anything about them coming late, not even HR. You wonder? Wonder no more. It’s not uncommon sight to see a group of planners eating pizza in the office at 11 pm at night and they didn’t look like going anywhere even at that hour.

That’s why, I had no life other than my work for the whole couple of years I was there. Colleagues were friends, and my friends were colleagues. My mom once remarked, my profession was like a doctor. I was on call even on weekends. Some friends hated me because I didn’t attend weddings, I never could make it for coffee, I kept telling them I was busy, busy, busy.

It lasted until one day I realized I didn’t received any calls inviting me to hang out anymore. But the truth was, while the real people were enjoying their weekends, I was stuck behind some machines explaining to the loud and nasty fashion editor from Singapore on why the cover girl’s skin tone looked slightly burned and at the same time screwing the machine crews for completely ruining my pathetic weekend.

Right, I should mention this as well. This is quite interesting. When somebody in the office screwed up anything, do you have any idea how the bosses react? They’d scream fuck at you before started the lengthy lecture. Yes, the word. That’s a culture I guess. Terrible, but almost charming. After I left Times, I had never been to a place that I hear the ‘F’ word raining everyday. I’d have to say, I kinda miss that.

“What the fuck were you thinking? Why the hell did you let the book run without a fucking schedule being circulated to the bloody printing team first?!!” Okay, this one from Mr. Koo. To my ex Times colleagues that reading this, all of us know Mr. Koo was a very adorable boss, quite fatherly. Yet, that was his standard temperament when somebody made mistakes. He was the Production Manager. Left already, promoted as CEO at a reputable magazine publishing company.

Sounds horrible? Here comes the perk of the job paragraph. Everything happened so fast and furious at Times that it kept the adrenalines up, all the time. Being bored at Times was like putting air cond in the igloo. Never happened.

It was a huge directorate office that screamed urgency and importance. People’s attire was corporate and sharp. It’s really okay if you feel like all black, from shirt to skirt to pantyhose. Your colleagues couldn’t be more international, it reminded you of being at the airport departure station. There were a few Europeans as well as Americans, not so few Indians (you got it, from Delhi), Vietnamese, Chinese (from the Great Wall), Lebanese, Nepalis, at least those I can think of now. That covered from management, executives, other staff to factory workers. What have you, all there.

This is personal, but I worked with big names of magazines at that time. Those that impossible for you to never heard of, or probably never bought before. So go figure.

There could be hundreds of makeup launchings, cocktails, high teas, fashion shows and entertainment events like The Eligible Bachelors Night (oh that’s a big clue), Hottest Cover Chick thing.. I believe you get the drift. I was single, workaholic and just imagine being insisted by the boss to attend these events for the sake of showing professional support and simply to present the company. My boss’s exact words, just go, have fun and utilize the VIP invitations.

Half of the invitation cards were actually bearing the boss’s name, but Miss R couldn’t be bothered about those things. So all the time, she was more than happy to shove them over to my face while emphasizing many times that I should GO. I was more than happy to obey. But let us note, Miss R never forgot to ask me to brief her on the occasions the following day. Made me realized that, whatever they were, they were all about work.

It was a two years jammed-packed with jumping adrenalines, high blood pressures, low blood pressures, training, learning, torturings, sharping my skills, my wits, the arts of cursing, the arts of courtesy (with clients, especially), work dedication, it was everything that I ever wanted in a first job. Seriously.

There were people who told me, whom were quite familiar with the industry, once you have worked at Times, you would have no trouble adapting with working at anywhere else, whatever the weather be. They’d always be a breeze to you. Work could never be easier.

Some added, once you have worked at Times, you’ll never have problem applying for a job elsewhere. Provided in the same industry of course. Or, other companies that know the reputation of Times and it’s employees, of which I’m sure, quite many.

I remember being doubtful about these statements initially, and satisfied to find out that they were true, years later.

