Mama, you don’t think very well. You need to think better.

“Excuse me. What was that about?” flashed silently in my head when Spud, our 4-year-old daughter commented while gesturing her index finger to her temple as she said it when I was setting up breakfast before we head out.

I was quite taken aback and I had 5 seconds of insidiously reactive thought of response.  I swear that if the remark was made by my colleagues without any good reason, I think I would respond with a bitch-slap back-hand swat!

I mean, after a few intense weeks on Blogging 101 and mostly being behind assignments, plus all the other crap I have to do in between and not getting enough sleep…what do YOU mean I don’t think very well!

Boy! That stung.   It was a stinger which I hadn’t expected and I honestly don’t know where she got that from-  it’s not like we have ever told her to think better under ANY circumstances! First thing in the morning too (!), when my brains haven’t quite woken up.

But for a 4-year-old still trying to articulate herself, she’s allowed some slack.  So in a quick 5 seconds, I recovered myself and calmly asked her what she had meant by that. I told her to repeat herself so I could understand. Spud then went,

You just need to think better, Mama. You always forget which cup is mine and which cup is Squirt’s.

She said it with so much empathy and gentleness.

Ahh! I get it now.  It’s because I always forget which one is whose – and that’s because when it comes to the colour of their cups, they both keep swapping with each other like there’s no tomorrow. I suppose I have lost track of which belongs to whom now, and that they somehow have agreed between the both of them to stick to one colour now.

I told her I’m sorry I always forget and agreed that I should have remembered. She gave me a smile, satisfied with my reply and continued on with her breakfast.

Blue…light blue..orange. In my head, who has the time for that! After all, they both function the same don’t they: both are plastic cups,  both contain milk and both can be drunk from. In my head, why do I care.

But to the kids…to the kids, oh boy! Colours matter and on some days, it could be some real shit-crazy battle that goes into full-blown temper tantrums and crying fit.

I have the same thing with their toothbrushes, always forgetting which one belongs to whom –  much to the disdain of the kids.  I have to ask them every time to identify what’s theirs; only because unlike cups, I don’t encourage the swapping of toothbrush.

I guess from that perspective of always forgetting things, Spud’s absolutely right. I just need to “think better”.

For a 4-year-old, it’s a matter of learning to coherently (and respectfully) articulate her thoughts better to make herself be understood. For me, it’s being conscious of not jumping the gun.

Oh the joy of having a 4-year-old with a glib tongue.

Last year, right about this time round, I was happy. I was barely 4 months into my new job, and despite the stress and the demands of what’s required of me, I was happy. Truly, genuinely happy. Out of this world contentment.

Little did I know that in a matter of months, my world would come crumbling down. The happiness and peace of mind I once knew evaporated into thin air. My soul destroyed into billion, trillion pieces. My sense of being completely torn apart.

It was a period of utter darkness and hopelessness. I experience a pain I never knew could existed. A pain which paralysed me and for the first time after such a long time, I was numb.  The essence of my being had been rudely taken away from me… the reality was hard to face. If  I could vouch,  the tears I shed could have easily helped more than a dozen dehydrated dying victims in need of water for their desert survival!

I stone-walled and became very desensitized; immersing myself in the only thing I knew how, to keep my sanity. More so I could function as a mother and at work; putting up a tough front because I should not and will not appear weak and vulnerable especially in front of my boss, clients and subordinates –  an irony considering that my work demands would probably push me to the edge. Instead, I thrived and I was more productive than I ever was at work. Unintentionally, I had pushed myself outside my comfort zone, both professionally and personally.

Months later, I’m still nursing my mangled soul. Looking back to where I have been and where I am at now, it was hard to imagine that despite all that darkness, I have learnt a lot about myself in ways I never thought I could. And like I had written in my last post of the year for 2014:  if I thought strength of character is always about how much I can handle before I break, I never realise that strength of character is also about how much one can handle after being broken. I shall always remember that.

And that piece of reminder came running back to me after reading a post on a blog I have stumbled on yesterday. What  she said about vulnerability and putting aside EVERYTHING to take a chance at something is absolutely valid. In fact, in my context, vulnerability is that strength of character on being able to handle set-backs after being broken.

But, bloody hell. What is it with this vulnerability thought pieces that I have, in fact, come across  for 4th time in a span of less than a week without me purposefully seeking for it! Hello?! What exactly is it that you are trying to tell me? Uhmm?

But, I digress.

She continued on with the following:

I’m of the opinion that because we live in a world where tragedies unfold everyday, we’ve all become desensitized to tragedy without realizing that we are also allowing ourselves to be desensitized to joy. We put up walls, unpenetrable perimeters to guard ourselves. We’re all about safety. We write our safety laws, rules and regulations upon them. DO NOT ENTER. Beware of the raving bitch. Do not look at the man behind the curtain.

That has been me since my world fell apart. I wanted my safety back. I put up a gargantuan, impenetrable wall bigger than the Great Wall of China and guess what? I haven’t quite found back my inner joy.

And this lady… this amazing lady called Stephanie, as I read more of her posts, I realised that she has probably been to hell and back and probably a 100x over than I have ever been in my life. Yet, she has allowed herself to be completely vulnerable to savour moments that matter, and taking things in her stride.

I take heed that no matter how bad a place I am at, there are always someone else who had it far worse than me. And they survived. They triumphed at life all because they allowed themselves to.

And that is something I’m working towards…because the alternative isn’t pretty. It has been a long, hard road and it will not be easy, but Stephieopolis  has nudged me further to accept vulnerability. It serves as a good reminder to me that I should always move forward, and only look back to see how far I have come.

Hey! I could (literally) be kicking asses!

And today, this very day, I’m really wanting to see myself, as she puts it, on the flip side.

#Blogging-101 #Inspiredbyaneighbour