Anne is growing up so quickly. It doesn’t seem so long ago she was little more than a foot long cotton wrapped package in our arms. These days, she’s a bundle of raw energy that scours faraway horizons for new sofas to climb, new cabinets to open and new medicine bottles to put in her mouth. Faith and I see her everyday, but the changes happen so fast nothing is ever in stasis. By the time we acclimatise to her new habits and behaviours, thinking she’d finally learned some novel trick we’ve been trying to teach her, she moves on. Where once she’d hi-five us whenever we offered an open palm, she now laughs and turns away, turning back occasionally to see if you’d play peekaboo.
Now that she’s babbling a lot, mornings are punctuated by what sounds like her version of singing. Ok, so it sounds a little more like Buddhist chanting, but you forgive her if she doesn’t yet know the words.
Being a parent reminds you of how old you are. I take a quick glance at my life to find many things changed as well. With the hyperactive thyroid, I’m visiting the hospital for regular checkups - something I once thought, not too long ago, was meant only for the elderly. Even right now as I type this I’m typing at the waiting room of Singapore General. Lst time I checked I’m classified as “borderline obese” and still clinging on to the belief that my metabolism can handle whatever amounts of chocolate I throw at it.
Last night, I sat in my computer chair feeling bloated. It’s probably due to the water-retention side-effects of my new medication. But there I was, feeling too fat to want to play basketball - a feeling I never ever thought I’d have. I can now better emphatise with women who feel fat. It is a vicious cycle. Chubby Hubby, while really very good, doesn’t help. But take my word for it, it is very good.