How to feed a giraffe

“Where are you guys?” I asked D over the phone.

“In the Wild Africa section”. D replied

Bobo, his grandparents and we were on a jaunt to the zoo. Post-lunch Bobo had shown no signs of being tired and insisted on seeing a few more animals. The rest had dragged their weary feet to Wild Africa while I had made a stop at the ladies.

“Where exactly?” I queried

“Hmm. We are at the Hippo section but we will head over to the Giraffe section soon. There is a feeding session at 1.50 p.m. We just missed the Hippo feeding by two people” D caught me up on the latest on-goings in the zoo.

I had not known about the existence of feeding sessions in zoos till Bobo was born but now they seemed to be important events around which our schedules were planned.

I agreed to meet them at the Giraffe feeding, checked that I still had fifteen minutes to find my way and set off. Except, I got lost and by the time I reached Wild Africa, it was already 1.45 p.m. 

There was a long line outside the Giraffe enclosure and I could only see the tail end. I raced to the head of the line to catch up with D and Bobo, casting a glance at the people at the end of the queue. “Poor blokes” I told myself “these guys are bound to miss the giraffe feeding. I wonder why they even bother to wait”.

Suddenly from behind I heard D yelling “Mummy is here! She will stand in the queue”.

What??!!

It turned out that D and Bobo had just finished watching the lions being fed and were not in the queue at all, head or tail.

A thousand questions ran through my head begging to be answered, the most pertinent of which seemed to be “why did you guys stand in the line sooner knowing how you missed the Hippo feeding already?”

There was no time to waste however, and I meekly took my line at the end of queue. The line snaked so much that I could not even see the giraffes and had to merely take D’s words that I was in the right queue.

“Wow! That is a long queue”, D remarked “Hang in there Mummy. We will walk around a bit and come back”. Before I could begin the third-degree interrogation on poor-planning, D and Bobo were off.

Time passed really slowly. I could only watch with satisfaction as more people joined behind me. D and Bobo visited me occasionally in between their visits to the animals and gave me news snippets. I found out the grandparents had plonked themselves somewhere, being too tired to move. The giraffe feeding had apparently started but that did not result in any progress in my position in the line.

Suddenly there seemed to be some movement and I could glimpse the head of the line. D came by to tell me that it was touch-and-go and I should hang in there. I felt like smacking him but let it go.

Finally I was just two people behind and I could see that there were enough food trays still left for us to have a turn at the feeding-session.  We organised ourselves in preparation. D, Bobo and I would do the actual feeding while the granddad took the photo. Grandma stayed put in her place, looking tired.

Excitement mounted as our turn came. We were handed a small tray with a few pieces of potatoes and carrots.

D handled the part of making a token donation for the food tray.

I held Bobo on one hand and a food tray in the other hand.

Grand-dad positioned himself for the best photo angle.

The two giraffes stood eagerly with their mouths open and licked their lips with their giant tongues.

Giant giant tongues. Huge and long tongues with tons of drool coming out. I was going to have to feed this creature with its huge tongue…

In a moment of panic, I held out the tray to one of the giraffes. Partly I did not want the tongue to touch my hand. Partly I was being a lovely hostess, holding up the food tray rather than doling out food in portions.

Unfortunately the giraffe was not a perfect guest and in one quick motion, gulped down almost all the food on the food tray.

At this point, D appeared and pulled me back. One carrot remained. I meekly gave it to Bobo, who bravely held it out to the giraffe. The greedy giraffe smirked at me and then gently took the carrot from Bobo. The other giraffe merely nodded its disappointed head at having gotten no food.

It was D’s turn now to be annoyed. Instead of holding out one vegetable at a time and stretching out the experience for Bobo, we were done in less than five seconds.

I tried telling D that I had moral superiority here, having done all the waiting. Besides, Bobo did get a turn and most importantly, we had it on record.

At which point I heard the granddad say “Ok the camera is ready. Go for it!”

He had missed the entire action while trying to figure out the buttons on the camera.

All of us walked quietly to the next enclosure, when Bobo broke the silence

‘I want to feed the giraffe some more’

And one year flies by

And just like that a year has whizzed by. Things that used to amuse me, startle me, puzzle me and get me grinning like a kid have all been taken in my stride. 