I met Bigfish when I was working at Times, that I had the chance to share some cherry-perks with him when we were dating. Hey Bigfish, remember the free movie tickets? The men skincare samples? The free magazines that I lovingly supplied to your sisters monthly for their reading pleasure? (Eh, kalau mag publisher baca ni mati aku)

Bigfish encouraged me to develop my career (and salary) when he found out I was already in my second year, my salary increment, and the fact that I called him to say goodnight from my office cubicle. That was when I started looking around which by some luck, landed a job in Karangkraf with a very good salary increment.

The job that was waiting for me at Karangkraf was something new, compared to what I did at Times. I was so teruja still, and I remember my last day at Times that was so melancholic. Leaving such memorable place, colleagues, and swearing bosses behind. The large factory and the vibrating gigantic machines were my playground, the nice akak-akak from the factory were my friends, the clients whose some became friends, some big players that left an impression. The first company that I served with my full drive and capacity.

I miss Times, and know without it marking my career path and as a fragment of my life, I probably wouldn’t be here. And wouldn’t be what I am today.

Alhamdulillah..

Can't you smell the bun in the oven?

My favourite day of the week again.

Yesterday I (finally) told my boss about the pregnancy. He was flabbergasted and probably the word just popped out “Productive nya!”. On which I replied, “Well I happen to be very fertile..” I didn’t know what else to say.

We just talked about the month of December for ten, fifteen minutes. I’ll be due in mid of that month, and a newsflash that I learnt from him yesterday, that he’s not going to be in the office for the whole month. Of December. He’s going for Haj.

Good for him. Not good for my Christmas-celebrating colleagues though. I can sniff they are no way to take long leave, without me and the Production Manager around. No they can’t. Or perhaps the chance is extremely slim.

Then I told other colleagues in the same department, and some of the subordinates, I practically spreading the news like a virus. Especially to those that I’m confident will be more than delighted to kepohchi it around to many other people.

Reason being, I plan to start wearing my uniform (Read: maternity dress) next week and I don’t want to be hyper ventilated answering the possibly bombarding questions.

Yes everyone, I’m in my fifth month now and I’m just telling. I mean, 99 percent of the office only knew about my pregnancy yesterday. Spare 1 percent for my lunch mates, they asked so I didn’t deny. But with a pesanan penaja, do not tell everyone else. Bet you they didn’t. These editors, they are busy people. They always bogged down with other things in their mind, probably they forgot about it the minute they started doing work.

People were surprised at how well I kept it hidden. The tummy shows, I just never mentioned it. So don’t blame me if everybody is just, blur (blind?). Okay, the shawl helps of course.

Now that I’ve dropped the bomb then I can continue my life as a preggie more comfortably I hope. Meaning, no judgment on frequent MCs. Hello, I haven’t been taking medical leave during my first trimester at all, and I throw up every morning, sometimes in the dustbin. The washroom is far. Pantry sinks seem inappropriate.

Nobody noticed.

I know I sound weird but I promise you readers I have a very good reason as to why I was keeping this a secret.

That’ll be my next entry.

Bunga telur - Part 2

My father once told me, focus on the end factor. Do not scrape back old wounds, the wisest thing I could do to my wellbeing is to forgive and forget.


The following day we were at Medan MARA to check the laser proof of my wedding cards. I brought two sticks of bunga telur along with me. The cards were fabulous. We stopped at a shop that looked crowded with hantaran, trays, glittery flowers and decorative beads were everywhere.

“Kak, ini saya ada bawak sample bunga telur. Berapa ya harga kalau akak buat sama macam ni?”

Belek-belek.

“Yang ni lapan ringgit, yang lagi satu ni lima ringgit.”

She remarked. I’m sure you can guess which one is lapan ringgit and which is lima ringgit.

“Okay, terima kasih”

I went to another shop just to confirm that akak, the one quoted me so cheap prices was not a lunatic. Guess? Same answer, only this time a ‘kak nyah’ that pointed my RM8 bunga telur as RM6 (the first akak RM5 je) , whereas the other one, RM10 bunga telur she/he can do for RM8.

