Life in Plastic...

My name is Wai Kit. And I've had cosmetic surgery.

I know, I know. I can feel the jokes coming already:

Man, you should get a refund. 
Did you offend your plastic surgeon?
Getting a brain implant isn't cosmetic surgery.

But it's true. I really did have plastic surgery.

This confession was meant to be made years ago, to reach tens of thousands of households through the magazine company I used to write for.

The story was never published, and my secret never told till this day.

Let's back up a bit.

The year was 2008.

My then-editor asked if I would like to put my head to good use for a story, and I said yes.

The assignment was simple -- test out a new technique that a certain clinic was using for hair transplant, and write about it.

And so, I gamely put my head on the chopping board -- or in this case, operating table -- for the experiment (I was told I was the first Singaporean to undergo the then-new procedure).

And since I've always been concerned about receding hairline, I thought, no harm having the doctor transplant hundreds of follicles from the back of my head to both sides of my forehead, near my hairline.

Or so I thought.

The procedure was a failure.

Within weeks of the transplant, I had a root shock - nearly half of the follicles had dropped, the way my story was headed.

And for the longest time, the surviving follicles did sprout strands of hair - except they looked really out of place on my head. The inch-long, curly strands would fit in better elsewhere - my armpits, my groin, my legs.... anywhere but my head.

But I lived with it because my real hair could cover up the streaks -- or should I say -- freaks of nature.

I recently had them all shaved away -- but only because my sponsored stylist insisted on it.

Though the plastic surgery was a flop, it came in handy during party conversations.

I even showed them once to a colleague -- just to cheer her up from a bad day at work. If I had snapped a photo of her chortling away at my hair, I would have captioned it laughing stalk. 

I bring up this colourful fact of my life today partly because of Renee Zellweger -- and mainly because my friends and I recently discussed whether we would go under the knife in the name of beauty.

If we had talked about this in my 20s, I would have firmly said no (says he who just confessed he'd been through it - but hey, that's in the name of journalism, so it doesn't count).

Indeed, I once attended a media event and covered a story on plastic surgery where the door gift was -- take a deep breath -- vouchers for free botox shots.

I declined to accept any of those nonsense because I had grown to love my own face.

And I think I was made the way I am for a reason and at no point am I entitled to change that.

But now, I'm not so sure.

When Age pencils more lines across your forehead, or drains the blackness out of your hair, or randomly splashes freckles across your face as if an excitable kid had just gained access to a calligraphy paintbrush, principles can change.

And so I found myself toying with the idea of plastic surgery.

I started by exploring the idea of eyebrow embroidery ($2,000 which can last you two years -- thanks Karen for the info). I've always lamented that I have thin eyebrows anyway.

And since my Indian godparents used to say I've got a flat Chinese nose, it wouldn't hurt to have its bridge raised a bit.

Oh, and double eyelids would certainly stop all the I-can't-see-your-eyes-when-you're-laughing jokes.

Perhaps, skin lift would be good too.

And while I'm at it - why not go all out and throw in botox shots, tummy tuck, jaw reshaping and even breast enhancement if it comes as a freebie?

Okay, you get the idea.

Plastic surgery can be addictive -- even when you're merely writing about it.

But I'm glad I'm making myself go through this mental checklist because this exercise has given me new insights.

10 years ago,  I would have frowned at myself until the creases of my wrinkles are capable of crushing ants to death.

But today, my principles and views have changed.

Partly because, between my 20s and my mid-30s, I've grown (and aged).

I've become more open. More critical. More suspicious. More careful. I question more, and ponder upon issues more frequently. 

I admit I surprised myself with my newfound back-paddling view on plastic surgery.

Yet, I'm heartened to know that I will never be a stubborn old fool who refuses to change with time (and age).

So, who knows.

Maybe I'll go for another hair transplant.

Or fix those thin eyebrows.

Whatever it is, I'll get them done guiltlessly.

Because while Age has given gravity permission to work on sagging my body parts -- or allowed the sun to make beef jerky out of my skin, it's also added wisdom and new insights as a form of compensation.

I guess that's the beauty of it.

An athlete's sordid confession

Endurance sports is a dirty sport.

I remember famously stepping on mud-like substances in a toilet in East Coast Park during one triathlon race.

I was barefoot - I had surrendered my shoes along with my bike at the transition area and then I had the urge to purge.

