Monday, January 03, 2005
Back To School For The Big Guy
Today's entry in this blog reminded me of something. It's the first week back to school for kids in Malaysia. I rang home to see if my 10 year old brother, Oli is all prepared to tackle the new year. He is now in standard 5, that makes him 11 years old. How time flies.
He is a proper pengawas now, a species at school much hated by the certain other species. He now has proper responsibilities, standing by the school gate jotting the names of the late comers, supervising a class when a teacher didn't turn up, looking after the school coop where everybody goes to get the essentials. If you look after coop, that's it, the whole school knows you.
Why I say proper pengawas? 2 years ago, he was already made to wear slightly different clothes to others, white trousers instead of blue, maroon striped tie and black shoes instead of white. He was forced to be behave differently to others. More serious, more alert and more forthcoming. It made him mature a lot quicker than he should, but he was only 9. That is not proper.
He might've scored the highest marks for his subjects, but he still wet the bed, he still wondered into half-finished bungalows around where we live and hid himself in the cement mixer. Yes we know you are small, big guy, and yes we know you thought it's funny, but you might come out minced for all we know. My dad went ballistic, my bother as much anticipated, wet himself.
I knew he wanted to join the silat club at school, but he had broken his tibia after doing a stunt with his pushbike, so he's been refrained from that or any other martial activities. He doesn't cry normally if hurt, but that day Mum said his eyes welled up and his snout was red and also watery, he sniffed and winced. Mum was sure it was broken, and she was right.
Most children cry when the word hospital is mentioned. Not him. He described the experience as wonderful. The nurses loved him because he kept them entertained and never complained of pain. Needles to him was something he had to have so he had to just grit his teeth.
In contrast to me, he adores nurses. Sometimes when things don't work out to his liking at home, he threats a trip to the hospital. Nurses treat him better, apparently. When asked how he's going to get himself admitted, he said he was going eat gone off food and get diarrhoea like last time.
Departing at the airport last May, I kissed him as usual. He looked left and right, slightly more aware, conscious of his surrounding. Is it not cool for big sis to kiss goodbye anymore? Mum said he has been acting funny since we let the 'Dr. Mudin' chop his foreskin. So I kissed him more. He became grumpy.
Part of me want him to stay as he is, but part of me enjoy the imminent metamorphosis. Last time I checked, he wanted to grow up and become a bus conductor, because a bus conductor gets a lot of money. Money to him then, were big coins and small coins. He preferred the big coins.
I hope he's given that subject an overhaul and come up with something better. I have a strange feeling that it's a Grand Theft master for now.
Bless his little heart.
Study well, study smart. Play well, play hard big guy.
He is a proper pengawas now, a species at school much hated by the certain other species. He now has proper responsibilities, standing by the school gate jotting the names of the late comers, supervising a class when a teacher didn't turn up, looking after the school coop where everybody goes to get the essentials. If you look after coop, that's it, the whole school knows you.
Why I say proper pengawas? 2 years ago, he was already made to wear slightly different clothes to others, white trousers instead of blue, maroon striped tie and black shoes instead of white. He was forced to be behave differently to others. More serious, more alert and more forthcoming. It made him mature a lot quicker than he should, but he was only 9. That is not proper.
He might've scored the highest marks for his subjects, but he still wet the bed, he still wondered into half-finished bungalows around where we live and hid himself in the cement mixer. Yes we know you are small, big guy, and yes we know you thought it's funny, but you might come out minced for all we know. My dad went ballistic, my bother as much anticipated, wet himself.
I knew he wanted to join the silat club at school, but he had broken his tibia after doing a stunt with his pushbike, so he's been refrained from that or any other martial activities. He doesn't cry normally if hurt, but that day Mum said his eyes welled up and his snout was red and also watery, he sniffed and winced. Mum was sure it was broken, and she was right.
Most children cry when the word hospital is mentioned. Not him. He described the experience as wonderful. The nurses loved him because he kept them entertained and never complained of pain. Needles to him was something he had to have so he had to just grit his teeth.
In contrast to me, he adores nurses. Sometimes when things don't work out to his liking at home, he threats a trip to the hospital. Nurses treat him better, apparently. When asked how he's going to get himself admitted, he said he was going eat gone off food and get diarrhoea like last time.
Departing at the airport last May, I kissed him as usual. He looked left and right, slightly more aware, conscious of his surrounding. Is it not cool for big sis to kiss goodbye anymore? Mum said he has been acting funny since we let the 'Dr. Mudin' chop his foreskin. So I kissed him more. He became grumpy.
Part of me want him to stay as he is, but part of me enjoy the imminent metamorphosis. Last time I checked, he wanted to grow up and become a bus conductor, because a bus conductor gets a lot of money. Money to him then, were big coins and small coins. He preferred the big coins.
I hope he's given that subject an overhaul and come up with something better. I have a strange feeling that it's a Grand Theft master for now.
Bless his little heart.
Study well, study smart. Play well, play hard big guy.
