#6 Throws a Party

Singapore September 1982

It’s never the right time to have a baby. After a 5-year hiatus from childbearing, I found myself expecting again. We had been living the high life, replete with all kinds of expat perks--luxury abode, servants, drivers, two swim club memberships, & paid tuitions for our kids. In our mid- 30‘s we were honestly spoiled rotten and, upon hindsight, fat with oversized egos. So it was that J.J. resigned from the bank after 13 years and decided to go into trading. We left the cozy, secure expat life and joined throngs of native Singaporeans who lived in constant survival mode.   

This new era started out pretty well. J.J. already had a job lined up with a successful Chinese trader. My task, as usual, was to get us settled into a house and continue enjoying my life as “lady of leisure.” We rented a refurbished colonial house. We could still afford one housemaid, a gardener, and a driver. The boys still attended the French school. We kept the Dutch Club membership. Our newly acquired Chinese rosewood furniture, Kawai grand piano, and southeast Asian knick-knacks graced opulent, airy receiving rooms. The yard was solidly fenced, gated, and guttered. Our passel of five boys adjusted quickly. The older ones became pals with kids of every ethnicity, while the younger ones romped freely inside the gates. We even added a female Singapore Terrier, Carbon.* 

But, by the time I fell pregnant the good life was showing signs of stress. J.J. had been booted out of his first job after his usefulness as a banker/finance whiz was no longer needed. After a 2nd job of similar ilk soured, he decided to go on his own & work out of the house. On my side I was experiencing a procession of mediocre amahs. Things started spiraling downward. And that’s when #6 decided to come along. You’ll ask, “Didn’t they get it?” Well, as yet, we did not, and there’s the blessing of it. I viewed this pregnancy as the merest blip on my calendar, and J.J.’s attitude was “the more the merrier.” Life was toujours gai **& #6 was joining the celebration. 

Thus, about noon on the day #6 was to be born, I was preoccupied with happenings that had nothing to do with my pressing date. I said to J.J., “Well, I think I’d better go to the hospital, this is beginning to feel uncomfortable.” J.J. & I were chauffeured to St. Michael’s, the newest, state-of-the-art, but nothing remarkable hospital. As before, we were expected. My OB/GYN was notified. We were set up in an impersonal, austere labor/delivery room. The beds were not beds, but hard, narrow gurneys about 2 ½ feet wide. The mid-wife examined me. But before taking her waiting position outside the room, she asked if I would like a nitrous oxide gas mask to relieve discomfort for the remaining labor. Laughing gas? Sounded fun. I was open to anything that eased my labor. J.J. was reading his book and faithfully holding my hand. 

Immediately I was transported to la-la land, pleasantly dazed but awake, with not a care in the world. After one particularly long contraction J.J. &  I exchanged a puzzled look. Hadn’t we just heard the tiniest little newborn cry? Then we heard it again, but stronger. J.J. had a quick glance under my cover. He announced, “It’s here and it’s another boy! I need to get the midwife before he falls on the floor.” The midwife was incredulous. To save face she declared, “No, you wrong-la! She got mo' time.” But she and her crew came running. #6 had indeed popped out as easy as a champagne cork. The doctor, still on rounds, came a few minutes later to join the party. 

* Carbon(e) was a cherished member of our family for 16 years. Her photo now stands among the ancestors. 

** always fun