Posts Tagged ‘fractured toes’

I’ve started doing yoga from a month back or so to try to regain some flexibility in my (healed) broken toes. This entails leaving work at 4:30pm for 2 days a week to make it to a 5:00pm class further down the river. The knock on effect is that I get home earlier for dinner, fresh from a shower, and get to hang out with the kids longer than on most nights.

While I entered the studio on Tuesday, the lady at the desk said Oh! Your class bundle is almost finished now!

Sitting on the mat in the 5 minutes before class started, it dawned upon me that by forcing me to leave work at 4:30pm two days a week, yoga has essentially forced me not just into strange extremes which I hitherto never thought I could achieve (like standing on my head!), but had forced me to make myself a priority for two days a week, to push away work and other extenuating circumstances just to have one hour to myself, sweating it out. It’s been really good not just physically, but mentally as well.

So, I say to myself (with a pat on the back): I am committed to you and will continue to make you a priority.


Someone at work said to me:

Leaving work one hour earlier is morally wrong.

To which I replied:

How is it more morally wrong than say coming to work at 10am or eating lunch till 3pm, both of which you do on a daily basis?

Besides, I regularly stay late at work all other times. So technically, the company owes me hours, not the other way round.

It is people like that who ensure that all this talk about flexi-hours and work-life balance will remain just talk. Said person also regularly complains to me about how she is not able to strike any balance in life or find time for herself after having a child.

And anyway, I can stand on my head? Can you? No? Then, go away because I am one up on you.


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study of a mother disciplining her son

study of a mother disciplining her son

My aunt once told me how she dreaded gifts from a certain member of the family because they usually resulted in strife among her three children either because all of them got different things which resulted in all kinds of inequalities ensuing, or all of them get craft sets which result in all kinds of messy cleaning up after the event.

Said person usually shrug and say “I don’t care. I’m just giving the gift and it looks like fun.” So in the end, I took over the gift buying and adopted the books for everyone policy so Christmastime became less of a random horror selection for my aunt [if only she knew the insidious contents of the books I hand out to her young adults!].

When I became a parent, I realised even more acutely how a really bad gift could really screw up your routine. So whenever I want to buy a toy for a small child now, I usually ask the Mummy whether it’d be okay. Or at least buy something which says on the package that it is meant for a child in that age range which does not require any parental assistance or messy cleanups.

So what do you do when you receive inappropriate presents for your child?

My usual response would be “Oh, that’s nice!” then put it out of reach for a couple of years. I’ve been quite successful so far [also most people are quite considerate]. I just recently took out a hairdressing doll with lots of small parts which someone gave my daughter on her first Christmas for my daughter after 3 years of keeping it away until it became age-appropriate.

What happens when that option is taken away from you and the gift is presented to your child in your absence in spite of your express instructions not to do so?

You end up having to deal with a fractious child with a broken toy [due to the fragility of said item] whom you have to discipline during dinner time [including and not limited to threatening / bribing him not to whine and then taking him out to the corridor for time out after failing to stop the whining]. Rinse and repeat every time said child catches a glimpse of broken toy until it gets packed away / thrown away.

Telling me that “We are just the gift-givers and we are not responsible for the discipline and behaviour of someone else’s kid” does not help one bit. Giving me dirty looks and sighs over an interrupted dinner is also completely uncalled for because if you were to follow my express instructions, dinner would not have been interrupted in the first place.

It’s a bit like giving a kid a loaded gun and saying that “we are just the gift-givers and we are not responsible for the carnage that ensues.”

That’s just completely irresponsible and inconsiderate.


Now that my toes have healed sufficiently that I can sprint 3km again, I really need to continue on my quest of learning how to stand on my head.

So that I can tell people “Can you stand on your head? You can’t? I can. So shut up because I’m one up on you.”

Or I could stand on my head in the middle of rubbish conversations. I used to stick my head in my book bag back in school to stop rubbish conversations. I’m sure standing on my head is a much cooler and much better conversation killer than sticking my head into my bag.

But then again, I wear a lot of skirts and dresses in general. I shall have to remind myself to do so only when I’m wearing pants otherwise it would be most unglam.

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wpid-2012-12-04_20-53-52_984.jpgI want to run home as soon as practicable after work everyday to trace letters with Peanut, or colour garish dinosaurs with Lion, or read stories and make funny noises at the appropriate parts that make the kiddies laugh light hell.

The operative words are “as soon as practicable.”

Today is one of those non-practicable days. In fact, the last two weeks have been a neverending series of non-practicable days.

Yesterday when I finally got home, Peanut said to me, Hello Mummy, I want to write letters but you didn’t come back earlier. So tomorrow you come back earlier.

But it’s now tomorrow. I wanted to run into a cab and head home but I can’t with my fractured toes, with my bundles for submissions, with my laptop.

