We did it!
We have survived the first 20 weeks of the twins' entry into formal schooling. We are all still alive. They still say they love me and don't hate me too much. I still tell them that I love them. On most days. We are trying to be polite and civil to one another again now that the tests are OVER! The screaming frequency has been reduced because it's the HOLIDAYS!
For much of Term 2, I was pretty angry at the local system. Why are they killing our kids! They are only six year olds! (I only have sympathy for six year olds, so if your child is already seven, tough luck). Mine only turn seven right at the end of the year! Boo hoo! How can they be expected to know a full vocabulary that includes optician, surgeon, dentist, doctor, reprimanded, scolded, punished, and the difference between grilled, baked, roasted, and cooked!? What about the problem sums! Many of my friends couldn't solve the problem sums the children had to deal with! All we were doing each day was going through homework, going through the textbook and there was hardly any time left! What is going on with this system?!
But we survived. And then, something happened. The children made the leap. From my fears that they would not be able to cope, but because I was there helping them with each subject, they were getting interested. A whole big part of my struggle was in getting them to be disciplined and learning to manage their time. A rigorous time table was pasted on their bedroom door. They learned to manage their blocks of time. They started getting interested in the subjects. They kept asking me to hold more of my home English classes. It was both a bonding time, and often times, a yelling time as I would spend 40 minutes repeating the same problem sum over and over again and the boy twin would still not get it. The girl twin would get the answer 15 minutes before the boy twin, and she would sit there, smug as ever.
Still. We made it. I have been impressed both by the twins' ability to
cope as well as their thirst for knowledge. While my kneejerk
reaction at the start of the Term was to make a quick dash for the exit and immediately explore immigration, I'm now thinking maybe we can survive this system with the right attitude.
Sure, the system on the whole is extremely stressful and competitive. But
I shouldn't bother getting angry about how unfair this system is to the
whole cohort of children, or compare with what is done in other countries. The only
important question for me is whether the children can cope in it. Their generation is going to have to face intense competition as India and China open up, so they will need whatever headstart they can get. So
far, they seem to be doing okay. They seem to love to learn, and keep
bugging me to teach them more more more each day, and to keep answering
their myriad of questions. For me, my attitude is that a grade--while it will be used in this system as the be all and end all--is not my child, and that perhaps I should not worry too much if their grades do not allow them to go to the prestigious schools. I will just focus on shaping their attitude: a positive interest in learning, and always striving one's best.
I am in tune with my children and I know them. I will try my best to use the grade to identify areas where they are weak in, where I should help them. But that I know that in the grand scheme of things, chasing a paper grade may mean nothing on later in working life. For me, I hope they will maintain their interest in learning, and knowing that a much bigger world exists out there beyond their grades.
Friday, May 25, 2012
My First Report Card
One of the main reasons behind my decision to hand in that resignation letter last year was because the twins were entering the first year of primary school in Singapore this year.
The Singapore education system is a hothouse that is in reality a madhouse. It is a pressure cooker system, although it also depends on which school the child gets into, as different schools have differing standards as I am finding out. The playing field is not equal right from the start, although all the children will have to take the same examinations at the end of their first six years of primary schooling.
Yesterday, the twins came home with their first report cards. It felt as though it was my Performance Assessment. Did I meet my KPIs? I flipped open their report cards with great excitement, passed it over to the husband, who lovingly said that the result was thanks to me.
You betcha.
The amount of screaming, cracking my brain on how to explain the problem sums to them, drilling the Chinese into them, instilling the discipline each day. The twins got the top grade for each subject. It's going to be a long journey for them and me, but it was gratifying to see they did well. Which begs the question, if they do badly, will it then be my fault too? Hmm.
The Singapore education system is a hothouse that is in reality a madhouse. It is a pressure cooker system, although it also depends on which school the child gets into, as different schools have differing standards as I am finding out. The playing field is not equal right from the start, although all the children will have to take the same examinations at the end of their first six years of primary schooling.
Yesterday, the twins came home with their first report cards. It felt as though it was my Performance Assessment. Did I meet my KPIs? I flipped open their report cards with great excitement, passed it over to the husband, who lovingly said that the result was thanks to me.
You betcha.
The amount of screaming, cracking my brain on how to explain the problem sums to them, drilling the Chinese into them, instilling the discipline each day. The twins got the top grade for each subject. It's going to be a long journey for them and me, but it was gratifying to see they did well. Which begs the question, if they do badly, will it then be my fault too? Hmm.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Failure
I read a quote on a friend's Facebook status the other day.
