STI: I want stock, not stork, options

March 14, 2004
I want stock, not stork, options
by Sumiko Tan

FOR three weeks every year, I turn housewife and sort-of mother.

That's when I go on leave and fly 27 hours to the United States for my yearly holiday with my sister and her family.

For three weeks, I'll help out with chores like vacuuming, making the beds and going to the supermarket. (Unlike spoilt Singaporeans, myself included, most Americans don't have maids.)

It's not all work, of course.

I'll read to my niece and watch videos with her, cajole her to brush her teeth, go for long runs in the evening, watch too much TV and just stare into space.

It's always a culture shock going on such a long holiday.

The first week I'm there, I'll miss the office so much my colleagues start making cameos in my jet-lagged dreams.

I'll long for the buzz of the newsroom and I'll SMS colleagues - thank goodness for triband technology - with any excuse I can find just to keep in the loop.

Invariably, the mundaneness of being stuck at home will get to me.

I can't understand my sister's fixation with what to cook for lunch/dinner. And surely there are more important decisions to make than which brand of juice to buy?

But by the second week, I'll start getting the hang of domestic life.

Work no longer figures in my mind, and I grow to relish the rhythm of routine as each day is measured by the visit of the mailman. No stress. Bliss.

The third week will be one of dread as I brace myself for my return home.

After being cocooned from the combats of the corporate world, I can't bear the thought of going back.

But it's a long flight home - and another shock to the system.

The first few days at work, my mind will keep wandering back to the holiday.

Stuck in front of the computer, I'll wonder: Am I really happy doing this? Wouldn't it be more satisfying shaping little lives?

But the moment passes quickly.

By the third day, I'll have got back into the swing of things, refreshed, recharged and ready to face the world.

Motherhood? It's fun to get a taste of it once a year, but that's quite enough for me.

I'VE made a career writing about the woes of the single woman, examining them every which angle I can.

But like death and taxes, marriage and babies are issues that won't go away, at least not in Singapore.

The country's baby shortage has been debated since 1983, when then Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew talked about how women graduates had to be part of the breeding pool or Singapore would end up a 'more stupid society'.

There have been procreation policies aplenty since. More recently, a minister was tasked with drawing up baby friendly measures.

Now that I've hit 40, I suppose the authorities no longer have any use for me. My eggs are fast depleting, and chances of anyone ever calling me Mum are near zero.

But, honestly, I've no regrets.

At one time though, boy, was I broody.

Through my late 20s into my early 30s, I was obsessed with motherhood.

In fact, 10 years ago in August 1994, I wrote in this space about how I toyed with the idea of becoming a single mother, an idea that was roundly rebuked in some quarters.

I never did take that path, and for that I am forever thankful.

How unfair it would have been to a child to be born to a single parent.

And how wracked with guilt I would have been, for a child growing up without a father figure is inevitably handicapped. There are supermums who can make up for this, but they are the exception.

Besides, a child would have stood in the way of my career, my holidays, my bank account, my figure, my dating life, my need for eight hours of sleep each night, and my role as an aunt to my nephew and niece.

Yes, of course I do realise how appallingly crass that sounds.

It is also politically incorrect, given that patriotism these days equals babies, and you have a male MP in Parliament proclaiming that procreation is a moral obligation owed to one's parents, family, society and country.

But I'm speaking the truth.

It's strange - and scary - how the maternal instinct can just disappear.

I suppose one reason is that I've come to realise how death is the greatest fear every person faces.

To be born is to die. And if I really love my unborn child, shouldn't I spare him life, for if he were born, he would only have to face the fearsome spectre of death one day?

This, admittedly, is perverse thinking, and it's a good thing there aren't many people like me.

Perhaps it's simpler to just say that I've become self-absorbed. My priorities are all aimed at improving me, myself and my life.

Of course I can speak so arrogantly now because, at 40, I'm at my prime.

I've no doubt that when I hit 50, I'll be singing a different tune.

Chances are, I'll be without a job, poor and lonely, and I'll look back at the Baby Debate of 2004 and regret the foolish words of this column.

My sister always tells me that I can live with her when I'm old. My niece, too, speaks of bringing me 'breakfast in bed' when I'm frail.

I'm grateful, but I know better.

My sister won't live forever. And no matter how close you are to your nieces and nephews, they will never love you as much as they do their parents.

I suppose that at 40, it's really not too late. I still have a tiny window to squeeze in a husband and a child.

But the only way I can see that happening is if I start panicking at the thought of growing old and lonely.

But if marriage and motherhood are inspired by fear, isn't that sad?

And isn't it actually selfish to have children because you hope they will look after you in your old age?

For now, I shall just shut my ears to the swipes being taken at childless people, and skitter along in my singlehood.

Between working towards stock options or a stork option, sorry Minister Lim Hng Kiang, but give me the former any tim