I sit at the back of a cab. It is already far too late. I text home to tell The Other Half to start dinner without me first because I’ve been delayed.

How I wish my inability to run home to you was a mere temporary physical affliction I could get over soon.

I wrote the above while I was in the cab on the way home past 8pm. There is a happy ending to the above. I did eventually manage to trace some letters with Peanut. She sat next to me at the dining table with her favourite dark pink twist crayon and went through P, Q, R, S, T, U while I ate my cold dinner with The Other Half. I took the above picture with my phone after I finished my meal.

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following up

At my last follow up appointment today, I asked my orthopaedic doctor whether I could do yoga even though my foot is still slightly swollen and I still can’t wear my Court shoes.

He gave me a look and said:

Well, that really depends on what you do in yoga class. If you’re just standing on your head only, sure, why not?

So helpful, right?

Oh well. At least I’m mostly healed up, though I have to postpone running away with the circus till next year at least.

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While walking behind some really slow people in Court today trying to get from one mention to another, I finally understood how frustrated The Other Half felt when we couldn’t engage the car’s turbo sometime back.

I really wanted to overtake those guys but I couldn’t find the extra power to pull ahead because of my half-healed toes.

I tried to swim laps two Saturdays ago but my arms got too tired because I couldn’t kick properly.

Sometimes I forget and try to run only to gingerly hop twice and carry on hobbling. Yesterday I almost signed up for a Yoga class forgetting that I still can’t flex my foot.

I really need to get better soon. I have too much nervous energy with no outlet or capacity to store.

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eating curbs

In addition to strange dessert, F*Hotel decided to serve us this today:

Said The Other Half:

We could suggest it to LTA so that no one need ever break their toes again.

Also available further down the buffet line was “Soft Shee Crab with Chicken Floss”.

According to the Other Half:

In Celtic mythology, The Shee were faerie folk. They must have seemed all-powerful to the ordinary humans, as are the Shee to the other creatues.

Said I:

That actually fits in nicely with the grass jelly with attache.

Said he:

Or the Rasta with cheese topping.

Thanks, F*Hotel for all that (unintended) fun on a boring Court day.

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weekend project

A couple of weeks ago, on her return from the Annual (or Bi-Annual) Homecoming, Rebecca gave us a magic box filled with 2 candy trays and a dessert recipe book in French (!!).

Notwithstanding, I bravely went through the book twice but for some really strange reason, in spite of the fact that the molds enclosed were clearly for gummy sweets, there was not one single gummy recipe in the book.

Undeterred, I proceeded to google a recipe and bravely proceeded the weekend past as follows:

1. Soak 4 tablespoons of gelatine (I used a Halal version from the supermarket) with 4 tablespoons of cold water and set aside to soften.

2. In a saucepan, place a 2/3 cup of fruit juice (I used an unsweetened pomegranate juice procured by The Other Half from the supermarket on the rationale that the sour juice will counteract the sugar), 6 tablespoons of sugar (I used fine brown caster sugar) and 4 tablespoons of corn syrup. Melt the sugar over a medium fire.

3. After sugar is melted, scoop the gelatine goop out of whatever receptacle it’s molded into and land it with a plop into the saucepan. Stir over heat until the goop melts into the liquid. I think I lost a bit of patience here and sifted out the stubborn little bits left on the top after I got tired of stirring.

4. Pour the (sifted) liquid into the molds, realise that you’ve got far too much liquid for the molds, then rummage through your cupboard for some more. You end up with gummy bears, gummy crocs, gummy alphabets, gummy numbers and a couple of gummy sunflowers.

5. Leave to cool under a fan in the dining room, then take a shower and leave the house for dinner with Mother-In-Law and Sister-In-Law at a restaurant. Return to Mother-In-Law’s place to watch the entire FormulaOne race, then get home to shout the kids upstairs to bed. Take a deep breath. Then attempt to remove the still quite soft jellies from the molds.

6. After a moderate amount of cursing, one dismembered gummy bear which was promptly eaten, and some discussion with The Other Half, pop the jellies into the freezer and go to bed, praying that time will fix it.

7. Wake up next morning, remove molds from fridge and pull jellies out (successfully) from molds to much jubilation. Another gummy bear promptly eaten by The Other Half for taste test.

8. After the pronouncement of suitability, hastily wrap up some in non-stick paper and take them to work as follows:

The gummies are a little softer than the usual kind of gummy bears you get in a store. But then they have absolutely no preservatives and are really quite yummy. We will be experimenting with other types of fruit juices / sugars to try to get a better consistency. The Other Half read somewhere that the brown sugar may have contributed to them not setting quite hard enough at room temperature so I have resolved to try with white, processed fructose instead.


In other news, I went to the zoo with the kids on Sunday. I have now developed a mysterious ache in my right buttock from my uneven gait. That’s my cue to walk less in my cast, methinks. How bloody inconvenient.

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