love hate.

I hate waiting for the bus. The waiting makes the entire affair longer than it really is. So trains are my to go and I’m glad I live very near to one.

From time to time, however, I have to wait for the bus to bring me to places that the train cannot.

And I love bus rides. I love looking out of the window and watch the world go by. I love sitting at the back of the bus; mostly lost in my own world and sometimes, in others. I love that bus rides give me a legitimate reason to be still and lazy. I love that on the bus, I can dream, with my eyes open.

I am with Timmy and our kids. We are walking to the school to drop off our eldest. We go to my favorite coffeeshop for our morning breakfast of kaya toast and soft boiled eggs. Tim drinks his coffee and me, tea. Our youngest, a few months old, watches us. We walk Timmy to the car. We kiss and hug. Sometimes, I push the pram to the market or the library or perhaps to the mall; all depends on the bus I am on. My hair is flying in the wind and so are her hands; waving at nobody and nothing in particular. We seem to be flowing to the same rhythm, in love with the present.

I don’t know what I’m telling Tim at breakfast. Neither can I hear what he told our son at the school gate. There are no words in this life, I live on the bus. From the scenes alone, I sense an immense joy and peace.

Many times, I feel warm as I go from one scene to another. They flow magically well and seems real. And I can’t help but smile at a life that is not yet.

Suddenly, reality will jolt me. I will squeeze Timmy’s arm if he is with me or I will look up to the sky and smile.

I love hate the bus.

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a little dream.

I dreamt a little dream; a little rainbow rising in the horizon. That was all. I couldn’t remember where I was, who I was with or what I was doing prior to the sighting of the rainbow.

I jumped out of bed, telling myself that I dreamt a rainbow. A rainbow I repeated to myself as I walked from my bed to the kitchen.

A long time ago, I stood by the window and watched the rain. I prayed to see a rainbow if l was pregnant. I didn’t want to be misled by the symptoms and be subjected to disappointment. The rainbow was kind enough, not to appear.

Since then, I have stood at the window plenty of times and seen the rain come and go but never affected.

I found a way to sabotage myself. To distract myself. To manage any disappointment. To protect my mind, heart and body. I have read enough to know that there are many women out there getting disappointed, every month. And I didn’t want to be them.

As unhealthy as it sounds for my marriage, it protected my heart and to a certain extent, my body, from a possible wreck.

And a willing partner, unconsciously, maybe, helped in my escape plan.

We didn’t have sex and there were a million valid reasons. And the fact that my marriage wasn’t falling apart due to a lack of bedroom activity kept me running.

But there were a couple of times in the last three years where I gathered enough courage to halt my plan and at least twice, I was convinced I would see that rainbow. But l wouldn’t and l will get miserable and throw myself a self-pity party. It was definitely easier than Xmas dinners.

As with all parties, it was boring and it wrecked me. Self condemning thoughts and ghosts of the past will haunt me. These alone were enough to distract me. I hate being miserable. I hate being a victim. And I hate more that the gun was in my hands.

So I have asked why didn’t I just get lucky at the first go? Why not when it has happened to so many others?

I am, now, glad it didn’t.

I’m blessed to have gone through this journey. A time of clearing. A time to learn and trust. The opportunity to let my desire grow and deepen.

Because now, I want kids for myself; for us. Perhaps, I have come to a place where l would do anything to have one. Not because it is the right thing to do or because someone else is doing so.

But just because, it is time.

I have been running away from something I imagined to be scary and perhaps futile for me. I kept running because I pictured stories of others to be mine. I kept running without giving it my best shot. I didn’t pause to give myself a fair chance. How unfair, I have been, to myself and to my body.

So I dreamt a little rainbow.

And I wish myself all the best. I have prayed enough but will continue to pray and HOPE will keep me running towards that little rainbow.

help!

A friend, either with good intentions or to tease, asked me if I wanted her eggs that were frozen somewhere in a lab. One of her eggs have proved to be fruitful. Do I have bad eggs? I don’t know. I never asked them. Not yet, at least.

An acquaintance, through another, wanted me to know of a TCM doctor, renowned for helping couples and her conceive. She suffered from irregular periods which she must have thought hindered her ability to conceive and received help to conceive. Do I suffer from irregular periods? No I don’t. In fact, they are too regular. Did I tell her I needed help? No. All I did was to say out loud in front of her and others during a cell group session that Timmy and I are praying for a baby; once in 2012 and another time in 2013. Just because there hasn’t been a manifestation of our prayer, do I need to see a Chinese doctor? I’m not sure but I believe she meant well.

When my period came two weeks ago, right on time, I thought perhaps I do need some help. Maybe a vitamin or two will do the trick. I started researching and decided on two brands that I could look at buying. But when I got to the mall, I couldn’t bring myself to buy ‘help’. I asked Timmy what he thought and he encouraged me to go with my heart. I walked away without ‘help’.