So what do you expect me to feel that time?

I right away called N. Wasn’t picked up. I SMSed.

“Hi N. I am at Medan MARA. There are shops here that apparently can do the bunga telur, exact designs like yours, for cheaper. RM8 and RM5. Like this, if you can’t give me more discounts, is it possible for you to improvise them so that they match their value you quoted me, RM10 and RM8? Thanks.”

Some 10 minutes later.

“ Nevermind if you don’t like, can return back to me. Kalau ko taknak, ramai lagi yang nak.”

Hmm. Not exactly what I anticipated for a reply.

“ Okay then, if you said so. Let me know whenever you’re ready to collect. Thanks.”

Few days later, she sent a quick SMS to check if I was home at some said time to pick up the boxes. I thought, when she got here perhaps we could talk about this because I really didn’t want situation to go sour over some sticks of bunga telur.

But instead of her pulling out in front of my apartment later, a girl that I didn’t know was sent over to do the deed. And so it ended. We never spoken after that. Neither of us called each other again, and the planning during coffee that she was to coordinate my wedding day and so on just left as a bitter bit of the tongue.

There was a small shop at Medan MARA, ran by two pleasant akak-akak that did my bunga telur. Their workmanship was very fine and it’s obvious they loved memorable small details in their work. How nice. The gold ribbons were stringy and fluff, reminded me of candies, the decorative beads, glittery little flowers, I was delighted with the finished products. Alhamdulillah. I still ordered mix though, as I had to control cost from ordering all the expensive ones, 80 sticks of RM12 and RM10.

They had an abundant range of samples to choose from, and I just fell for these little babies, so nevermind lah, though a little over budget. Most important, I was satisfied. I did. And mind you folks, their selections were nothing short of tasteful too. Just a little problem, I gave them quite tight deadline. As I have given N to do them earlier, I didn’t have very much room of ample time anymore before my wedding date.


***************************************

A year later.

A good friend of mine from school and I were chatting over the phone. We covered all the general topics, giggled, talked about my then pregnancy, giggled, I nagged her to tell about her boyfriend, giggled.. yeah, you got it, girl-talk.

I didn’t quite remember how did we come to that but she later mentioned that a bad rumour was going around about me among our ex schoolmates. The rumour (fitnah?) sounded something like this.

I ordered bunga telur from N. N completed her job and two big boxes of bunga telur was delivered to me. Days later, I called N to return back everything because I can’t afford to pay the bunga telur. N was victimised but had no choice because I refused to pay since I didn’t have the money/ out of budget/ whatever. That I didn’t care eventhough all the bunga telur was already done. That I was a bitch-customer and so tak sedar diri, dah takde duit tapi nak beli benda mahal, and in the end, menyusahkan orang lain.

Hmm.

That came from a friend. Not long after that, another friend pulak, “Eh, I heard something la. About you bought something from N pastu taknak bayar. Betul ke?”


*************************************

Dear my friends, readers, whoever you are.

For years I have been keeping this to myself. I accept that being bad mouthed, bad rumours, wild gossips.. they’re all part of life. We really can’t do nothing about it. Why didn’t I fight back, stood on my right, gave them their deserved lash, quarrelled, called everyone to justify myself, make alliance, you ask?

I’m tired. I have a demanding job and a busy life. I have a husband, a little baby, I was fully breastfeeding, I am the house manager, I have to cook (everyday), give instructions to my maid and teach her, I have to do grocery shopping, service my car, plan our weekend activities and I have people reporting to me at work. And I always have Him to turn to whenever I’m feeling sad.

Yesterday, a thought crossed my mind. I don’t mind being bitched about. If it just attack me and me alone. My concern is those who are related to me. What about my family, my husband? Who is going to defend them when something not true like this being spread around and some people actually believed it? What about their dignity?

Those people must wonder, whoever have heard of the untrue version, if Mrs Bigfish can’t pay, what about her husband? Her family? Didn’t they help her? Or were they just as screwd up and irresponsible like her?

