My Idea of a Playdate...

The kids have started their whopping 3 wk (you've got to be kidding me) Chinese New Year holiday. During the 100 hrs of non-stop rain that Singapore just had, we stayed indoors sorting through old papers, making our own comic books, and watching movies. Lots of them, like: Annie, Cinema Paradiso, Billy Elliot, and Bend it Like Beckam. Alexander's first movie at three was Amelie so he's no problem and will watch absolutely ANY movie: Volver, The Bicycle Thief, you name it. (With 5 yr old Eliot we have to occasionally resort to sophisticated tactics to get her to sit through an entire movie. I mean, what were the chances of there really being a princess or a witch coming up soon in Bend it like Beckam?) After the movie, I crank up the music and the kids dance all over the house. My idea of fun. The music is quite eclectic too and can go quickly from Bocelli to Green Day to Elgar's Cello Concerto (I wonder what this will do to them?) Then, we all sit on the sofa, while I tell them stories about when my great-aunts, Josie and Milly, were little and usually end up with mugs of hot chocolate and books scattered all over the sofa, reading next to each other. Now, that's my kind of playdate.

A Tough Week for a Princess

In my university classes, we've been reviewing the hazards of gender specific toys and my students have been writing on how market driven princess paraphernalia can negatively (or not) influence a girl's personality and ambitions. As a mother of a 5 yr old daughter with a love for everything 'princess' this gives me food for thought. So today I asked Eliot: "So, what do you want to be when you grow up?" She usually answers: "Teacher or a mother." So, with a reassured feeling, I asked: "You don't want to be a princess, do you?" With a look of awe, she wondered:

"I can be a princess?!!" Not exactly the thought process I was hoping to put in motion. Very smooth, I know. Job well done.

Earlier in the week, I tried helping Eliot confront her fear of the school bathroom. I accompanied her in to show her that "no sweetie, there are no monsters coming out of the toilet." At which, she pointed to a sign which, in fact, clearly depicted monsters coming out of a toilet. What? The wording underneath the picture said: "If you do not flush the toilet bacteria (monster looking creatures) will come."

Unfortunately, most five year old children cannot read yet. The sign has since been removed.

It's not easy being five.

Nostalgia...

There's something wonderful about January in Singapore. I mean, where else can you go swimming in an outdoor pool? (That would be the kids, not me.)

A perfect ending to a perfect day, I watched "Nuovo Cinema Paradiso," a movie I had not seen in years. In fact, the last time I saw it I was a college student at Vassar, eager to explore the world beyond the medieval walls of my hometown Verona. But, as I watched the movie now, I was surprised at how different I felt, how relevant the themes were. The film, about a very successful director who looks back on his childhood, takes place in Bagheria, Sicily, the hometown of the director, Giuseppe Tornatore. It's not a huge leap of the imagination to assume some details are biographical and imagine how difficult it must have been for the young filmmaker Tornatore to leave Siciliy (or even Federico Fellini, when he was forced to leave his hometown of Rimini, years before) in order 'to make it'. It is very touching and poignant when the protagonist remembers how his old friend Alfredo, the projectionist of the town's popular movie house, had encouraged him as a young man to make his way in the world. At the train station, as he was boarding a train for the big city, Rome, Alfredo admonishes: "never come back here, forget about us, and most importantly..."non farti fregare dalla nostalgia" ("don't let nostalgia fool you.")

I think how relevant Alfredo's words are for myself and my friends here in Singapore, and wonder how many are forced, at times, to stifle homesickness and bury idealized childhood memories...

"Where's the Real Puppy?"

5:45 am, Christmas Day. The kids are awake and running to see if Santa has come or not. From our bedroom, we hear amazement and joy: Santa came! Teddy bears, dolls, miniature skateboards, and silly bandz...

"But where's the real puppy?" asks Eliot.

This year both children decided to put only one thing on their list: a puppy. They knew chances were slim but they figured if there was just ONE thing on the list...the pressure on Santa would be huge.

I have noticed that most expats leaving Singapore have caved in. Their children are sad about leaving but invariably overjoyed at the promise of a canine addition to the family: "we're going to be getting a puppy when we get to Connecticut, Finland, England....(fill in the blank)." This definitely sweetens the blow. Will have to remember this when the time comes. My kids have already put two and two together: "So, basically, when we move, we're getting a puppy, right? So, when are we moving...I think I'm going to call him Buddy...."

Last night, on Christmas Eve, we went to the children's mass, it was very interesting but after the first hour slowly became the second, a bit too long for kids. That, and the fact that Eliot, asked in a very loud voice halfway through: "When is God coming?" made me feel slightly guilty. Either I'm not taking her to mass often enough or we need to go over the basics of Roman Catholicism. Soon.

On our way home, the little theologist pondered: "If God made everything, who made God?"

(Photo from a Christmas past when a feverish Eliot was as small as Dora.)

Back From Bali...

"Where are the other kids?

