THIS is crazy, I thought as I bundled my daughter, already dressed in her
pyjamas, into a taxi.
"To Borders, please," I told the taxi-driver.
It was 9.35pm on a Sunday. We had just come back from the bookstore when we
discovered that the pink pony that Minh had been clutching all day was missing.
I told her that she had probably left it at home. But when we got there, alas,
the cupboard was bare.
"You told me it was at home," she said accusingly.
"I thought it was. Where is it then?" I asked.
"You know..." she said.
I sighed.
My husband, the only one with a driving licence in the house, was already out
for a walk with the baby, trying to get him to fall asleep in the stroller.
My daughter, who turned 6 last week, had received a My Little Pony toy. She was
entranced by the pink horse and, even though she had been resistant to the
charms of Barbie and her troupe of girly friends, she fell in love with the
pony which she named "Lassy".
Which explained why, in the dark of a Sunday night, when I should be in bed
reading my latest acquisition from Borders, I was with a sleepy little girl on
the way back to the store which we had left a mere 10 minutes ago.
"I hope nobody tries to buy Lassy," Minh said worriedly.
"I hope you remember this when you grow up," I muttered to her.
I tried to remember whether my mother took me out on such late-night jaunts.
My mother would have disapproved of what I was doing. She belongs squarely into
the "tough love" school of parenting. No namby-pamby, mollycoddling for her.
If I was silly enough to leave a toy behind, she'd probably say I deserved to
lose it.
In fact, she often thinks we are too soft on our kids. I sometimes think so
too.
For example, my daughter has recently learnt how to play chess from her father.
WON'T TAKE YOUR QUEEN
When she started a game with one of my friends, an army commander, I overheard
her telling him: "I can't take your queen because I don't want you to lose her.
The queen is the most powerful piece you know."
I heard her opponent laugh (menacingly, I thought) and figured I ought to teach
her to play more aggressively.
"She won't survive in the real world like that," I thought.
Most days, in the "real world", we try our best to be the fastest and toughest,
the victor rather than the vanquished.
But what is the real world made of?
Does it have room for a soft-hearted girl who would not capture her opponent's
queen?
A mother who would dash out of the house to save her daughter's toy?
Next year, my daughter is starting Primary One, and I am full of fears about
how to introduce her to "real school".
She loves going to school now. Each day is a new opportunity for fun, making
friends, eating snacks and sharing secrets.
When she goes to Primary One, things will get more serious with homework, tests
and CCAs.
I am supposed to monitor her usage of the Internet, make sure she does not
watch porn and ration her usage of the PC to prevent her from getting
shortsighted.
I would have to make sure that her marks are up to scratch, and her projects
done well.
Life is going to change, I sighed.
But it doesn't have to change for the worse.
If we can help her keep her sense of amazement about the world, her optimism
that chess games will work out for the best for both sides and her faith in her
mother (gulp!), then perhaps things will stay the same.
Or even get better.
After all, she will be old enough to flag down her own cabs soon.