No choice.

Also, my friends never fail to remind me that the sea is filled with all sorts of other substances - including ashes of corpses scattered there.

Nice.

And every year, I take the rare opportunity to pee alongside hordes of other men with bursting bladders, along scenic marathon routes.

Don't ask me how we keep our hands sanitised. Let's not go there.

And even if you do your best to stay clean, there's always the chance of getting your arm swiped by another sweaty runner whose talents are obviously not in the department of giving others personal space in a race.

Which is why I thought I would be the cleanest, non-sweaty person at the recent Zoot TRI-Factor Triathlon race.

I was there for work - so that meant I didn't have to step on mud-like substances barefoot, or immerse myself in the ashes-filled sea, or whip out my favourite appendage in public while staring at blank space ahead of me.

Or so I thought.

So there I was, standing at the finishing line in my slippers, waiting for my interviewee to finish her race, when I felt someone spilling water on my right foot.

As I turned to investigate which idiot had thought of celebrating Songkran Festival in Singapore, I gasped.

A woman was kneeling before me, at my foot.

And not in a good way either.

The lean athlete who has obviously pushed herself a tad too much to finish her race had been puking at my foot.

I never knew I had such an effect on women.

But there was no time to ponder on such mysteries - our athlete is busy reproducing her carbo-loaded breakfast for all to see.

From what I could make out, Ms Athlete didn't really chew her food to death since the morsels were all quite bite-sized.

There were some dough-like substances - likely to be bread - and traces of noodles in her pool of breakfast but I couldn't quite put my finger to what sauce base the noodles had been cooked in.

Maybe if I sniffed robustly enough, I could tell but I didn't really want to solve the puzzle.

What I did want to solve though, was her vomiting problem.

Her body must not like being punished by the gruelling distance and was quite apparent it was returning the favour by punishing her.

Every three seconds, Puking Princess jerked forward and with the momentum of an agile athlete, flushed out liquefied food, fast flooding the gravel path of our lovely East Coast Park.

I immediately proceeded with the all-important task of patting her on the back.

Her body must have taken that as a literal encouragement because it went on to puke even more food.

When the body had exhausted all its strength and purged out the offensive morsels, she looked up at me gratefully and whispered, "I'm so sorry."

Ok, please don't speak. I've seen it happen in movies. Please don't puke in my face. Please. 

Instead, I said with cheerful assurance, "it's totally fine. Really. And congratulations on completing the race."

It's true.

Don't get me wrong - I'm hygienic.

But I seriously didn't mind being Victim Vomit.

I thought about it later that day, and figured I had probably morphed into athlete-mode.

You see, those who race would agree with me that there are sporty samaritans around.

When the going gets tough, quite often, athletes would mutter words of encouragement to his fellow racer.

Once, I witnessed how a runner stopped suddenly by the road, clutching his cramped leg.

Almost immediately, three runners flocked to his side to help him stretch.

Nobody seemed to mind that the fella's leg was glistening with sweat, like it was a shimmering turkey made for a food photo shoot.

On another occasion, I experienced the same kind of encouragement from total strangers, when I tripped and fell during a run (nobody rushed to me to start massaging my leg or caress any of my body parts, but their verbal concern was most touching).

And I crave such humanity seen mainly at races. 

I spent my entire morning last Sunday, witnessing - and soaking in - that sporting energy.

There were cheers and applause from spectators.

There was such vibrancy among participants - some paused for a mini-second just to say hi to a familiar face. 

Others made funny remarks at friends who were slower - like, my grandmother can cycle faster lah dei! Hurry up!

I also saw complete strangers pacing and challenging each other towards the finishing line.

I saw how they shook hands and congratulated each other for completing the race.

And it was from the point of view of a spectator that day, that I realised for the first time in my racing life... that there's one more thing I love about endurance sports.

The encouraging, brotherly care athletes have for fellow athletes, brought out in such an environment.

So the next time you need to puke at the end of the race, just let it go, let it go.

There's a lot of love at races to take your vomit - or any kinds of shit, for that matter. 

Standing Down the Broad Jump

I'm still jumping as I type this.

From anger.

And partly also from the haunting after-effects of jumping multiple times at the Standing Broad Jump station.

Okay, I exaggerate.

It's not multiple times.

Just twice.