As I watch my kids grow up in South East Asia, I like to think they have opportunities I never dreamed of having as a child growing up in Verona. They are exposed to different cultures and realities, they eat spicy curries and they travel to exotic places. I recall smiling proudly as my son announced at two that his sandcastle was "the great wall of China" or my daughter insisted on singing Happy Birthday in Chinese. Which is why I find it vaguely disconcerting to hear my son say in the taxi ride to the airport on our recent trip to Bali: "But I want to go to Hawaii," and my daughter answering: "Yeah, I want to see the snow." Am I doing something wrong? On the plus side, they now know Bali, unlike the rest of Indonesia, is 90% Hindu, that you can order Mee Goreng even for breakfast, and that bringing Harry Potter is a good idea at a hotel with no TV and no kid's club. On a final note, there are no children in Ubud. This is a good thing...unless, of course, you are travelling with yours.

(Photo from our small hotel overlooking the rice paddies in Ubud, Bali)

Ten Sure Signs You Are An Expat Dad Living in Singapore

Expat Dad Michele with Alexander and Eliot

1) Your children's international school fees leave you fairly disconcerted...($30,000 for 3rd grade? What are they learning? Rocket Science?)

2) Your kids boast about staying in 5 star resorts. Your childhood holidays often involved a tent.

3) You welcome 11 pm conference calls with California...not really.

4) Business trips are fine...unless they include a Sunday or a night flight from mainland China.

5) Your wife keeps very close track of your frequent flier miles.

6) You accept that a bottle of wine costs as much as a mini-vacation.

7) Business trip to Bangalore. Yoga retreat in India. Not the same thing.

8) You know which Asian airport has the best lounge, best sushi, longest taxi line.

9) You could be playing golf or relaxing by the pool, but you're not doing much of either.

10) Your wife no longer asks you which business destination has the best looking women. But she has noticed that Tokyo is the only city that makes you whistle while you pack.

(Published in Expat Living, April 2012)

"I'd Rather Be Reading Naruto..."

You may have been a green beret, a navy seal, or the CEO of a large corporation but nothing will prepare you for helping your eight year old son with his homework. First of all, this is 'help' he does not want and does not appreciate. In fact, any 'help' you will give, no matter if it is in the tone of Mother Theresa handing someone a bowl of rice, it will still be misconstrued as 'judging' him. In his mind, an innocent: "you might want to check the spelling of frenly, I'm pretty sure it's spelled friendly," will warrant an extreme reaction: "I knew it. You hate me."

Lately things have gotten a lot better. He just tells me he doesn't have any...who am I to argue. After all, life is short.

A Day in the Life...

Wake up call at 6:45am, help kids with breakfast, lay out their uniforms, figure out which shoes Eliot wants to put on, tie shoelaces, fix ponytails. Walk with the kids to the bus stop, past all the construction workers building the new MRT stop, get on a bus while Alexander panics because Eliot is sitting next to a stranger (one of the many Bangladeshi workers headed for a site) or because I might leave Eliot on the bus when we get off (he worries a lot). Then we cross over the suspended bridge and walk into the school. Alexander runs off to his class ("Don't hug me here") while Eliot has me come with her to explain to the Chinese teacher that she doesn't like IT class and that she can't do water play yet because she has a bandaid covering her stitches. "Zai chen," she yells and comes for one last big hug. Then I'm off, speed walking down Bukit Timah rd, my one and only excercise of the day. About 2o min later, I arrive home feeling as crisp as, well, a crisp, and my hair isn't the better for walking in the sweet humidity of Singapore. If it weren't tied in a bun it would probably reach the heights of Marge Simpson. Not pretty. I'm not teaching today so, after a quick shower and checking my email, I'm ready to take some girlfriends to my friend Belle's cool and funky vintage furniture store. It's quite faraway (by my parameters) so I joke: "You didn't tell me we needed our passports to get here...are we in Malaysia?" She has delicious coffee and home baked scones and we get to browse around. I pick up a small, glass painting with butterflies inside. It's for the kids. They just saw Tinkerbell 3 and the Dad was a butterfly collector. In fact, the movie inspired Alexander to strongly request field journals where he could record important stuff ("like warrior swords...").

Lunch and then it's back to the school. I pick up the kids in a taxi and we race off to Eliot's ballet lesson which happens to be open door so Alexander and I get to watch her. Then one small Japanese pancake later and we're back home. Me, convincing Alexander that unless he does his homework (memorizing a Chinese poem) he can't play downstairs in his dugout. And Eliot and her ballet friend watching Dinotopia and playing with their Build-a-Bears. Pizza for dinner and Alexander brings upstairs both his friends, that totals 5 kids. I love it, but am glad their Dad is away in Bangalore (so is he). Then impromptu game of hide and seek. Everybody home before things get ugly and it's time to show the kids their surprise butterfly glass painting. 5 minutes later and they are hunched over it sketching inside their field journals. Moment of peace. Time to go to sleep. Alexander reads Naruto and I read Eliot Grimm's Fairy Tales until she falls asleep with her bear tucked under her arm.

