Mum Is Where the Heart Is Read online

  When I returned home from the hospital, Auntie Zhang was already busy in the kitchen. The sour smell of black vinegar greeted me, and I felt very happy. It was commonly believed then that black vinegar was good for recuperation after giving birth. I was always fond of vinegar-soaked braised pig’s trotters, so I was quite pleased to think that I would spend the next month enjoying such delicacies.

  Aunty Zhang walked out of the aromatic kitchen, but did not reach out to take the baby I carried in my arms, as I had hoped. She said, “The crib is set up. Let the baby sleep there.” Her tone was commanding, and without a hint of emotion.

  I hesitated. But before I could respond, she added, “I’ve already arranged the nappies. If you need one, you can take it from the cupboard.” And with that, she went back into the kitchen.

  I was tired. After settling the baby in, I lay down on the bed. Just as I started to doze off, I heard the baby cry. The shrill sound chased away the sleep and I got up to check on him. He was crying so hard that his little face was wrinkled up like a walnut, his two little legs trembling. Why was he crying? Was he hungry? Or was he sick? I felt puzzled and helpless, so I called repeatedly, “Aunty Zhang!” I had to shout several times before I heard her reply from the kitchen: “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  She didn’t even walk out of the kitchen to have a look. Was I really stuck with the wrong person?

  In the afternoon, after I had eaten the pig’s trotters she had prepared for me, I again started to feel sleepy. I dozed off, but this time it was the sound of the television that woke me. I walked out of the room, still in a stupor. The scene before me scared all the grogginess out of me. Aunty Zhang was sitting on the sofa watching television, her legs splayed and the baby asleep on her lap. The volume of the television was turned up very loud, and…she sat there smoking!

  Furious, I shouted, “Auntie Zhang, how can you smoke with the baby right there?”

  She looked up at me, puckered her lips as if trying to suppress a smile, and said, “This is your first child, so it’s no surprise you’re anxious. Let me tell you, I’ve been a confinement nanny for more than twenty years. I have lost count of how many children I’ve raised, but I’ve never heard of a single child in any of those households suffering any ill effects from my smoking.”

  I was young then, and when I heard this, I did not dare to show my displeasure or reprimand someone twice my age. Furthermore, I thought about how she would be the one sleeping in the baby’s room at night—if I made her unhappy, who knew what she might do?

  Swallowing my anger, I carried the baby back to my own room, feeling discouraged. Everyone had told me that, if I hired a confinement nanny, I could have a taste of the comfortable life of an empress, so why did this first day feel as long as a year?

  But in my time of misery, a guardian angel appeared. Anxious to see her grandson, my mother-in-law rushed down to Singapore on the train from Ipoh. At nine that night, James picked her up at the train station and brought her home. As soon as she stepped into the house, she picked up the baby and hugged him tightly to her, face crinkled up in a huge smile. That sort of unspeakable love seemed to flow like a steady stream from the deepest part of her heart.

  Aunty Zhang sat to one side, her whole face as cold and hard as bread left out overnight on an ice tray. She must have thought she would be the “big boss” in the house during that month and having the final say in everything, not expecting a roadblock before she had even really got started. Now her unhappiness was written all over her face.

  That night when the baby cried, Aunty Zhang prepared a bottle for him. While the baby was drinking, she smoked a cigarette, and ash fell onto the infant’s face. My mother-in-law happened to get up around that time and saw this frightening scene; she gave the nanny a solid scolding, then snatched the baby up and carried him into her room to look after him.

  Early the next morning, this confinement nanny, all puffed up with misplaced pride for being a “veteran”, knocked on my door angrily. “I quit!” she announced.

  Although I did not show it, I was actually quite pleased. Afraid she would change her mind, I quickly gave her an ang pow and sent her home. I was willing to forgo the four hundred dollar deposit in order to see the back of her. You could say that hiring a full-time domestic helper proved an unpleasant experience for us this time, like being bitten by a snake. But, as the saying goes: “Once bitten, twice shy”. This experience served as a good lesson for the rest of my life.

