It’s an understatement to say that mothers around the world love to compare and compete. I’m sure you’ve heard of parents who have said: “My daughter is smarter than yours”, “my son is stronger than his classmate” or “my baby is cuter than hers”.
I used to be an assistant teacher for children as young as four. On my first day of work, I was thinking of singing the alphabet song out of tune. In case they understandably hated my singing, I could read them a story. Alas, much to my chagrin and amazement, I realised that most of them could read. Some of them even started reading at two and a half years old.
Whatever happened to “Chill and relax, you are only two”? (Okay, I’m probably the only one who thinks two-year-olds are supposed to play and laugh, be fed and read to.)
However impressed I was with these little darlings who were reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar and Fox in Socks, there was an endless quest for them to be smarter, brighter and more brilliant. “What’s next?” seems to be the question over these parents’ heads. “Sally can read – now, let’s write. After writing ABCs, she must learn to write stories. By five, hopefully she can discuss Oedipus Rex.”
You can see why I stopped teaching after a while. Some children grasp the idea of reading easily. Some breeze through the spelling process. However, to expect them to read a 500-page book or write a story with a beginning, middle and end is almost impossible and, most importantly, unnecessary.
I remember a little girl who was as cute as a button. She started reading at age two after enrolling in some reading course. Again and again, I complimented her reading skill and I was enthralled by her love for books. I couldn’t understand why her mother would ask how her daughter was doing compared to another child. Sometimes she’d ask how another child is coping, hoping to hear that they were nowhere near being smarter than her daughter. I could be wrong, but in any case, their progress is of no concern to that mother.
I often wondered if I’d act the same when I became a mother, but now that I’m one, I don’t care that much about progress and development. At some point, children will crawl, walk, run, read and write; some sooner, some later. Instead of being fretful about milestones, I choose politeness and decorum over the ability to spell tyrana-even-I-can’t-spell-saurus for my children.
Sometimes, I’m asked if Lolly is reading yet. It’s not surprising because with so many courses being offered, reading at two is very common these days. Lolly, who’s two years and nine months, is too busy exploring the real world. She loves being read to still. She makes up stories about girls sliding down colourful rainbows. I draw them for her. Reading and making up stories together make us laugh, and we are least disturbed when someone says: “Oh, my daughter is three months younger than Lolly and she can read already.”
To date, the funniest comparison made was whether Lolly could eat chilli now because someone’s daughter loves curry, eats a whole drumstick and eight grapes at one go. Perhaps she was concerned if I fed my daughter well enough. Coincidentally, she was breastfeeding when this conversation took place. I could almost imagine her saying, “my milkshake is better than yours.”
To which I think, “whatever… I still think my Lolly is awesome.”
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Kiki Quah is a mother of two. ‘Thinking aloud allowed’ is invisibly tattooed on her forehead. Goolypop and Lollypop are her spleen, heart, headache and thus will be mentioned as such sporadically throughout her writing getaways.