Finally, the house is silent. Bliss.

Letters to Juliet

For most expats, sudden and unexpected bouts of homesickness are one of the hazards of living far from home. I usually realize I'm homesick when I call my Mom who is in Verona, my hometown, and she tells me that it's foggy and cold and my response is: "Really? Foggy and cold? Awww, I miss the fog."

It is therefore, with a feeling of great anticipation, that I go to see a movie that takes place in my city. In this case: Letters to Juliet. The reason I bring this up at all is because the other night a friend of mine told me how often she cries at sad movies and how I never cry at a sad movie. I mean, there are exceptions. The Bicycle Thief comes to mind. But most movies, no tears. I just can't do it. (In fact, suppressed sobs may be one of the causes of my gastric pain, but that's another blog post). Anyway, I suddenly recalled that I HAD almost cried at a recent movie, how could I forget, and that movie was Letters to Juliet. But not because it was sad, but because it was so bad. Perhaps, my expectations had been too high. I honestly feel that any First Year Film School student could have done a better job of portraying a love story in Verona. Not that there is much of the medieval city depicted anyway. Barring the few beautiful scenes there are and the wonderful Vanessa Redgrave, the rest of the movie was almost unwatchable. When the protagonist is driving from Verona to Tuscany to help find Redgrave's character's old flame, the background music is 'tarantella' (traditional music from Sicily not Verona). Seriously? (Note to any film makers out there: it would be great to see a movie that takes place in Italy that decides to not feature 'tarantella' music.) Any more stereotypes? Oh, how could I forget the ubiquitous Italian Mamma in the kitchen of the restaurant above Juliet's balcony (is there even a restaurant there?) insisting these random strangers drop everything and eat all of her food. Sure, that happens all the time. Yes, I know this is a movie (one basically with a very weak plot, relying solely on Italian countryside) but, when at the end of the movie, the boy realizes he's in love with the attractive ex-Mamma Mia actress (what's her name?), and looks for her all over the Tuscan farmhouse, the shot shows an ivy-colored balcony and I find myself hoping against hope: "Please don't be on the balcony, please don't be on the balcony." But of course she is. That's Hollywood. So much for a movie to keep the homesick doldrums at bay.

Maybe next time I'll just go watch a pasta commercial...

"I can see your Halo..."

I haven't been writing my blog for awhile because Eliot has been quite sick. Her bronchitis morphed into stomach flu which resulted in serious dehydration (a common problem here in Singapore). I carried her to the dr (you never know how strong you are until you need to be) and he recommended admitting her to hospital. I don't think so. I followed my best instincts and carried her straight back home promising him that I would monitor her closely and make sure she sipped her rehydration fluids. Her high fever kept returning at night so I ended up giving her antibiotics. With Daddy away on a business trip in Bangalore she ended up spending all her time with me. And I had a chance to discover new things: she loves the music video 'Halo' by Beyonce', can talk for long amounts of time to her stuffed animals (slightly worrisome), and insisted on drinking water from a bowl 'like her puppy,' (even more worrisome). She's finally better and today was her first day back at school. Yeah. I was beginning to dread walking in to check on her sleeping at around 11pm and feeling a burning forehead.

Yesterday I went to my favorite place in the whole world: the third floor of the Queensway Shopping Center in Singapore. Those who know me are aware that I avoid shopping malls like the plague, in fact, I only enter ION with my husband because I'm convinced it's been especially designed for me to walk in and never walk out again. And if we go to Takashimaya, he goes shopping and I wait for him in Kinokuniya bookstore. So why the Queensway Shopping Center?

I go there about once a year to get invitations printed out and there is something surreal about those people working the printers. Most of the time they don't know what I'm asking for. Though I've been there at least 10 times they never recognize me and in the past they have even denied that I've been there. It's like stepping into the Twilight Zone. So why do I go back? First of all, I am a creature of habit and I resist change at all costs. But also for sentimental reasons. In fact, it's like a walk down memory lane. Four years ago, when I first arrived in Singapore, I was finishing my dissertation from the University of Sydney. In what were some of the hairiest hours of my academic life, the 'layout' team and printers held my 'future' in their hands as they printed out the hard copies that I would then need to submit and mail to the board back at the university. Bated breath doesn't even begin to describe my feverish state at the time. So now when I go back to print whimsical birthday cards for my kids, no matter how many glitches or how many times I can't understand their pronunciation of the word: 'layout', it's really a walk in the park!

Some friends have called me up after sighting my recent blog entry: "10 Sure Signs You Are An Expat Kid in Singapore," in this month's edition of the magazine Expat Living. It's a great magazine, you should pick up a copy. After writing about expat kids and expat moms it's only fair if my next entry is about expat dads...anything to procrastinate from what I should be doing and that is writing my book. Yes, I am trying to write a book. Easy? Not really. Fun? Not as much as I thought it would be. Will write some here and see what you all think!