Rites of Passage

I do wonder if blogging has become passé for me. I can hear some gasping in the background as I utter that sentence. Is it even blasphemous to let such a thought cross my mind?

Should I go the psychobabble route and explain the inner conflict that I'm currently battling? Having the penchant to write long (or long-winded, if you may) posts, I won't be contented with my halfhearted effort of a short entry.

On the other hand, I must always remind myself that I'm writing for myself and my own satisfaction; not for a certain audience. But who am I kidding? Of course, there is an audience in mind when you blog. Unless you keep a private online journal where only you know the password or you disable the option for people to comment.

While I hardly call myself a seasoned blogger - what more, a well-known one - I do appreciate the comments and responses that arrive on my site. I just realise though that I have not been replying the comments ever since the turn of the new year and for that, I'm truly sorry. It's easy to blame it on fatigue and sheer procrastination, but going back to my original premise - has blogging turned into a lusterless enterprise after years of indulging in it?

Probably it's just me who is feeling this way. Most of the times, I'd rather become a silent spectator than leave my mark in several blogs just for the sake of stamping my presence.

Let's hope I get my groove back when the moment counts. What moment? Beats me.

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On the last weekend of March, we went to get a haircut for Sadia in GE Mall in conjunction with her entering a play- cum preschool. Actually, we didn't expect the haircut to transpire as the first trip late last year was not so successful with her whining about hair getting into her eyes. Back then, except for the occasional yelping, she didn't shed any tears.

But by the time we exited the play area of Kidzgym that lazy Sunday, she pointed to the adjacent kid-friendly hair salon and demanded her promised haircut. Oh she remembered! Since her dad just got a haircut the weekend prior, she wanted one herself. I think she's fascinated with the concept of a salon to cut hair when one of her parents usually go missing for a short diversion during those mall trips.

It's the only time when one of us could get a decent trim. Sometimes we are lucky; she'd be napping and one of us would while away at a cafe with a snoring Sadia whereas the other succumbs to the will of a ruthless hairstylist.

Like parents, like daughter. :)

So we doubled back into said salon and patiently waited for our turn. There was already one tearful girl on the hot seat and a bevy of salon staff fussing over her like there's no tomorrow. The hairstylist was the least amused by the girl's lack of cooperation, but he remained outwardly calm throughout.

I was afraid that Sadia might be affected by the girl's tantrum, but surprisingly she was raring to go. She took her place on the special 'toy car' seat, holding a toy bus in her hand and let the female hairstylist did her magic. The lady asked us if we would like a slanted bob for Sadia and we agreed. It's her shortest hair yet.

Save for the intrusive fringe cutting which she disliked, everything else went smoothly. By the time she finished, the other girl had yet to complete her hair transformation having changed the location of her cut several times inside the salon!

All of us were happy with the new hairstyle, notwithstanding the price that we had to pay!



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Her first day of playschool started on the first week of April. It's a once-a-week basis for one-and-half hour and located quite a distance from our place in Ampang. My husband and I like the small class setting - maximum of 10 kids per class - and the copacetic learning environment.

During the introductory class, Sadia was apprehensive of the new and unfamiliar setting and insisted that I stayed with her until the end of class. I assented as she was full of anxiety the night before her class started. She was throwing tantrums and trying to get a chance to cry. In turn, I was worried if she would be able to cope.

In spite of our mutual concerns, Sadia tremendously enjoyed the lessons and activities on offering that day. At storytime, she participated when the teacher asked her what's happening in the book's narrative. She followed instructions well and loved the scheduled playtime at the school's indoor play area.

My husband and I also find the teacher's natural enthusiasm and exuberance appealing to the children. She's larger than life, that lady. :)

Last week which was the second week of school, I decided that I must get out of the class as early as possible lest Sadia got accustomed to having me around all the time. One of the points of playschool was to instill some form of independence. I asked the teacher the best way to go about it and she went to Sadia's side and assured her that I'd be outside in the waiting room while she's in class. Sadia listened intently to what the teacher said all the while making faces that ranged from uncertainty to confidence before finally uttering one word that carried much significance : Alright (or in her case, Awwight).

I hastily took the cue and left the room in tears. Tears welled up in my eyes and refused to stop. It was the first time I ever let go of her and emotions (not to mention, pregger hormones) began to overwhelm me.

