Each time I rethink my life choices, I end up blaming the gods. Because hey, think about this. I were born on a Sunday. Unfortunately for me, the department of luck was enjoying a late morning brunch, followed by an afternoon siesta, closing with binge drinking and partying all Sunday night, completely overlooking the fact that the department of births was comprised of workaholics, delivering on time, every time. Sunday no bar. Turns out, I have mastered the knack for choosing everything that goes against logic or gets entitled ‘sane choice’. For starters, who in their right frame of mind leaves a well paying job in order to bootstrap a business venture, not once but twice, in a field they have no clue about? Or starts writing one fine day because some godforsaken life changing experience kept gyrating their soul?

Little wonder then, each time I look at my girls, I think hard if they are just as blessed as I am; at going wrong every single time, in the context of this world? I end up asking the open skies, “what have I given birth to?” 

The answer never fails to flatter my fragile ego. After all, what kind of a mother wouldn’t be proud of her own flesh and blood that is being hopelessly bred and raised by Netflix with its American English accent, while being ingrained deeply in Singaporean values and culture that come home from school every single day, and being the recipients of an utterly unique blend of Indian DNA that comes from a womb where even the amniotic fluid was branded Global Desi!

Why am I not surprised, my girls are the Indian Rojak of the Little Red Dot, belonging to a generation that takes pride in putting native Americans to shame with their authentic fake English accents while trampling upon their kindred Hindi spirits every now and then. And therefore, one quiet Thursday when daughter number two returns home, I am all smiles, for I know, at least my tea time is made.

All I have to do is nudge her with my daily question, “how was your day?”

That apparently is the password to opening pandora’s box of daily complains and insights about everything from the lack of students’ interest in sports these days to school rules that make no sense, to a no soap situation in disgusting school toilets, to a principal who tries too hard, to the lack of time to cycle or have any fun during weekdays and the abysmal shortage of occasion appropriate attire to flaunt. 

I roll my eyes at her favourite pass time. Next, I wonder how she finds anything appropriate to wear. Because hey, when your wardrobe is overflowing with fabric that refuses to end as though falling out like conjoined octuplets each time your mother tries to pull out a top as recommendation, you are actually in a position to start a new brand competing with Cotton On. You are most certainly not entitled any display of impoverishment. So much for sustainability and social responsibility lah!

So while I sit at the table sipping my afternoon tea with a customary Indian mixture called Chivda or namkeen, that forms totally wasted calories but that satiate my whim, this Thursday afternoon delights me with a novel piece of information about the girl I call my daughter. 

“I think Hindi is getting to me”, she utters with disappointment, untying her shoe laces.

“I was walking past these classes where the sign board read in:genius, and I read it as though the colon was meant to be in read Hindi; I read it as inah genius”, she adds nodding her head and leaving her shoes right at the doorstep of the shoe cabinet just like we Hindus leave them outside the temples as a mark of respect. As my eyebrows fly up with a question mark, they get ignored like barking stray dogs on a lonely night street, her hand gesturing me to put up with this daily predictable act.

At this point, my tea flies out of my mouth as my tongue rolls to repeat “inah”. I cannot help myself. I wonder how she is wired to let Singlish and Netflix English not ruin with her desi undertones that look at the world uniquely. While I am still laughing away at her ingenius, she comes up with another fun fact.

“I think Math is getting to me too. I was listening to this song and I kept hearing the word co-sign as cosine!”

With that, I am reassured Math is a monster that indulges in daylight robbery of innocent kids, robbing them of any peace they may have left. Hindi, on the other hand has managed to traumatize those kids whose parents have failed at embracing traditional Asian parenting, giving Hindi the helm of their lives, letting it reign supreme, lest these kids need to squander millions on therapy in adult hood.

Makes me wonder if I would have been better off with a cane in hand, and a checklist of desired grades somewhere in the bush. Unfortunately, I have always been the black sheep. And I have let down my fellow parents raising successful kids. My vote has never favoured good grades or a higher GDP. It has pledged its loyalty to a sense of humor and following one’s heart. 

That explains my bank balance or the complete lack of it, and my academic certificates at the brink of ruin, after biting dust for decades. 

P.S. When I think of success and parenting mistakes, I know I am not perfect. And my ideas of success may be absolutely skewed. Yet, when I look my girls, I know the gods and their department of luck have made up for all their misdoings from that Sunday evening five decades ago. I must say they have paid special attention to my offspring. It is pertinent to note though, neither of them chose to pop out on a public holiday.