  Letting Go

  When my mother-in-law arrived from Ipoh, she had brought two surprises for me. One was a dozen chickens ready to cook, and the other was a huge packet of Chinese medicine.

  Each chicken weighed about one kilo, with yellow skin and tender meat, all cleaned and sealed into plastic bags. My motherinlaw busied herself putting them into the freezer as she told me, “I raised all these chickens myself. When I first got them, they were fuzzy things, smaller than the palm of my hand. I took care of them, fed them and raised them to this size. When you eat these chickens, they will be especially effective for your recuperation.”

  My mother-in-law’s cooking skills made for great variety in my diet—ginseng chicken, steamed red date chicken, stir-fried sesame chicken, ginger wine stewed chicken, pig livers and pork belly.

  My favourite was pig’s trotters braised in vinegar. There were numerous ingredients in the dark, scrumptious dish—pork legs, ginger, black beans, brown sugar and dark vinegar. Oddly, no matter who might cook these same ingredients together, no one else has been able to achieve the flavour of my mother-in-law’s dish. The plump round trotters were soft and broke easily into smaller pieces. The supple, creamy texture of the pig skin was light and moist, producing a multitude of flavours. The black vinegar was bright enough to serve as a mirror, with not a drop of oil in evidence, pleasant to the eyes and comforting to drink. The taste of the vinegar could only be described as excellent; it was very sour, very sweet, a little spicy and a little salty, transporting you to another world with each bite.

  The secret of the unique way my mother-in-law cooked the vinegar pig’s trotters was how she handled the ginger. Most people wash the ginger, then drop it straight into the vinegar to cook. My mother-in-law believed this method would infuse the ginger too quickly into the vinegar and ruin the balance, so she always simmered a kilogramme of ginger in sesame oil over a low fire. She fried it over and over again, stirring and turning it often. She fried it until the ginger was dried out, then dropped the sesame oil seasoned root into the vinegar. In this way, the vinegar and ginger infusion would have an especially tasty ginger flavour.

  Aside from her skills at cooking a restorative diet, my motherinlaw was a firm believer in another sort of therapy—herbal baths. Most people say that a woman should not bathe during confinement, nor should she wash her hair, but my mother-in-law did not believe this. She brought a large pack of Chinese medicine with her, which she cooked until steam filled the house, gradually releasing the odours. Once the concoction had turned black as ink, she put out the fire and carefully ladled it into the bathtub. She repeated the process until the tub filled completely.

  As she ran back and forth between the kitchen and washroom, she explained, “This remedy was brought over from Hainan. Boiling these herbs for the bathwater will help get rid of the bad aftereffects of giving birth, and protect and heal the body.”

  During my confinement period, I felt refreshed, spending my time every day reclining on the bed reading, never knowing what it meant to be tired. I thought that this must be the effect of the herbal bath. My only regret was that I never asked my mother-inlaw for the combination of herbs used, so when others asked me about it, my mind was a total blank.

  (Here I might offer a word of advice for those who have secret recipes handed down to them: grasp the opportunity to learn these recipes. When our relatives are healthy, we often naïvely think it will last forever, and so take things for granted. But the truth is that we never know when the worst might
happen, and all that received knowledge will be lost.)

  My mother-in-law’s careful attentions were the embodiment of the word love. Given the constant mother- and daughter-in-law conflicts of modern society, the way she treated me like her own daughter is something that I will forever be grateful for.

  During this time, I read numerous books. My reading material had nothing to do with parenting or children, but was all travel writing.

  At this point, I had already decided that when my baby reached his first month, I would send him to Ipoh to be looked after by my mother-in-law. As for me, I planned to travel around Australia for a month with James. James already had permanent residence there, and he had long wished for me to see the place he had called home for seven years before we were married.