"A working mother must be comfortable with failure. Because there is always someone she is failing."
For me, that absolutely summed up my life as a working mother.
In my heydays as a working mother, I would be heaped compliments aplenty from all walks of life. People would stop to tell me how much they admired me for how I juggled full-time work with three very little children (there are three, within a three year gap; two of them are twins).
To compensate for my guilt from my time away from the children, I would bake everything from scratch, sew their costumes by hand, decorate beautiful fondant cakes, organise birthday parties at the last minute even though deadlines loomed. I was insane and unstoppable. As if I was trying to prove that I could be as much the domestic goddess as I could the career girl.
I thrived on the accolades and encouragement my friends and colleagues and family would heap on me. How do you do it, everyone would ask in bewilderment. How do you cope?! Do you even sleep? Friends would tell me their husbands thought that I was one of the most capable women they knew. All this just helped my ego and carried me on a little, dragging out my work-home dilemma.
But, in truth, there really was someone I was always failing, no matter how hard I worked or how hard I baked or how hard I tried to mother in the little time I had with my children.
I met all my KPIs at work, and even exceeded them. Yet, when my name was up for promotion, HR had incredulously asked how did I deserve that promotion when I was on three month maternity leave during that said year (because I still worked remotely from home during my maternity leave and because I busted my ass till 12 midnight to complete the urgent projects while in my third trimester, and because I still worked from home during my hospitalisation leave). Whatever I did, would never be good enough. Because I was only judged by the number of sick days I took as I picked up the various bugs the children came home from (even though I continued to work from home). Because I had to take leave to take care of my young children who had picked up various bugs in quick succession from the germ-infested childcare (mycoplasma, chicken pox, hand foot mouth disease, gastroentritis, on top of the run of the mill influenza). Despite my productivity, my supposedly understanding and supportive boss sidetracked me for the next promotion. He told me to the face that I was happy with the mommy track. Then why did he heap every single project from the department on me?
Fuck.
So, that's that then. Despite being the key worker for the department, my status as a young mother worked as a double edged sword. Sure, I managed to get allowances by getting in early and leaving early (which was part of the flexi-time policy instituted at work), but no matter how hard I pushed myself, it was never going to be good enough.
Looking closer to home, I was pretty much a failure too. Of course, at that time, I didn't think I failed as a mother. I thought I held it together well. The husband traveled frequently for work (also again spurring comments of "How Do You Do It?"), but I had an efficient house maid that took care of the cleaning and cooking. During my time as a working mother, I thought I had my act together, pulling in weight with my financial contribution, making our investment decisions, looking for real estate, organising the home renovations, while cuddling and holding my babies at every first opportunity. In fact, I arranged numerous weekday playdates for the children, dashed out of the office at 5.30pm (an abominably early time as the official work day ended at 6.30pm), dragged the twins to all sorts of parks, beaches and let them have fun and fresh air. I would sleep at 3am, and wake up at 6am for the next day of madness to repeat itself.
It was only after I stopped work, in the past year, that I have realised how much I had failed my children. How much they didn't learn from being around me. Instead they wasted their early years learning from varying standards of childcare teachers. How much I had to teach them in terms of manners and discipline, let alone catching up on the academics they were expected to know in this pressure cooker education system of ours. I missed all their cute and adorable baby ages. When I stopped work, I only had bratty, teenage-wannabe six year olds, and a toddler stuck in the full throttle of her terrible threes. I missed out on the precious first five years, which are so important for bonding. So that when the kid hits the bratty ages (six and above), there would be a wealth of accumulated goodwill and bonding to tide mother and child over any bumps.
Each day as a working mother was just an exercise in getting all their physical needs met. Forget intellectual or emotional development, my priority each day was to just get them all fed, bathed, changed and put to bed. Forget quality time, there was just no time at all each day. There was just no time to breathe.
So yes, kudos to all working mothers. You do juggle a lot.
But it is in retrospect, now that I am a stay-home mom (that is such a misnomer, I am hardly at home! I am always chauffeuring the kids!), I realise how much I put at stake. My marriage. I was always angry as a working mother (why didn't the husband help out more! I work too! Why does he get to rest and sleep on the couch when he gets home and I have to feed and bathe all three kids!). My children. My health. I hardly slept and I developed really bad heart palpitations.
Being a mother is in itself a full-time job. It was manageable when the babies were small and in childcare. But as they grew older, more inquisitive, more demanding, working with three young children in the family just became impossible.
"A working mother must be comfortable with failure. Because there is always someone she is failing."