The other day, my secretary asked me something and I casually said ‘No, la’

That is how Singaporean I am becoming. I can even say sentences like ‘canna do Saturday? 

Can do next week?’

I have become a pro at taking the MRT, displaying that subtle aggression needed in jumping into the train car without actually touching or pushing anyone. I used to scornfully glare from behind my book at the commuters whose eyes used to be glued to their IPhones. The other day I got into the metro with my eyes glued to my IPhone and a man next to me squeezed his Naom Chomsky to make some space for me.

Newbie.

Though I did turn just a wee bit red at having crossed over to the other side.

I have lunch at the hawker’s centre. I love the wide variety of food at affordable prices. I still haven’t gotten around to carrying little packets of tissues to reserve a place for myself at the crowded tables at the hawkers’ centres. It just seems so school girly.

I have realised that school girly is quite in. A lot of the admin staff does school girly when it comes to office wear. Even if they are fifty years old and the varicose veins are popping out.

Equally there are the elegant women gliding about in their Jimmy Choos and lugging their Prada bags. I honestly had never seen anyone wear Jimmy Choo to office in real life before. It is rather cool and makes me feel like I am living in a Hollywood movie.But it is still very much a shorts city.

I have started living in shorts. It is an amazing comfortable piece of clothing. Having lived in humid cities all my life, I can’t believe I discovered it so late in life (But then try wearing shorts in Chennai. Ha ha. It is bad enough you attract eyeballs with mere dresses)

Shorts means not taking the easy way out when it comes to hairy legs. A cheap Indian parlour has been located to do the needful. I have exchanged notes with other expat friends and found that apparently every country has a cheap Indian parlour.

I have not bought a designer bag. Yet. Given my propensity to leave my handbag lying on the floor, it seems like a terrible waste of money. Though I may succumb.

Like the IPhone instead of a book

I have discovered the National Library building and been happily borrowing books. They are a damn sight better than the lending libraries I had to depend on in Mumbai, which primarily stored Mills and Boons (ugh)

I have also fallen in love with the sports facilities in my Condo and in the community centre nearby. What joy is it to get some exercise while playing a game of badminton or by swimming. Infact I have started exercising a bit more given the easy access to facilities. Which compensates a wee bit for all the food I gorge at the hawker centres.

Most of all though, I love the nursing rooms in some of the malls. I considered shacking up in the one in Takshmimaya. It was just so much better than sitting in my armchair at home with Bobo.

I am still not completely enamoured by the weather. I am out and out a coastal-city-with-humid-weather girl. But even I find the daily downpour a bit bothersome. The one week when there was no sign of rain, my colleague explained that it was because it was summer.

Huh.

Long ago when I had visited the city for the first time, I never thought I would live here. The newspapers seemed insipid, the city is a bit on the tiny side, there is no really architectural or other wonder to speak of.

Yet, I have realised that as long as the nuts and bolts are ok, then you just settle into a city. In this phase of life, with my time tightly squeezed between work and motherhood, I am happy with what’s on offer.

So far, so good. 

An Education

Nothing has made me feel more Mommy-like than the hunt for Bobo’s preschool.

Yes, you heard it right. He is not yet 7 months and we are already hunting for a preschool for him to join when he is around eighteen months.

Infact, the hunt for a pre-school began when he was around five months old. I had not the foggiest idea of what happened in a pre-school but I figured that as Bobo got older, he won’t be happy in the sole company of our very sweet and very friendly helper. We would have to send him some place with lots of kids and play things sooner than later.

After half a night of googling (we are talking about sacrificing sleep here. Precious, precious sleep), I came up with a list of schools I wanted to check out.

Then I promptly got involved in other things and shelved the whole project.

It was only a couple of weeks ago that I got back onto the project again. With more than a year to go before I had to admit Bobo to a school, it was not like a month was going to make a difference.

I called up Pat’s Schoolhouse to schedule a visit, feeling very grown up. Pat’s is a fairly popular preschool located right outside our condo. Perfect place.

I spoke to them and figured out that Pat’s did not take kids till the year they turned three.

I realized that Bobo could go in Jan 2015, not July – August 2014 as I had hoped.