  On 29 July 1977, Fung Yee celebrated his first month. On the surface, there is not much difference in the behaviour of a onemonthold baby and a newborn. Aside from drinking milk, soiling diapers, crying and smiling, the baby did not do much. But the truth is, in leaving the mother’s womb for this strange world, he had already experienced and survived a very turbulent time, so the first month was a big milestone worth celebrating.

  Early that morning, my mother-in-law took a brand new pair of scissors and cut all his hair off, leaving him bald. According to our tradition, this represented giving him a fresh new start at his first month. Also, it is believed that shaving the head bald allows the new hair to grow back softer, thicker and shinier.

  After his haircut, Fung Yee seemed energetic, his eyes darting around to observe the world around him. We adults bustled about enthusiastically, dyeing eggs red, scooping steaming glutinous rice into exquisite containers, and sticking auspicious, festive red papers onto the boxes of cakes we had chosen carefully.

  Everyone was smiling. That sort of heartfelt happiness transformed into solid laughter, a strand here and a strand there, like stalactites in a cave, tangible and abundant.

  After we finished the one-month celebration, my mother-in-law took my little Fung Yee back to Ipoh. I packed my bags too, and flew to Australia. My friends thought I was crazy. They all said, “Your baby just celebrated his first month. How can you stand to let him go and then head off travelling?”

  What they said raised a very significant point: letting go. It’s true, I did let go. All my life, I have tried to let go, which is a philosophy of life that looks easy, but is actually very difficult. Only if we truly know how to let go will we not forget ourselves when we succeed, nor go crazy when we fail. If we know how to let go, we will not indulge in our colourful success, or in losing ourselves on the way. In the same manner, we will not be overly hurt by the thorns of failure, sacrificing our dignity and goals.

  We must always move forward. We will achieve many things and lose many things. When it is time to let go, we must let go. Then, we move forward and let go again.

  I was letting go of my newborn son and throwing myself fully into the joy of travelling. Some parents leave their young children with the grandparents and travel, but as soon as they leave the country, they miss the child, and so spend the whole holiday calling home to ask about her or him. They worry so much that they cannot enjoy anything. Some blame themselves all the time, and even regret the trip. But I never once regretted my decision. I knew that, in my mother-in-law’s hands, my child would grow, inch by inch, in great happiness. So, without a single worry, I travelled to Australia and thoroughly enjoyed our holiday.

  Seven years later, in 1984, I went to Australia again after my daughter celebrated her first month. But that trip was stained with agonising tears, and I nearly lost my life.

  However, that is a story for a later time.

  CHAPTER 2

  Life Overseas

  A Long Trying Journey

  THE OLD, FADED train crawled along like an ugly caterpillar, slowly making its way down the tracks. The familiar scenery outside the window gradually faded as the train moved further and further away. Both sides were shrouded in a green canopy, laid out in gentle quiet, like my feelings at the moment.

  My main reason for going back to Ipoh was to visit my beloved son, Fung Yee. He was already a year and a half old.

  In recent months, things had changed so drastically, it was as if day had turned to night. My husband had been posted to Saudi Arabia for a major three-year project, leaving me alone in Singapore. I had moved back to my parents’ home, once again living a life in which my every need was met almost before I could even ask.

  During this time, because I was running about for interviews day and night, I could only keep up with my son’s progress through longdistance phone calls. Every time I called, my mother-in-law would talk endlessly about the most trivial things, which made her happy:

  “Ah Yee got his vaccinations, but he didn’t get a fever. He’s really healthy.”

  “Ah Yee can turn himself over. He’s so cute!”

  “Ah Yee is babbling at me all the time. He’s very talkative.”

  “Ah Yee is learning to walk. His legs are strong and stable.”

  Although she was 500 kilometres away, I could feel the pride and joy in her laughter. But deep inside, I felt guilty. James was far away, working hard, and I was constantly busy about my own work, so could not take care of my own son. All I could do was take the train to Ipoh every three months to see him.

  After eight hours on the train, I finally arrived. My sister-in-law was waiting for me at the train station. I could not really concentrate on our conversation; my mind was focused on seeing my boy.