In a bid to regain my composure, I called my husband and even read the What to Expect book in the parents' waiting room cum reception area. At times, I snuck a peek at Sadia who was painting alongside her tiny classmates in the Painting room that connects to the waiting room. I have separation issue, so sue me! :D

When the children marched back into the waiting room to be reunited with their guardians at the appointed hour, Sadia looked both pleased and happy with the class. The teacher informed me that she didn't ask for me at all. Great! (I think).

We thereafter walked back to the car and I asked her how her class went. She told me what went down and immediately requested that I read the Ladybug storybook given to her inside the car. She couldn't wait any longer. Stomach rumbling from a delayed lunch, I willingly obliged. Anything for you dear.

(Grand)Father Figure

As the month of March draws to a close, I promise myself that I'd write a piece of a paternal nature. Alas, time is not on my side as I find myself feeling easily tired and travelling more extensively in March.

It is the significance of March upon which this post revolves. Or so I told myself. But it won't make it less meaningful had I written it down in another temporal dimension.

People always say to me that the kind of affection and love one gets from a grandfather is vastly different from that of a grandmother. They dote on you in a special way. I wouldn't know. I never had one.

Both my grandfathers - maternal and paternal - passed away by the time I knew what role a grandfather entails. If my memory serves me correctly, my paternal granddad died within the first three years of my life. As for the maternal one, his demise took place before my parents got married.

I am always intrigued by the notion of a grandfather. Am I missing something because I didn't have one? I like to observe the bond between any grandfather and his grandkid(s) and see how they get along. In a way, I live vicariously through their interactions.

Growing up without one means I have to make do with bits and pieces of information which I gathered from numerous sources. Due to the distance and lack of access to materials, I am not privy to any information about my paternal granddad. No one really talked about him, at least not in a dialect understood by me. Has he become a mirage of the past?

Conversely, information about my maternal grandfather abounds. Everyone seems to be talking about this great man. He is a force and authority to be reckoned with. Highly respected by friends and foes, he had garnered a loyal number of followers everywhere he went.

My maternal granddad ("Datuk") is a political man. His strong commitment to the profession translates to long trips away from home - Kg Baru - in order to serve his constituency. The area he represented was somewhere in the northern territory of Selangor - Kapar and thereabouts. Back then when the trunk roads were the only mode of travelling, these journeys could stretch to many days and weeks.

Whereas I don't even know how my paternal granddad looks like, photos of my maternal granddad are aplenty considering his works as a politician. *With a road and a boulevard named after him in Kampung Bahru and Klang respectively as well as a school in Kapar, I can't help but to feel proud to be related to such a formidable man. Full of integrity and charismatic, he has all the makings of a great statesman what with his host of selfless contributions to society. I believe our current crop of aspired politicians should follow his strong work ethics.

All good things must come to an end, unfortunately. In some cases, earlier than others. After coming back from a work trip in Taiwan, my granddad complained of chest pains and coughing fits. Only when things got worse that he sought medical attention. By that time, it was too late. He had contracted a severe case of bronchitis and passed away in the hospital. His infamous chain-smoking habit didn't help in making a turnaround either.

Everyone was devastated by his seemingly untimely passing. He was considerably young and at the prime of his life. Yet, Allah knows best. A thick pall hovered the Hamzah household that fateful March 1st, 1970 and continued for many months to come. And for some people, years went by before they snapped out of their funk.

My mother recounted experiencing a gamut of emotions ranging from anger, sadness and finally to acceptance. Angry because he had left her abruptly and later when the realisation set in, she shed some strong tears. She told me that everyone was particularly worried about her as she was close to the deceased. My mom was daddy's little girl. But surprisingly, she managed to muddle through just fine.

On the contrary, it was my grandma who became heavily distraught when she cried profusely for days on end and barely ate in turn. And everyone thought she was the strong one. She remained calm through the funeral proceedings and only let herself go after the dust had settled. I was informed my Nenek was in a mourning state for several years and how her health was subsequently affected.

Due to my grandma's condition, my mother had to be in charge of the household and even took over my Datuk's non-executive position in one company.

Other poignant memories following the death of my grandpa include the times when one of my uncles kept playing his flute ("seruling") while sitting by the side of the gates as if waiting for him to come back. Mama said he usually played the seruling waiting for my granddad to arrive home from work. My aunt, who was 10 years old at the time, remembers seeing the late Tun Abdul Razak Hussein dropping by to pay his respect during Datuk's funeral.