I only had two shots at jumping at least 189cm - the passing distance for someone my age, for the annual fitness test - and twice, I screwed it up.

Can one. Can one. I've done this before and never failed it, I reminded myself as I stood with both feet shoulder-length apart, and began swaying my body to create momentum that would soon bring me no further than where I was.

One of the hard parts of this is trying to look normal while doing the one most awkward swinging motion any self-respecting 35-year-old adult could do, without looking like a lewd lunatic thrusting his hips at imaginary body parts in front of him.

The next hard part, of course, is to land as far as you can.

Every year, I settle for Silver because I couldn't jump far enough to hit the criteria for a Gold standard.

But that's okay. Silver is not a fail.

Oh, but not this time.

At my first attempt, I landed clumsily at the 198th mark. Yay, pass!

But my stupid body had to tilt back from imbalance so instinctively, my hands supported myself from falling backwards with a thud.

That's when my first attempt was rendered fail, because the Standing Broad Jump machine will register the point of contact that's nearest from where we jumped.

In short, I failed the first attempt because the machine thought my palms were my feet.

It's okay, there's another try, says the fitness instructor helpfully.

Yah, right. Another try.

You know how, before stepping into a clinic for a full body check up, you empty your bladder only to find out from the nurse that you'll need urine sample for your check up?

Erm, but I just peed one minute ago. How to find the urine for you, missy?

That's exactly how I felt.

I used up all my strength to propel forward for that 198, and you're asking me - who's spent and empty - to try AGAIN?!

Never mind. Try.

The second attempt was a 180.

If it were PSLE scores, I would have passed. But it was IPPT, too bad.

So I clocked 0 points for my Standing Broad Jump station - which, in Monopoly, means do NOT pass Go, do NOT collect 200 and go straight to jail.

And that got me fuming.

Look. All my life, I had been relatively fit. And now.... I am deemed unfit because I can't leap?

Got technique one. Can train one, was what a friend told me.

Yes, yes, yes. Can train. But it's like training for a shot at gambling.

IPPT testers might as well set up a station where, after we sweat it out at some stations, come and try our luck, roll a dice and see if we're lucky or unlucky before deciding how fit we are.

This is a silly analogy but it's how I feel the Standing Broad Jump station to be - see if you're lucky or not lah.

That got me thinking about how the IPPT truly reflects one's fitness.

Never mind that the NSman can run 10km in 52 minutes flat, or 2.4km in 10 minutes, or can do 12 pull ups. Never mind all that. Cannot jump means unfit, sorry. 

And that also got me thinking how relevant the IPPT is.

Take me. I serve the police force when I'm on reservist.

So, let's say I can do my shuttle run in under 10 seconds.

It proves that I'm able to produce that burst of energy, right?

Let's apply it to my policing work.

Suppose I need that burst of energy to last me 20, 30, or maybe even 60 seconds. Would I be able to sustain that?

And just what can I do with my under-10-second shuttle run prowess?

What, sprint to the burglar, touch his shoes, sprint back to my police vehicle, touch the tyres, then sprint back and handcuff the fella, issit?

What about Standing Broad Jump?

I chase a robber for 2.4km, and when I see a longkang, I immediately get into position (feet shoulder-length apart, body begins swaying in a lewd, forward-hip-thrusting motion), jump, then continue chasing the fella, issit?

Perhaps, it's timely what Defence Minister said about the IPPT.

That it's time to make it simpler (how ironic that I was one of the journos who had reported this piece of potentially good news, only to later rue the fact that it hadn't come any sooner).

I guess it's seriously time to re-think the IPPT.

No need to make us do the Standing Broad Jump station, and make us jump through hoops to gauge our fitness levels.


You can trust that I'll still be jumping from now on.

But only because I'll be training to pass the wretched station, and not be defeated by something that I feel is an unfair marker of physical fitness.

Best foot forward

Sunday, 1 June, 5am wouldn't be the first time I hold a dude's hand in public. Proudly, at that.

Every year, from 2005 to 2011, I would hold the sweaty hand of my best friend Beng, as we both crossed the finishing line in various marathons.

After all, it is expected of Beng the veteran marathoner to hold my hand - not literally - every step of my marathon journey, since it was he who started endurance sports for me.

And that fella is one dedicated best friend, for despite being a sub 3.20 runner (meaning he can complete 42km in under 3 hours 20 minutes), he would wait for me regardless how slow I am.