That’s the sole reason I write this entry.

Right until this day, I do not know who actually started the twisted version. I don’t quite see the point to find out. Was it N? Or was it somebody else who’s up to tarnishing my image, humiliating me? I understand how sensational story like this sizzles in a girls’ community. So I didn’t blame everyone else who listened and bought it, but on the person who started it, well you must have had a lot of fun putting mud on my name.

I might not forget, but I fully know I have forgiven anybody who did this. As for N, she’s married now and I hope she’s happy and have a good life. I was not invited to her wedding, if you’re wondering.

Thanks for reading.

Bunga telur - Part One

A day after my second anniversary.

A little dash of my wedding reminiscence mode is still there, my friends, readers, whoever you are, I would like to make a clarification on something today.

My father once told me, focus on the end factor. Do not scrape back old wounds, the wisest thing I could do to my wellbeing is to forgive and forget.

It’s not in my slightest intention to dig out a buried memory, especially when it is not exactly a good one, alright definitely not, but I feel for once and for all, let me just tell what had actually happened.

This has taken place somewhere around three months before my wedding day.

Back then, I still stayed at my rented apartment in Subang Jaya. Through the innovation of webs and blogs, I found out that my ex schoolmate, N and a few of her clans were venturing into the wedding business. Cool. They had a blog for their services, and eventhough during that particular time their business fellowship and operations were really very new, I couldn’t help to feel proud and happy for them.

The best thing was, it was at that very time I was in the beginning to start full gear on my wedding preps, the planning, the cards, the decors, flowers, bunga telurs, souvenir gifts. This is perfect, I thought.

I always admire entrepreneurship spirit in young people. These girls were all attached with their full time job, and the wedding business was their brainchild out of hobby and passion.

When we were in school, N and I were not very close. I remember we were classmates though, but she was in my school only until Form 3 before changing school. Ahh those all don't matter I thought, her house is just five minutes away from mine and that should make our arrangements more convenient, and I was happy to support a new business of a friend’s. After all, I thought some more, rather than going to a total stranger and discuss about the most important day of my life, it’d be better to do it with someone I have known. Well don’t you all think so?

After a session of coffee and chat, the first item that I ordered from her was bunga telur. I recalled she was saying about somebody who was delighted and impressed upon seeing their workmanship, so without much fuss I confirmed 80 sticks. As norm has it, I did ask if she could show me some samples. She promised she’d bring that over the next time we meet, and assured me not to worry, because I would surely love their design. I finally ordered a mix of RM10 and RM8 sticks, for 80 sticks.

I was happy to have a peace of mind at least for a small part of the entire preparations. I had so many other things to think about, so a tiny baggage was lifted out of my shoulder.

N worked odd hours. It was an international company and her line of duty involved calling foreign countries so she was free when I was working, while she finished work at midnight, when I had to get up at wee hours the following morning. I remember it was difficult to actually see the samples that she promised to show me. I started to feel like waiting with bated breath.

Finally, she SMSed to go over to her place so she can pass me, not a sample, but how my bunga telur was going to look like, since they have started making them and everything was almost complete. When I received the SMS, there was a mild feeling to pass out, because I had no idea how the damn sticks gonna look like, and I had no choice to just accept them as N said I could collect them in a couple of days or so.

Okay, she passed me one that belonged to RM8 category, a cream coloured tulip (though I felt it was a bit too kuncup) with a string of thin gold ribbons and… well I think that’s it. It was very simple looking and I was surprised to know people were charging RM8 for something like that.

Initially, during the coffee, I mentioned I wanted the bunga telur to look somewhat fluffy.. and I remember using the word ‘kembang and meriah’, as I didn’t want my bunga pahar on the dias to look stiff. So I naturally refreshed her memory on that request, that this one didn’t exactly define my description. She firmly suggested this one was better, because this was the latest trend. As the one yg gembar gembur tu didn't look tasteful and that one simply old style, she stated.