  As soon as we pulled into the garden, I saw my son, whom I had yearned for day and night, standing smartly at the door. He was wearing a jumper, and his head was covered in short curly hair. His plump fingers were stuffed into his mouth, his black, smiley eyes peering out over them. He looked like a boy straight out of a cartoon, calculating what sort of mischief he would soon bring about.

  “Ah Yee!” I cried warmly, holding out several bags of gifts I had brought for him.

  He turned around and ran, screaming “Poh Poh!” as if his life depended on it. His voice was full of alarm.

  I’m your mother! I immediately thought, my heart filled with disappointment.

  My stay showed me how meticulously my mother-in-law cared for him. In order to strengthen his legs, my mother-in-law had bought several kilos of anchovies; she would remove the heads and tails, clean them thoroughly, dry them under the sun, and then ground them into powder, which she stored in a metal can. These were used in the porridge she cooked for him. The whole operation looked easy, but the anchovies were only a little bigger than toothpicks, so removing the heads and tails was a test of patience. Sometimes a whole morning spent on this task only yielded a small heap of anchovies. Honestly, I did not have that sort of patience.

  Boiling soup and porridge requires a good deal of skill. My mother-in-law first made chicken stock by boiling her free-range chickens, then removed the oil from the surface for use in cooking the porridge. Once the porridge had been cooked, she added a huge spoonful of anchovy powder, and only at the very last moment added in filleted slices of fresh fish.

  Though she put so much heartfelt effort into cooking one small pot of porridge, my little Ah Yee did not seem the least bit grateful. He ate a few bites, then refused to eat any more. My amazingly patient mother-in-law tried all sorts of methods to persuade him. Sometimes she turned on the faucet and let him play in the water and, as he was pleasantly distracted, would seize the opportunity to feed him a few spoonfuls. Sometimes, they would play hide-and-seek in the front and backyard, then when he “found” her, she would feed him another bite. Other times she crawled on the floor, letting him ride on her back, and when he was happy, he would “reward” her by taking a few more bites.

  I stood to one side watching, full of regret. If it were me, this would not happen. The child would not be allowed to be in charge like this. My own method would be simple and straightforward: let him go hungry. You don’t want to eat? Fine. Go witho
ut. If he was hungry enough, he would eat, eventually.

  Different people have different ways of expressing love. For my mother-in-law’s generation, love was completely perceptual. If the loved one asked for the moon, even though she knew it was impossible to give it, she would seek out the highest ladder she could find and start climbing toward her goal. When it came to her grandchildren, she had no thought for herself, only a spirit of self-sacrifice. My generation, on the other hand, had more formal education, so we added an element of logic to love.

  When I saw my mother-in-law willingly working like a horse just to feed her grandchild, even though I did not like it, I did not say a word. This was respect for my elder. I had put my child in her care, and I had to let her use her own methods when it came to caring for him. To put it bluntly, I was 500 kilometres away enjoying the single life, so I had no right to criticise.

  Fung Yee gradually warmed up to me during my week in Ipoh. Then, just as the connection between us was re-established, it was time for us to say goodbye again. It was a terribly sad situation.

  Life in the Desert

  The three of us in our little family unit were living three separate lives. My heart was split into three parts, and I felt like a silkworm. The silk I spun was filled with longing tears. Sometimes, it was late at night by the time I had finished my interviews for the day and, as I made my way home like a ghostly shadow, my heart was cold and sorrowful.

  While I was carefully considering whether I wanted to end this situation of living three separate lives, James’ call from Saudi Arabia accelerated my decision. His voice over the phone was a mixture of expectation, anxiety and exhaustion. He said, “Come over here. Bring our son and come stay. I’m all settled in now. The house is on a mountain, a little white house. When I come home at night, it would be so different if the house were filled with the sound of your laughter and his. The Red Sea is beautiful. When the two of you come, we can go there every night for a walk.”