For the unschooled, “spoil market” is a rather bizarre but efficient Singaporean turn of phrase to describe one who’s raised the standard so crazy-high that the rest of us look terribly inept and sloth-like. And while I can wax lyrical about its use in economics and in everyday Singlish, I’m really here to talk about the kind of yummy mummy we’d all cheerfully like to howl at because they’ve gone and taken away our whinging rights.
You know the type. They’re the ones still jumping around in the gym. Shovelling sand into a concrete mixer at 28 weeks while they’re breezily building their stone house from scratch. (I’m looking at you, Mrs McIn-.) Climbing and trekking insane distances while sporting a to-die-for tan and the cutest baby bump. (Another true story.)
Today’s sermon included the bit about Mary getting immaculately knocked up and then taking a walk to Elizabeth’s house to talk shop. Sounds alright, until you figure out that Elizabeth lived 100km from Mary. Which is about the equivalent of walking from Canberra to Goulburn, or Seremban to Port Klang.
Considering the average walking speed is about 5km/h, I’d say Mary probably covered the distance within 4 days, if you take into account
- her footwear (not sponsored by Nike)
- the terrain (arguably worse than the pothole-ridden roads in Canberra/Malaysia after a heavy downpour. Also, uphill.)
- the 10,000 toilet breaks
- the propensity for pregnant women to
- forget what they’re doing halfway through a chore
- fall asleep at 7.30pm in the middle of dinner, and
- trip over their own shoe.
But wait, there’s more! Because after the chinwag which lasted 3 months, she waddled back! Presumably to make dinner for Joseph. (See Luke 1:39-56)
I get tired and grouchy and sleepy after shopping. In an air-conditioned mall. Wearing shiny Diana Ferrari supersoft shoes. My idea of exercise lately is to sweep the room with a glance, and then make a beeline for the endorphin-inducing chocolate. The biggest workout I get is in my sleep. Last night’s Crazy Pregnant Hormone Dream included running around a 6-star hotel trying to get away from a sticky ex-boyfriend, because he couldn’t understand that we’d broken up and I’m now happily married to Tony and 6 months pregnant. I woke up exhausted and in a sweat… and barely 6 inches from where I left off when I fell asleep.
And then there’s the real iron women who truly inspire. Those who’ve had babies in the middle of war. Who do it under threat of persecution. Who do it alone. Who do it poverty-stricken and starving, and yet have love and will enough to spare. These are the ones who put things in perspective, and make the quibbles about optimal labour positions and listeria-laden soft cheeses and the evils of high-heels sound shallow and irrelevant in comparison.
These, I think, are the true Yummy Mummies. Salut!