The year is 2000. I can't remember the time of year because Singapore has no seasons. I am living in an open plan apartment among four men; my husband and three sons, Thomas aged 6, Conor 2.5 and Joe is still a new born.
'Winkle' is a word my husband made up to describe what the men in my life were born with and I don't have. What I do have is a short fuse. My husband formed the 'The Winkle Club' for those moments - usually around the time of my period - when I get irritable with the kids. The minute I snap at the boys, usually once a month, Hubbie sends out the clarion call, "Time for the Winkle Club." There follows a mad dash to the master bedroom.
When the Winkle club convenes, they have sock fights using balled up pairs of socks, do limbo-dancing and play Offence-Defence. Hubbie loves NFL - American football - and created a game out of it called Offence-Defence. In our bedroom, we have a king sized bed which came with the apartment. It's made of solid teak with a headboard which has a ledge running along the top of it wide enough to keep books and a cup of tea. In this game, Hubbie crouches on the bed defending the headboard while the Offence team, Thomas and Conor, line out at the other end poised like rabbits ready to spring into action. The boys are also learning Judo. The word used to start a fight is Hajimeni which means 'to begin.' It sounds like Hadja Mee when they say it. The object of the game is for the Offence team to get past Defence and land an orange-sized rubber ball on the ledge. If they succeed they change ends. The best out of three wins.
My
husband is more wide than tall. During the game, there's lots of testosterone-fueled roaring, growling noises, grunts and screams as the two bear cubs attempt to outwit and wrestle past Papa
Bear. It's adorable to watch but I think it must be a male thing. Where there's a need for physical contact, rather than just hugging each other, they make it competitive and turn it into a sport.
I tried it once. This particular afternoon, I was watching Oprah and doing the ironing. I had walked into the bedroom to put some laundry away when Hubbie paused mid-mauling and asked if I wanted to have a go. Conor, his eyes shining with exertion, called out, “Yeah Mum, why don’t you have a go?"
Thomas sniggered, We'll thrash her."
I looked down on them sprawled out on the bed and said, "Ye little squirts. "What can you do to me?"
As my husband explained the rules, including the use of the word 'Hajimeni', I thought it sweet how they were incorporating Japanese culture into their daily lives.
Hubbie was the referee. I was defence. When he called out, "Hadja Mee" my two babies launched themselves at me and rolled me off the bed on to the very hard wooden floor. Hubbie made a half-hearted attempt to break my fall.
Picking myself up off the floor, I roared, "You little fuckers."
My husband, helpless with laughter, said, "Boys take it easy, it’s her first time."
"Come on Mum, go again."
"Ok, but you’re not to push me off. " I didn’t trust them. I noticed the bed had been pushed up against at the wall. I kept my back to the wall.
Hubbie called, 'Hadja Mee' and they launched again. They got past me easily. I had enough. I wanted to go back to my ironing.
"Best out of three, Mum?" said Thomas. His earnest, sweet face exuded innocence. I trusted him.
This time, I had a strategy. Thomas, being the captain, had the ball. If I targeted him first by wrapping my arms around his entire body, thus not only trapping him and the ball, I could stop him passing the ball to Conor and stop the game. I did exactly that and it worked. However, as Thomas struggled furiously to wriggle free, he shouted, "Conor help me." Conor jumped on my back and wrapping his arms around my neck attempted to choke me. I released Thomas and what ensued what a free for all of pinching, tickling, hair pulling, punching and biting on their part. I shouted, "Enough." They didn't stop. Hubbie the so-called-referee said, "You have to say 'Surrender.'"
I screamed 'surrender' and immediately the boys fell back laughing flushed with success. As they broke into their football chant, 'Championes' I crawled off the bed. I slowly and painfully got to my feet. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Dishevelled and scratched, I looked like I had been dragged through a hedge backwards.
Never again. They're sneaky. In all the chaos, you don't know who is doing the pinching and I suspect they use it as an opportunity to inflict pain on me. I took it personally of course. But then again, maybe it's a male thing: once they're in full flow, they can't stop themselves.
One of the perks of the Winkle Club, they eat loads of snacks. This one Sunday morning, I was sitting at the computer typing a letter to my mother when I snapped at one of the boys. Hubbie must have overheard because the next thing I heard was him roaring from the couch, "Winkle Club time."
Thomas immediately shot into the master bedroom - my bedroom - and started to raid the sock drawer for ammunition. Conor ran to the kitchen: he was on snack duty. As I sat watching his stocky little butterball body pass me scurrying back and forth between kitchen and bedroom - it took three trips - I regretted my temper. Through the open doorway to the bedroom I saw Thomas had efficiently built three neat piles of sock grenades.
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