THREE weeks ago, my husband was the one who "popped", even though I am the pregnant party.
By "popped", I am referring to his Passing Out Parade, the coming-of-age experience familiar to Singaporean males aged 18 and above. The parade is meant to symbolise their transformation from mere recruits to trained soldiers.
Being married to a full-time national serviceman, I was invited to witness the auspicious graduation ceremony and had an "amusing" time.
And so, a 32-weeks-pregnant, 32-year-old me waddled onto Pulau Tekong to watch the love of my life (who is 12 years younger than me) prance about on a parade square with a rifle.
While trying to spot my husband in the crowd of camouflage greens, someone behind me called out.
"Excuse me, are you Miss Ismail?" cried a voice, referring to me by my maiden name.
I turned around and came face-to-face with a former student who I used to teach English Literature.
Five years ago, when I was still marking essays at one of the nation's top secondary schools, he was in white uniform shorts and with a side-parting combed by his mother. I was therefore amazed to see him wearing a red beret and a couple of rank insignias on his epaulettes.
Although I was happy to see him, I had a sinking feeling.
The discomfort was exacerbated by his next question: "So, Ma'am, who are you here to see?"
I watched his expression as I replied: "My husband." It was a surreal experience, to say the least.
To his credit, he quickly quelled his surprise and we continued to talk about other things: His plans to go to university and how he cannot wait to complete his own national service.
He pointed out to three other former students of mine, who were sergeants or officers in charge of the recruits.
When my husband, D, finally finished his show of might and strength, he joined me on the terrace and I introduced him to the boys as my husband.
As they acknowledged him, I sensed their latent curiosity.
The top questions may have been: Why did she choose him? How did they meet? What were they thinking?
I was struck by how topsy turvy it seemed. His supervisors are my former students, only 20 years old and not yet in university, yet they far outrank him.
D, an expectant father and a newly-wed husband, is in a category far removed from them, and certainly has more to think about than, say, his Playstation Portable-toting bunkmates, who make plans to go clubbing or drinking as soon as they have permission to book out.
So, it is somewhat depressing to know that my man is subject to the authority and decisions of those who cannot possibly understand his needs.
Although I was happy to run into my former students at the parade for my man, I was a little testy when I looked at the feedback forms included in the goody bags at the Parade that day.
Beginning with "Dear Parent...", it assumed that all NSFs are still tied to their mummies' apron strings.
Sometimes, it doesn't take national service to turn boys into men. I'm proud to say that some, like D, already are.