I have a bottle of folic acid. She was bought either in 2011 or 2012. From time to time, I remember her presence and have her before bed. I looked into her, the other day, to see how much more I have to go. I am almost done.

But I am not done with my desire.

It is easier for me to walk away; to protect me, Timmy and perhaps even our marriage. But, easy is not what I want, for now.

For the first time, Timmy and I seem serious about parenthood. We have gone from talking about having children to having sex. We have improved from once a year to once in a few months and now, twice in the ‘oh so important’ week. The last two months have been unfruitful. But guess what, we are having sex and this alone deserves a big applause. Whether, I will be a mummy or not, I am, first, a wife.

So, I am afraid I don’t need your eggs or a recommendation of a Chinese doctor.

When I hear of friends/acquaintances who want kids, all I do is pray for them and ask them to trust God. I do not point them to anywhere or anyone else.

And now, that is the only help I want.

Hope is my story.

I feel so heavy with words. Words that want to be written. Words that want to be expressed. Words that I speak to myself, from time to time. Words that come from a deep sacred place; my heart.

Sometimes, I choose to unload them in my notebook. Many times, I let the words evaporate into thin air; with them goes the worries, the thanksgivings, the doubts and the worship, the anxiousness and the praise.

Here l am now, surrounded by a noisy bunch of boys and girls, in a library. The more anxious they get about their literature, the deeper I dig into my sacred place.

Hope must be a living thing, l thought this morning. Sometimes I feel, I can almost touch hope. If I stretch, just that bit more, l could hold it. So I thought that Hope must be an organ just like an eye or a liver or a heart. Maybe not as prominent like the nose. More like an invisible but invincible part of me, part of us.

Otherwise how is it that we can hope? How do we encourage ourselves and sometimes others?

Hope must be like a heart that keeps beating; keeps living. Hope could be like our eyes; keeps looking out and ahead. Like the ear, hope listens and encourages. Hope, like skin, protects. And when our feet gets weary, Hope takes over; like a mind.

I’m convinced Hope is real and is living and is in me.

A few days ago, I wondered if hope is too good for my good. Wouldn’t it be better if l choose to decide motherhood is not for me and just get moving with life, I thought. There are places to visit, money that could be earned, a ladder that should be climbed, a life perhaps more worth-while to be lived. But then I remembered, l am living the life I chose. Everything is in its place. Almost everything.

The want to have a kid feels more real now, than it ever did. The longing to carry my own overwhelms me. The revelation that motherhood is for me makes my knees go weak.

Over the last two weeks, I heard without being asked, four are pregnant; all with their first. First year of marriage, five years of marriage, before marriage and out of lust; so are their stories.

What is my story?

how much is too much?

he doesn’t like it when I touch his mobile phone. he knows when I do, I’m most likely looking at his messages. he knows this as I do it in front of him. I don’t do it because I think he is keeping something from me. I don’t do it because I have nothing else to do. I don’t do it because I want to know everything that is going on with him.

maybe I do.

I don’t really know.

So the other day, I reached out to grab his phone as we were watching the television. He must have seen me looking his messages and asked me “why are you looking at my messages? it is work.”

So what if it is work related, I retorted. we are not competitors; we are not mr & mrs smith, I reasoned.

“But there are certain stuff that I keep.”

“stuff like what? We are husband and wife lei. Do you have secrets? I don’t like secrets. I don’t want someone to knock on my door with a big fat secret.” I could feel myself wanting to get dramatic.

“There are things you don’t need to know and doesn’t affect you. And I don’t want to explain to you why I do things in a certain way.”

I was going to get mad by then, I thought. But I knew what he meant. There are times when I question too much and then, there are times, I tell him how he should have handled something at work. But he knows I do it out of concern or at least l hope he does.

He said he needs privacy. I need openness, I told him.

“Do you want our marriage to be like your folks? They don’t seem to know what is happening with each other and I don’t know if that has helped them. You have said it yourself that your family doesn’t quite know what everyone is up to. Is this what we want for ourselves?”

I laid out my expectation that night – I need to know everything; everything that you can remember to tell me. To protect myself and to an extent, you. I want to know what you are going through at work; the good and the bad. I want to share my thoughts to help you see from another perspective because we think different. I want to be able to pray for you if you are facing challenges, at work or elsewhere. I want to help you. I want to encourage you. I want to be here for you.

“I give you time okay. I know it may take awhile to be change but I give you time.”

“You need to change also. You must give me some privacy.” he said.

I let that conversation end without winning. Perhaps he does need some privacy. Maybe it is a man’s pride. The less a woman know, the more powerful a man feels?

I ain’t got a clue.

But how much is too much? How much should a wife not know and know?

Perhaps it’s not what I know and don’t know. It’s my way of finding out that’s unappropriate.

We already talk about work and everything else over dinner, in bed, on the bus and in front of the television and in the elevator.

If certain things are left out, so be it. Ignorance is bliss, I heard.