Dear Phoebe,
You're going to be turning two and a half years old on the third of September, and in about three months, you will be a big sister to a baby we have named Micah John Then. I wonder how you will receive his arrival into our family. For now, you love kissing my belly and talking about the "baby" in yours. You said to me yesterday while lifting up your t-shirt as we sat on the couch eating homemade berry crumble, "My belly is moving, quick feel it!" It's funny how you imitate some of the things we say. I was asking you to place your hand on my belly the other evening as Micah seemed to be doing a jiggly dance and the movement could be seen quite clearly from the outside.
These past two years have felt slow and fast at the same time. I have experienced many joys but seem to remember the anger and exhaustion more. I dwell on the times I flared up and found myself acting in an utterly selfish and unloving fashion. These failures play on my mind a great deal and I often wish I could have a do-over. I recently purchased the book "Hands Free Mama" and started reading it over the weekend. Although I am only a few pages in, the text is giving me much to consider in relation to the way I parent and carry out my life. It's silly to think how superficial some of my wishes are in relation to the changes I would make if I could turn back time.
It's trivial but I wish I had painted your tiny newborn feet to make a simple print for framing. While this would have made a precious memento, it doesn't take precedence over being fully present and taking the time to kiss those beautiful feet and make sure they aren't too cold or too warm. I wish I had bought you prettier cot linen in better quality material. Who knows why I settled on inexpensive, uninspiring K-Mart sheets instead of investing in something better right from the start. The thing is you wouldn't have been able to tell the difference, especially since you were swaddled in soft wraps or blankets most of the time. I just think I shouldn't have been so stingy since you're my baby. Those cheap sheets didn't last long nor did they make for pretty photographs. Many of your infant shots feature mismatched colours and uncoordinated hand-me-down pieces. I know obsessing over whether my pictures are Instagram worthy and frame-perfect is something I need to let go of. Still, it bugs me.
I wish I had taken better photographs. Again, I am letting comparison weigh me down. It's completely unhealthy to be measuring my success according to what I see on social media. I am not a good photographer and that is okay. Papa and I took tons of candid snaps but so many are in poor lighting with unflattering composition. There are messes in some pictures, maybe even a toilet bowl in the distance. There are boring, ugly backgrounds or distracting props. Some photos are simply too blurry. At the end of the day I need to remind myself of this: Although capturing such moments in a beautiful way allows us to create more artistic keepsakes, our pictures represent life as it was then. They're real and they're raw. Nothing is staged, nothing is hidden. Besides, could a flawless picture speak louder than my words and actions to you on a daily basis? Would it tell you I love you if I failed to show you that in practical ways?
If I could turn the hands of time back, this is what I would do differently for sure. Instead of repeatedly snapping and smacking you for not listening when I said not to pull the books off the shelf in my room, I would swap out the books for toys or items safe and interesting for you to take hold of and engage with. I've lost count of the number of times I tried to teach you that the books were not for your entertainment, and the number of times the incident ended with me raising my voice and being rougher than I should have been and you crying. Would it have been so difficult to come up with a creative solution that contributed to your learning experience? No. All those unpleasant occurrences could have been turned into great memories but I squelched the opportunity and trampled on the open invitation to replace my poor response that possibly conveyed I valued neatly arranged books over you.
If I were to be given a second chance at my mothering journey with you, I would stop shouting and hard smacking altogether. I have lost my patience and temper more times than I care to admit (even if it was just once, it would have been one time too many). I should have sought help and found more appropriate and effective ways of teaching and disciplining you. I should have taken action to change certain habits so the same triggers didn't keep presenting themselves, like bringing you home for a bath instead of insisting on us showering at swim school after your class when you obviously hated the rushed ritual. In most cases you were too young to understand and yet I expected you to get where I was coming from. How many times did I see a pitiful sadness fill your eyes as you looked up to me for assurance after I rapped you too harshly on the hand or bottom? I shudder to recall the way I have yelled right into your little ears as well. You have never deserved to be treated in that manner. I lost my cool in a horrible way just the other night, which made you cry bitterly as Papa took you for a bath. When I ignored you afterwards and hurriedly busied myself in the kitchen, you softly said in a dejected voice, "You hurt me Mama, I don't like it."
In reflecting over the times I have acted out of emotions and tiredness instead of thinking the situation through, I realise I could have been rubbing in the message that you are less important than things like a clean and tidy house or my time alone. I remember getting mad because you once opened our filing cabinet and pulled out a folder of unstapled articles. The sheets were strewn across the floor and I had to chase you down to grab some back before you tore through them. I cursed profusely (under my breath so you wouldn't hear me) as I tried to make sense of the heaped mess and arrange everything in order.
I've never in my life used as much disgustingly foul profanity as in these past couple of years. Since gaining the new title of "Mama", I have been shocked at how enraged I can become over the tiniest of matters. It takes so little to trigger a reaction from me and it's disturbing that the response is totally uncalled for and perhaps even frightening for someone as impressionable as yourself. I've muttered the most terrible of thoughts and sentiments (which I dare not repeat here), and what's worse, over preposterously inconsequential events. The truth is, those articles are completely useless and I will most likely never bother reading them. In hindsight, much of what I have fretted over is downright insignificant just like those immaterial pieces of paper.
Your tender heart deserves more care than the leather on our couches or the tiles beneath our feet or the counter tops in our kitchen. Your feelings and self-esteem are more important than the chinaware my parents carted over from Singapore that I was able to easily move to a higher shelf in the pantry. YOU matter more, full-stop. It shouldn't matter whether I am ill or drained or busy. It shouldn't matter whether the laundry is overflowing or our home is in dire need of a scrub. It shouldn't matter that I have weird obsessive compulsive tendencies and like certain things to be "just so". It shouldn't even matter if you're pushing the boundaries, testing my patience or throwing a tantrum. I should never be too occupied to turn to you when you're asking for my attention, or too distracted to really listen and respond thoughtfully, or too caught up in my own bubble that I become negligent, insensitive or curt. There is always a more mature approach to dealing with things and sometimes all it takes is a few extra seconds to breathe deeply and reassess the circumstances.
You, Phoebe Ruth Then En Qi, are important. You are precious and beautiful and significant. You are smart and funny and adorable. You are sweet and affectionate and sensitive. You are unique and gifted and special. You are the one I should be focusing on in my everyday moments. You and Papa and the people God has blessed me with. Family and friends matter. Each and every person matters. Their life story matters, their feelings and worries and dreams and opinions matter.
I cannot undo the damage I have caused, to you or anyone else, but instead of constantly mulling over the past and complaining about being unwell and tired and frustrated, I am going to choose to be present. I am going to stop myself and realise that each moment only happens once and that my decision in that moment counts and can have an impact that carries over into your future and the person you turn out to be. I don't want you to be distracted and hurried. I don't want you to be a slave to technology. I don't want you to lose out on the everyday moments that are treasures to be savoured. I want you to look back and see me as one who cheered you on, comforted you, helped equip you and built you up. I want you to see that I was there and I truly cared. I want you to be secure in your relationship with me and enjoy time with me.
Phoebe darling, you are irreplaceable. Thank you for loving me despite how frequently and badly I have messed up. Thank you for telling me stories and pointing out the things in life I have grown to overlook like a bird on the roof or the sound of rain. I hope you never ever lose your child-likeness and sense of awe and wonder. I hope you cherish even the days that seem mundane and always have something to look forward to. I hope you will never be afraid to dream big and believe in yourself.
Love, Mama