I may not know my Granddad, but I believe he was indeed a dignified man to be loved and fondly remembered long after his departure from this life. He has left an indelible mark, more so on those who have not met him in person.

So it was on Sunday, March 1st 2009 we - the Hamzah clan - congregated at my aunt's house for a potluck in memory of the late Datuk. Though he is no longer with us in the physical sense, his spirit was palpable in the room where we feasted on nasi lemak, roti bom and other local favourites.

Nowadays when I see my father in his role as a grandfather, I am blessed to have him around to make a difference in our (read: my siblings and I) kids' lives. The way he dotes on them through small treats, unexpected gestures and undivided attention encapsulates the unique figure that is a Datuk.

A grandpa I may not have; but reliving the stories through others' cherished accounts of him does strangely make up for lost time and opportunity. May he rest in peace till Kingdom come.


*note: Amendment made to Paragraph 9.

Singing in the rain

The blaring sound of the karaoke system pierced the night's solitude and entered the sanctuary of my cosy hotel room. This followed by my husband's text message declaring it was karaoke time by the beach.

His team-building commitment saw us spending last weekend on a seaside resort which, I might add, has seen better days. While I take my hat off to the refurbished works within the hotel room, the pygmy-sized bathtub left a lot to be desired, among others, making 'cleansing' a cumbersome task.

Alas, I am digressing. That night, the cacophony that was people's singing voices conjures memories of a distant past. My thoughts flew back to the time of my primary school in Kuala Terengganu when I was auditioning to be in the all-girls school choir along with other eager candidates. I remember when it was my turn to step on the platform and vocalise the "Do, Re, Mi, Fa, So, La, Ti, Do". It should be a cinch, comforted this wide-eyed wonder of a girl inside me. As it turned out, I even managed to botch a simple feat as that. To make matters worse, my two sisters - the eldest and my twin - were chosen to be part of the choir! I was devastated and felt being left out of the fun. Bummer. Whereas they got to go to different schools to compete and even appeared on National TV (RTM), I remained glued to my seat and became a mere spectator.

They say childhood experiences shape and nurture how we turn out later in life. Thus, when it comes to singing, I always believe that I suck. This perception has been ingrained into me ever since that fateful day in 1984.

I'd become conscious of singing together with my sisters lest I'd sound off-key. Moreover, people's facial expressions - imagined or otherwise - when I 'performed' never lie and become a (faulty?) barometer to which I gauge my so-called singing prowess. Eventually, I came to accept that I could not sing.

Despite the vocal weakness, I still love music like the next person, particularly songs from various musicals. I would normally hum or sing them in my own company. "Singing in the rain" is a favourite solo number. With sheets of rain accompanying my solitary walk and no one else to judge, I feel strangely at ease and let go of any inhibition.

Being married to a naturally-gifted singer that is my husband should have further affected my singing confidence. On the contrary, my other half shares my passion for songs - musicals included - and we often break into familiar tunes together. (Side note: I guess that's another reason why I married him - I can be myself and be spared of all pretensions :D ). He doesn't belittle*; he offer tips to sing better. Sing in your natural voice, he'd say. That evidently worked, in most parts.

Life has a funny way of changing how you look at things. The arrival of our bundle of joy three years ago found me getting over my singing jitters once and for all. To soothe her to sleep, I'd make some lullabies up that brought her straight to Dreamland. It's probably the sound of my voice - her mother - which drew in the yawns. She sensed the security and warmth, knowing I was there. And yet, I felt wholly satisfied and contented that she enjoyed my singing. That's what matters most.

In that instance, my hang-up about singing in public completely dissolved. I have found the audience and adulation that I ever really want.

As for Karaoke-ing, I don't mind taking a stab at it, on the condition that I attempt it with my closest and dearest. With them having small baggage (read: small children) to haul around, it is a long time coming before that day arrives. :) For now though, I'd happily oblige warbling duties either at home or inside a moving vehicle.



* He can be a tad patronising in other matters, but that's a different story. ;)

The State of Inducement

We were having our customary quiet dinner - my husband and I - last January when he alerted me of a BBC article which caught his interest on the phone's RSS feed. He showed it to me and the memory of it came flashing back.

It is a news article about the rise of labour inductions in the UK to which the researcher could not "find a medical or other explanation for the procedure".

Reasons for induction included the standard medical reasons as well as social factors such as living a long way from the hospital. But 28% of cases remained unexplained.

The timely findings simply floored me. Here I was thinking that mine - and those sharing the same doctor with me - was an isolated case. Evidently, it does happen in other parts of the developed world.