I rationalized to her, of course I wanted them to look tasteful. Why can’t a fluffy bunga telur can’t be made tastefully beautiful? So after a few more exchange of lines, I told her to please make sure the RM10 ones look much better to compensate the simple (lame?) looking their RM8 sisters.

Now, let’s fast forward to collection. She delivered the boxes to my house. My first meeting with the RM10 bunga telur was not much different from the day in the before paragraph. I was slightly shocked but quite heavily disappointed. N was in a hurry during the delivery of those sad looking tulip thingy that laid stiffly in the carton box. Good thing she left early as I couldn’t pretend to like those sticks in the boxes that cramped my small living room. I frowned, and stared at the bunga telur for a long time before putting it back and took a long nap.

Bigfish and Suz my housemate, were sitting at my living room, both with a bunga telur in hand, like it’s a studied specimen. Suz thought they were not bad but the price was a bit like a highly commercialized business. I told her, this is a part time business of my friend, there isn’t a shop or anything. She settled “Okay, then that’s expensive for something like this”. Bigfish looked at the innocent bunga telur closely, “How can the labour cost be 50 or 60 percent of this? I mean, just check out the materials they used to make these.”

“You’re missing the point dear.. it’s not about the price. I just want these things to look nice!” I snapped. But now, they were not exactly pretty, and they were quite overpriced. I felt dizzy.

The following day we were at Medan MARA to check the laser proof of my wedding cards. I brought two sticks of bunga telur along with me. The cards were fabulous. We stopped at a shop that looked crowded with hantaran, trays, glittery flowers and decorative beads were everywhere.

“Kak, ini saya ada bawak sample bunga telur. Berapa ya harga kalau akak buat sama macam ni?”

Belek-belek.

***********************************

To be continued.

When two became one, became three, and more

Two years ago, on this very date, two families gathered celebrating the union of two very different individuals that felt they can live together forever. The two said individuals are still feeling it though, the forever part is not up yet, but it’s been two years.

And loads, I mean loads, had happened within the couple of years. Beautiful things, wonderful things, precious moments, challenging periods… Alhamdulillah we weather the seasons successfully, two in one piece. Yes, we. Me and Bigfish.

I realize that I never wrote about my wedding day. That because I was way surpassed the appropriate timing and mood, and woosh! There it goes. Then it was too late for me to jot anything anymore. Amazingly I happen to catch it today, I still have my luggage of work but it’s alright. I try to actually create a decent post in half an hour. So forgive me for poor construction of lines, be it grammar or coordination. I’m a little disoriented, I feel.

I had my solemnization and reception both throughout the same day, from morning till night event. I remember the exhaustion, but I prefer to think more of the satisfaction and the happiness that last and buried in the deepest core of my heart. I simply love my own wedding. Yeah who doesn’t? Well apparently I know some that remember their wedding day as just another occasion to attend to. I’m not too sure what’s their problem, the couples do love each other very much, if you’re wondering.

Back to my wedding, I planned and organized almost 95 percent of the whole ceremony, preps, props, people and all. Okay, I give credit to Bigfish, of course together with him all along. Everybody offers a helping hand, or a piece of their brain, naturally, but I am more convinced with the way I wanted it to be. I had to have a complete assurance of what to be expected, I knew what came after another, and which followed whatever on the schedule, with all finery and meticulously detailed, by me.

So you can imagine how I took pride of my own wedding eventhough it sucked? Hehe. Thank God, it didn’t at all. It was a parade of scenarios exactly as what I pictured long before the day took place, intimate, personal, merry and beautiful. The day was glowing with happiness. Faces of people I love, and love me, and those of my husband’s. People commented the food was good too! Eh kena sebut tu..penting okay. Stomach – the way to people’s hearts.

My reception was at Saujana Resort, back then it was Hyatt Regency Saujana. That’s the place we first met. The hotel itself brought some sort of sentiment to me, I love the vibes. I always have pleasant feeling whenever I’m there.