For me, that absolutely summed up my life as a working mother.
In my heydays as a working mother, I would be heaped compliments aplenty from all walks of life. People would stop to tell me how much they admired me for how I juggled full-time work with three very little children (there are three, within a three year gap; two of them are twins).
To compensate for my guilt from my time away from the children, I would bake everything from scratch, sew their costumes by hand, decorate beautiful fondant cakes, organise birthday parties at the last minute even though deadlines loomed. I was insane and unstoppable. As if I was trying to prove that I could be as much the domestic goddess as I could the career girl.
I thrived on the accolades and encouragement my friends and colleagues and family would heap on me. How do you do it, everyone would ask in bewilderment. How do you cope?! Do you even sleep? Friends would tell me their husbands thought that I was one of the most capable women they knew. All this just helped my ego and carried me on a little, dragging out my work-home dilemma.
But, in truth, there really was someone I was always failing, no matter how hard I worked or how hard I baked or how hard I tried to mother in the little time I had with my children.
I met all my KPIs at work, and even exceeded them. Yet, when my name was up for promotion, HR had incredulously asked how did I deserve that promotion when I was on three month maternity leave during that said year (because I still worked remotely from home during my maternity leave and because I busted my ass till 12 midnight to complete the urgent projects while in my third trimester, and because I still worked from home during my hospitalisation leave). Whatever I did, would never be good enough. Because I was only judged by the number of sick days I took as I picked up the various bugs the children came home from (even though I continued to work from home). Because I had to take leave to take care of my young children who had picked up various bugs in quick succession from the germ-infested childcare (mycoplasma, chicken pox, hand foot mouth disease, gastroentritis, on top of the run of the mill influenza). Despite my productivity, my supposedly understanding and supportive boss sidetracked me for the next promotion. He told me to the face that I was happy with the mommy track. Then why did he heap every single project from the department on me?
Fuck.
So, that's that then. Despite being the key worker for the department, my status as a young mother worked as a double edged sword. Sure, I managed to get allowances by getting in early and leaving early (which was part of the flexi-time policy instituted at work), but no matter how hard I pushed myself, it was never going to be good enough.
Looking closer to home, I was pretty much a failure too. Of course, at that time, I didn't think I failed as a mother. I thought I held it together well. The husband traveled frequently for work (also again spurring comments of "How Do You Do It?"), but I had an efficient house maid that took care of the cleaning and cooking. During my time as a working mother, I thought I had my act together, pulling in weight with my financial contribution, making our investment decisions, looking for real estate, organising the home renovations, while cuddling and holding my babies at every first opportunity. In fact, I arranged numerous weekday playdates for the children, dashed out of the office at 5.30pm (an abominably early time as the official work day ended at 6.30pm), dragged the twins to all sorts of parks, beaches and let them have fun and fresh air. I would sleep at 3am, and wake up at 6am for the next day of madness to repeat itself.
It was only after I stopped work, in the past year, that I have realised how much I had failed my children. How much they didn't learn from being around me. Instead they wasted their early years learning from varying standards of childcare teachers. How much I had to teach them in terms of manners and discipline, let alone catching up on the academics they were expected to know in this pressure cooker education system of ours. I missed all their cute and adorable baby ages. When I stopped work, I only had bratty, teenage-wannabe six year olds, and a toddler stuck in the full throttle of her terrible threes. I missed out on the precious first five years, which are so important for bonding. So that when the kid hits the bratty ages (six and above), there would be a wealth of accumulated goodwill and bonding to tide mother and child over any bumps.
Each day as a working mother was just an exercise in getting all their physical needs met. Forget intellectual or emotional development, my priority each day was to just get them all fed, bathed, changed and put to bed. Forget quality time, there was just no time at all each day. There was just no time to breathe.
So yes, kudos to all working mothers. You do juggle a lot.
But it is in retrospect, now that I am a stay-home mom (that is such a misnomer, I am hardly at home! I am always chauffeuring the kids!), I realise how much I put at stake. My marriage. I was always angry as a working mother (why didn't the husband help out more! I work too! Why does he get to rest and sleep on the couch when he gets home and I have to feed and bathe all three kids!). My children. My health. I hardly slept and I developed really bad heart palpitations.
Being a mother is in itself a full-time job. It was manageable when the babies were small and in childcare. But as they grew older, more inquisitive, more demanding, working with three young children in the family just became impossible.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Starting With the Basics
Here's my story.
After working for 13 years and dithering for five years on whether I should quit my job, I finally did it.