Oh well.

It was a tad too early to do a visit but we had to get started somewhere, didn’t we?

“Can you let me know when I can visit” I said in my grown up, serious, I-mean-business parent voice (newly developed for this search)

The reply came “There is no point scheduling a visit now. We will put you down on our waitlist and call you later”

“Sure” Grown-up me continuing. I gave her Bobo’s details, then casually asked “So what number are we on the waitlist”

“Seventy”

What!?!! I thought I had heard it wrong but infact we were 70.

I had heard rumours that you registered for a school as soon as your kid was born.

I think it must be as soon as you found out you were expecting.

Actually it must be as soon as you start planning to have a baby.

I hung up and picked my jaw off the floor.

I called D in a panic and informed him that we had to do something now or else Bobo would end up being home schooled, going to a B-grade college and living off us for the rest of our lives (whereas the plan is we educate him well, he cracks Harvard, makes pots of money and we retire early)

That very evening, I updated my school list. The next morning I had made an appointment with another school in the neighbourhood that was a short taxi ride away.

Atleast we had gotten a visit, whether we got admission or not was another matter.

On D-Day, we dropped in on the way to work. We were armed with a list of questions. I had dressed up in some of my better office clothes and glared at D who was wearing his jeans (his current workplace is rather laissez faire when it comes to clothes). We were bloody well going to impress them into giving us a place.

The teacher took us around the place pointing out the play area, different class sections, the kitchen, the toilet, the music room and so on. It was a large enclosed space, brightly lit, neatly maintained and divided into sections where kids from ages 18 months to 6 years sat in groups according to their age.

The group of kids from 18 months to 24 months had just arrived in school and it was a noisy scene. Three of the kids were crying. The two teachers were consoling one kid each, leaving the third one to sniffle around morosely by himself. The non-crying kids were wandering around their area generally amusing themselves. One peacemaker was patting a crying kid and handing out a box of tissues.

I was beginning to have a mild headache with the chorus of noise and now I know that I greatly admire people who spend their day with so many kids and stay sane.

Yes, I love my own kid but I don’t think I would be able to handle a cohort day in and day out.

D looked quite upset with all the crying. Later he remarked that we really should not send Bobo to a school. It would be just too heartbreaking. I pointed out that we were anyway going to leave him at home and be in office the whole day.

“But he could atleast stay with our helper” D said

“Who will home school him? To be a nurse in Philippines” I pointed out. (Our helper was a nurse in Philippines in her former avatar)

“What is wrong with being a nurse? Are you saying boys can’t become nurses?” D challenged

“No. I am saying I would like any child of mine to be a little more ambitious to begin with atleast”

Anyway, that is a different story and I think D may be ready to cut the apron strings by the time Bobo is eighteen months old and bouncing off the walls when we come home tired and weary.

At the centre itself, they assured us that Bobo would get a place and we could wait till later this year to get moving on the admission if we wanted to. They took down our details. The teacher kept referring to me as ‘Mommy’ and I was feeling rather proud. (Of course if that is what people called me all day long, I would probably go mad. But once in a while, it feels very special)

The first visit over, I now have a better sense of the preschool landscape. At one end are the highly subsidized ones which are next to impossible to get into and cater largely to the locals. At the other end are the ones that follow an international school curriculum (not at 18 months of course. Mostly as they grow slightly older) and cater largely to the expats. Then you have schools like Pat’s which cater to an upper middle-class local population and to expats. Pat’s would be great if it worked out since it is at walking distance but I think we should be ok with anything within an easy distance

We liked the school we visited but not enough to go ahead with it. We are going to check out a few more schools in the coming days.

Then there is other part of me which seems to be flashbacking to me as a child, writing admission tests (and I wrote a lot of them thanks to my father’s transferrable job). A part of me that remembers the story my mom told me about my own admission to Class 1 where I apparently impressed everyone with a brilliant performance. Suddenly I am beginning to see a fuller picture of my childhood. It is not just me writing those admission tests. The picture now includes my parents anxiously trying to figure out which schools were good, queuing up for admission, watching while we settled in, made friends and figured out the system. I bet that was not much fun.

It is funny how time flies and the cycle starts again.