How ironic karma can be? And now, Saujana Resort is practically at my office’s doorstep. All we need to do is hop, and find ourselves, the staffs of my office, at the dining table of Saujana Coffeehouse. That might be a little bit over, but the point is, I drive across Saujana Hotel every single day to get to the place that earns me my monthly credit.

Today is my second anniversary. In my prayer last night, I thank Him for the lavish of blessings upon me, I sometimes feel I don’t deserve this. A husband that’s always there, always. A man that after two years living together, can still stare at me when I was dragging my now heavy body from the kitchen to the large sofa, bringing a plate of nachos for him, and when I ask what he’s looking at, “I just love watching you”, he’d say.

Bigfish, I pray for a place in heaven for you, and for all your wishes to come true, and for happiness and contentment to always reside in your soul. I love you darling, with all my heart.

My baby, Aaqil, he’s simply an angel. At tender 9 months of age, this guy already understands “I love you” because he hears it so many times a day. And he now knows how to hug! Going home from turbulent office and to see him squealing with glee is… hmm.. maybe you can complete this one. I could ask for nothing more.

My baby inside my womb, we can’t wait for you to join us in this beautiful world. I love you, my little one!

What I have now, is what I wished for long long time ago. So you think I have no bad days? None suicidal moments at all? Heh you’re wrong. Had plenty.

Somebody told me to count my blessings, sounds like a huge cliché, but once I practiced it, I realize how supremely true it is.

Untitled

I feel nauseous.

I feel dizzy, I feel tired, I feel weak.

I feel sleepy.

I feel incompetent, I feel forgetful.

I feel moody, I feel emotional, I feel sensitive.

I feel sad.

I feel ugly, I feel lethargic, I feel fat.

My mouth is drowning with saliva, my saliva tastes metallic. My face feels puffy, my tummy feels bloated, my head swings, everybody seems to have body odour, all food seem unpalatable.

The urge to vomit has been persistent since morning.

Damn, I feel like bloody mourning.

I feel down, I feel blur, I feel awful..

but deep inside my heart,

I feel grateful.

For All Mothers

This is for all the mothers who froze their buns off on metal bleachers at soccer games instead of watching from cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see my goal?" They could say, "Of course, I wouldn't have missed it for the world," and mean it.

This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick children in their arms, wiping up barf laced with Oscar Meyer wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, "It's OK honey, Mommy's here."

This is for all the mothers of Kosovo who fled in the night and can't find their children. This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll never see and for the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes.

For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes and for all the mothers who don't.

What makes a good mother anyway?

Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips? The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time? Or is it heart? Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time?

The jolt that takes you from sleeping to dread, from bed to crib at 2 a.m. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby?

Is it the need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a school shooting, a fire, a car accident, a baby dying?

I think so.

So this is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies. And for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn't.

This is for reading "Goodnight, Moon" twice a night for a year. And then reading it again, "Just one more time".

This is for all the mothers who mess up. Who yell at their kids in grocery store and swat them in despair and stomp their feet like a tired two year old who wants ice cream before dinner.

This is for all the mothers who taught their children to tie their shoelaces before they started to school and for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.

For all the mothers who bite their lips (sometimes until they bleed) when their 14 year olds dyed their hair green.

This is for all the mothers who lock themselves in the bathroom when babies keep crying and won't stop.

This is for all mothers who show at work with spit-up in their hair and milkstains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.

This is for mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.

This is for all mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring are at home or are grown.

This is for mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears on their children's graves.
This is for all the mothers whose children have gone astray and who can't find words to reach them.

This is for all the mothers who sent their child to school with a stomach ache, assuring that they would be just FINE once they got there, only to get a call from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up right away.

This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation. And mature mothers learning to let go.

For working moms and stay-at-home moms. Single mothers and married mothers.
Mothers with money and mothers without.

This is for you, so hang in there. The world would be a terrible place without the love of mothers everywhere. You make it a more civil, caring and safe place for the precious children in our world.

Happy Mother's Day.

The Voice of Women, Bella Online