I am a stay-home mom. Under "occupation" in forms, I am tempted to fill in "Chief Executive Officer" of the home.
Well, that was a year ago. It's a bit of a long time to remain in denial.
In the past year, I've been rather irritated when people pass comments that I must have such an easy life now that I am not working. I have to use all my resolve to avoid punching their face.
Because as a full-time mother to school-going children, if I had to do jail time for said punch, I wouldn't be able to find a replacement who is able to juggle all of the following--chauffeur the minimum five school runs each day (excluding the days they have outside classes); prepare breakfast, cook lunch and dinner; get the laundry done; guide the children with their schoolwork; yell at least once a day to each child to get in line; referee the three children; deal with the teachers; make sure they understand what is going on at school. You get the picture.
Oh, and my life is just a tad more complicated than usual. I have twins. Easy hasn't been in my vocabulary for the past seven years. Anyway, that's not this story.
This story is about my descent from a full-time working woman. A time when I would put on nice shoes and make up and decent clothes. A time when I would stride into the office with 10 full glorious hours away from the children (although I would spend a number of hours moaning about how I wasn't with the children). A time when I was part of a department, that was part of a division, that was part of a company, that was part of a global organisation. A time when I had time for morning coffees, chats with colleagues, mental stimulation as I churned out reports and policies and All-Things-Important.
To now.
A time when my daily uniform consists of a T-shirt and shorts. A time when I don't have time to do my hair or make up each morning, as it's MUMMY MUMMY MUMMY MUMMY from the moment I open my eyes to STOP FIGHTING WITH YOUR BROTHER/SISTER just before the bedtime routine. A time when my eldest daughter asks wistfully, "Mummy, can you put on a dress and make up to look prettier?" A time when I go through their school work and go AH-HA as I spot yet another error by the teacher. A time where I have aged incredibly in the past six months, my face has become attracted to the floor, and the first wrinkle lines have marked me as a woman often cross with her too many children. A time when intelligent adult conversation only exists when there's a playdate and a fellow mummy around, and where the conversation always goes to a point of discussion about our children and mothering. Because they are the ones who are my colleagues and who are going through the same joys and pains as I am.
So, wracked with working mother guilt? Here's life on the other side.
After working for 13 years and dithering for five years on whether I should quit my job, I finally did it.
I am a stay-home mom. Under "occupation" in forms, I am tempted to fill in "Chief Executive Officer" of the home.
Well, that was a year ago. It's a bit of a long time to remain in denial.
In the past year, I've been rather irritated when people pass comments that I must have such an easy life now that I am not working. I have to use all my resolve to avoid punching their face.
Because as a full-time mother to school-going children, if I had to do jail time for said punch, I wouldn't be able to find a replacement who is able to juggle all of the following--chauffeur the minimum five school runs each day (excluding the days they have outside classes); prepare breakfast, cook lunch and dinner; get the laundry done; guide the children with their schoolwork; yell at least once a day to each child to get in line; referee the three children; deal with the teachers; make sure they understand what is going on at school. You get the picture.
Oh, and my life is just a tad more complicated than usual. I have twins. Easy hasn't been in my vocabulary for the past seven years. Anyway, that's not this story.
This story is about my descent from a full-time working woman. A time when I would put on nice shoes and make up and decent clothes. A time when I would stride into the office with 10 full glorious hours away from the children (although I would spend a number of hours moaning about how I wasn't with the children). A time when I was part of a department, that was part of a division, that was part of a company, that was part of a global organisation. A time when I had time for morning coffees, chats with colleagues, mental stimulation as I churned out reports and policies and All-Things-Important.
To now.
A time when my daily uniform consists of a T-shirt and shorts. A time when I don't have time to do my hair or make up each morning, as it's MUMMY MUMMY MUMMY MUMMY from the moment I open my eyes to STOP FIGHTING WITH YOUR BROTHER/SISTER just before the bedtime routine. A time when my eldest daughter asks wistfully, "Mummy, can you put on a dress and make up to look prettier?" A time when I go through their school work and go AH-HA as I spot yet another error by the teacher. A time where I have aged incredibly in the past six months, my face has become attracted to the floor, and the first wrinkle lines have marked me as a woman often cross with her too many children. A time when intelligent adult conversation only exists when there's a playdate and a fellow mummy around, and where the conversation always goes to a point of discussion about our children and mothering. Because they are the ones who are my colleagues and who are going through the same joys and pains as I am.
So, wracked with working mother guilt? Here's life on the other side.
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