Wednesday, 2 February 2005
My mum left for Sydney today. The reality of living here by myself has slowly started to sink in. I am still here at Aunt T’s house, quietly amused by Manchild’s strange behaviour.
The following is a small collection I have noted in the past few days.
The boy -- I cannot call him a man, I think you will soon see why -- is either deaf or exhibits selective hearing.
“Did you sleep well last night?” asked Mum courteously one morning. He had complained about feeling nauseous the night before.
“What? You’re leaving today?”
“No. Sleep. Last night. Did you sleep well?” Mum tried again.
“I stayed at Five Dock the last time I was in Sydney,” Manchild replied.
Mum gave up soon after.
The boy cannot do anything on his own. Worse, he is a two-year-old in a 28-year-old’s body. Every morning his father, Uncle L, trudges up to his room to get him up.
“儿 子啊！(Son!) Time to get up! Your breakfast is getting cold,” Uncle L would call through the door of the main bedroom that Manchild has taken over from his parents.
When Manchild finally makes it to the kitchen, Uncle L reheats everything and places them directly in front of his son. Vitamins and other supplements are carefully laid out for him in a pill box next to a cup of water. He never cleans up after himself when he’s done eating. Empty bowls and plates with scrap pieces of food are left strewn on the table for somebody else to look after.
It’s usually better when he doesn’t talk during meals. Last night, we went out for dinner. Midway through the ginger and shallot mud crabs, he stood up from the table.
“I’m going to go take a dump.”
“Don’t say that,” Aunt T softly warned. Mum and I exchanged bemused looks.
“What? Nothing wrong with taking a dump.”
He is very lacking in common manners.
After mother left today, I decided that I would try my hand at cooking dinner -- kind of a test for survival before the real thing next week. I was quite competent and managed to whip up three easy dishes in less than one hour.
Manchild came home just after I finished. While Aunt T and Uncle L busily went about setting up the table, their prodigal son sat down and started eating away at the prawn omelette. By the time we all sat down, the omelette was pretty much all gone. But Manchild carried on eating without a care in the world.
“Gimme more potatoes,” demanded Manchild for the mashed potatoes to be passed down.
I grudgingly did, knowing that it would come back empty.
“Say thank you,” Uncle L reminded him.
“Thanks.” He said gruffly.
A few days ago when mum and I were waiting for the bus, we had a little discussion about Manchild.
“Tell the truth. You’re beaming with pride that your daughter is pretty much perfect in comparison to him, aren’t you?” I asked.
“I suppose you’re not too bad.”
“No. I want to hear the words,” I persisted. “Come on, say it with me: I am beaming with pride.”
“I am not beaming. Remember the time you quit piano lessons?”
“Come on, that’s nothing compared to ‘taking a dump’ during dinner.”
“You’re not perfect,” said Mum.
“I am an angel in comparison. Just say it: I am beaming with pride.”
“I am beaming with pride that my daughter, perfect in most ways, just made us miss the bus,” she said, pointing to the bus that just pulled away from the curb.
“There’ll be another one in ten minutes. Gives us more time to say it again. Now repeat after me: I am beaming with pride that my daughter is perfection.”
My mum left for Sydney today. The reality of living here by myself has slowly started to sink in. I am still here at Aunt T’s house, quietly amused by Manchild’s strange behaviour.
The following is a small collection I have noted in the past few days.
The boy -- I cannot call him a man, I think you will soon see why -- is either deaf or exhibits selective hearing.
“Did you sleep well last night?” asked Mum courteously one morning. He had complained about feeling nauseous the night before.
“What? You’re leaving today?”
“No. Sleep. Last night. Did you sleep well?” Mum tried again.
“I stayed at Five Dock the last time I was in Sydney,” Manchild replied.
Mum gave up soon after.
The boy cannot do anything on his own. Worse, he is a two-year-old in a 28-year-old’s body. Every morning his father, Uncle L, trudges up to his room to get him up.
“儿 子啊！(Son!) Time to get up! Your breakfast is getting cold,” Uncle L would call through the door of the main bedroom that Manchild has taken over from his parents.
When Manchild finally makes it to the kitchen, Uncle L reheats everything and places them directly in front of his son. Vitamins and other supplements are carefully laid out for him in a pill box next to a cup of water. He never cleans up after himself when he’s done eating. Empty bowls and plates with scrap pieces of food are left strewn on the table for somebody else to look after.
It’s usually better when he doesn’t talk during meals. Last night, we went out for dinner. Midway through the ginger and shallot mud crabs, he stood up from the table.
“I’m going to go take a dump.”
“Don’t say that,” Aunt T softly warned. Mum and I exchanged bemused looks.
“What? Nothing wrong with taking a dump.”
He is very lacking in common manners.
After mother left today, I decided that I would try my hand at cooking dinner -- kind of a test for survival before the real thing next week. I was quite competent and managed to whip up three easy dishes in less than one hour.
Manchild came home just after I finished. While Aunt T and Uncle L busily went about setting up the table, their prodigal son sat down and started eating away at the prawn omelette. By the time we all sat down, the omelette was pretty much all gone. But Manchild carried on eating without a care in the world.
“Gimme more potatoes,” demanded Manchild for the mashed potatoes to be passed down.
I grudgingly did, knowing that it would come back empty.
“Say thank you,” Uncle L reminded him.
“Thanks.” He said gruffly.
* * *
A few days ago when mum and I were waiting for the bus, we had a little discussion about Manchild.
“Tell the truth. You’re beaming with pride that your daughter is pretty much perfect in comparison to him, aren’t you?” I asked.
“I suppose you’re not too bad.”
“No. I want to hear the words,” I persisted. “Come on, say it with me: I am beaming with pride.”
“I am not beaming. Remember the time you quit piano lessons?”
“Come on, that’s nothing compared to ‘taking a dump’ during dinner.”
“You’re not perfect,” said Mum.
“I am an angel in comparison. Just say it: I am beaming with pride.”
“I am beaming with pride that my daughter, perfect in most ways, just made us miss the bus,” she said, pointing to the bus that just pulled away from the curb.
“There’ll be another one in ten minutes. Gives us more time to say it again. Now repeat after me: I am beaming with pride that my daughter is perfection.”
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