After choosing Practitioner A ('PA') for my first baby, I had heard stories from reliable sources that he likes to induce labour. Since I was a first-timer when it came to giving birth, I didn't actually register what this induction actually entailed. I had prayed I wouldn't be in the same boat as the others who were supposedly induced. That mine would come naturally one night - the water breaks and with that comes the onset of labour. No such luck. I was induced.

Looking back, I might have done it differently. I would hold my ground and said "No, I'll wait it out". 'It' was referring to the possible mild contractions that I might be having for several days before the BIG day finally arrived. Alas, I was a scared woman who depended and trusted her obstetrician to do the best thing. However, little did I know that PA was doing what was best for HIM.

To tell you the truth, I felt cheated. That's rather harsh. Perhaps 'ill-informed' is a better word. We came in to see my doctor the day after I found a small trace of blood while in the toilet. He said my cervix had opened about 2 cm. When PA said I could be feeling the contractions for days on end, I was afraid. By coming in early, I had thought it would help in alleviating the anticipated pain. I was wrong. No pain was forthcoming despite the application of prostaglandin in the nether region.

After a night full of anxiety and sleeplessness, I woke up early in the morning without any signs of labour. They tried the procedure again but to no avail. By noon when PA came to visit me, he looked glum by the slow progress and informed me that he might have to perform a C-section if my cervix were not ripe enough.

I was crestfallen. A Caesarean is the last thing I wanted done. It was only after I was rolled into my room that the contractions started taking place. The frequency gradually picked up that I was rushed back to the delivery area of the hospital, before I could even enjoy the cozy room. Following an internal examination of said cervix, he artificially ruptured my membranes using a crochet-like hook called Amniohook. A lot of water came gushing out thereafter. It's almost like a waterfall.

It was so surreal that it felt like I was having one of those out-of-body experiences. A gush of water tinged with blood - that is new. After cleaning up in the bathroom, PA later suggested that this would be a great time to think of pain relief i.e., epidural since the contractions would be stronger now that my membranes had been ruptured. We assented to the procedure.

I remember the anesthesiologist burrowing into my spine to insert the epidural catheter tube (Post-labor, hubby said there was a considerable amount of blood involved, but he didn't want to alarm me). Everything was a blur from this point on. I was exhausted from lack of food and the series of events that I drifted off to sleep. I must have slept for a long time since it was already dark by the time I came to. Apparently, I was having a fever and shivering badly as a result of low blood sugar level that the midwives quickly opened my blanket and introduced something intravenously.

I fell asleep again and woke up in excruciating pain. The epidural effect had worn off and caused me to feel those major contractions. God only knows how bad they were. I yearned for some pain medication and fast! The same anesthesiologist arrived after what seemed like an eternity and topped up the dosage. As it took some time for it to take effect, I writhed and cringed in pain (Wow, it does seem that I have a low threshold of pain :) ).

By the time the numbness took over, my cervix has sufficiently dilated for a vaginal delivery. The bad news was I couldn't feel any sensation that was needed in order for me to push! With the aid of a midwife and encouragement from my hubby, I did push. In a manner of speaking. I couldn't feel I was pushing, but I 'acted' it out with all my might.

When I opened my eyes after several pushes, PA had plonked my baby in front of me. She was beautiful with big, beady eyes. While the doctor stitched me up, hubby began to intone the adzan.

Moments later when Sadia was already sent to the nursery room, I hurled to my heart's (stomach's?) content. That was obviously the after-effects of epidural. Luckily, it was mostly water-based since I hadn't eaten much.

As you can see, the protracted labour had wreaked havoc on my system - physically and emotionally. I checked in at 8 p.m. on Wednesday and Sadia had only come out of the womb shortly after midnight on Friday. To say the least, it was exhausting! I recall arriving home and started weeping. I was overwhelmed with the new role to be assumed and bushed from the laborious labour.

Thus, my contention is that I go for as natural as possible kind of birth this time around. I'm resolute. No more unnecessary long and stressful stay in the hospital. As Ms. Macdonald of the Royal College of Midwives asserted in the article, "it was important that women knew why induction was being done". In other words, the practitioner had better spelled the word out clearly so that the patient, especially first-time mother-to-be, knew what to expect.

"We are very interested in trying to support normal birth and ensuring an intervention is done only when it's absolutely necessary."

I can't agree more. Here's to natural childbirth!