Even with my fastest timing, I'm an hour slower than he.

But he's never once complained.

He'd been so damn encouraging - from training with me at the wee hours of the morning and sometimes night, to cheering me on when I am on the verge of walking, during our marathon races.

Sadly, Beng decided to retire from marathon running in 2011 - just the year when my career demanded more of my time.

Just as well.

Until another friend of mine, D, asked me to run his first marathon with him.

Great. Time for me to pay it forward, the way Beng did for me, I thought.

"Okay, here's the plan," I told D in February, four months before the marathon. "I'll train and run with you regardless!"

Two months down the road, I changed strategy. "Eh, D, I'm going to encourage you to train. You just train by yourself. I'll be running with you on the actual day, regardless!"

You can't blame me.

For one, D and I live so far apart, and I have crazy work hours.

And since February, I had been training for my half Iron Man race six days a week - how to squeeze time to train for marathon?

After all, my mission would be to pace D, and to make sure I drag him on the gravel to the finishing line, if he so much as to faint halfway through the race.

Then came the race night.

Can one lah. Won't die one. We just keep running. Want to give up also just keep running, I told D the game plan.

And so we ran. And ran. And ran.

At the 11th km, I stopped my running commentaries on the sights of the route.

"Wah, got spider man sia," I singled out one fella in superhero tights.

"Eh sial lah! Got clown in the race," I noted another, who had, of all things, chosen to don a neon pink Bozo wig.

At one point, I even hummed the tune of X-Men, when I saw a runner's yellow and black singlet, which reminded me of Wolverine. 

But I realised I was no longer the fit athlete I was years ago, when my running commentaries could last me till 32nd km.

So I learnt to shut up and preserve energy.

At the 12th km, boredom set in.

"I can think of five places I'd rather be, at this moment," I said out loud to D.

"In bed."
"In bed."
"In bed."
"In bed."
"In bed."

Somewhere near the 14th km, we got into some twilight zone, where the only lighting was neon objects illuminating the route.

Bad joke, organisers.

It was so dark that I tripped.

And because it was embarrassing enough to trip, I decided to do a dramatic roll over, as if I were some stunt man.

There were audible gasps, and several call-outs of are you okay? Are you alright?

I sprang to my feet, raised both my arms, as if I were a Russian gymnast, and said to the darkness, I'm all good, guys!

In a parallel universe, I would imagine no-nonsense judges raising their placards to rate my recovery: 9.5, 9, 8.5.

At the 21st km, thoughts of giving up crept in my head.

Running a marathon is certainly no bed of roses.

And near that half-way mark, it became a bed of thorns.

My 35-year-old knees began creaking, radiating sharp pain.

I badly wanted to give up - pretend that I'm having a heart attack, so that I can tell the ambulance driver "Erm, no need lah. Just send me to Bukit Panjang can already. No need go hospital."

But there was no room for drama.

At the 22nd km, rain pelted down, as we ran the never-ending track along East Coast Park.

Tsk. I. hate. running. in. the. rain. 

I want to be in bed.

I want to eat curry.

I want to drink milo.

At the 25th km, I bumped into an uncle, who looked to be in his 50s.

He was walking and he kept mumbling under his breath, "No joke, no joke."

I agreed inwardly, but at no point during the marathon is it considered polite to tell your fellow runner that, you're damn right, it's no joke. Let's give up. 

So again, I bit my tongue and jogged on with the pace of a caterpillar.

Just when I thought I had made some good progress to reach the 26th km, I saw Uncle No Joke again.

And he was in front of me!

Erm, if he's been walking, and he's in front of me.... That's certainly no joke. 

I pressed on.

At 30th km, I was on Nicoll Highway - again, another never-ending stretch.

By this time, almost all runners ahead of me were walking like zombies.

You wouldn't be very encouraged too, if you don't see an end to the high way.

Just then, a woman ran past me.

She was highly motivated, humming an incomprehensible tune only she and the singer of her iPod would know. 

Wah, woman over take me!

Never mind. I'm too tired to catch up. Let her run. Run, woman, run!

At the 36th km, we were some 6 km away from the end point.

That was when the first rush of positive thoughts hit me.

You want to eat curry right? You want to drink milo right? RUN. ON!

I drew strength from the road marshals, who kept clapping and saying "good job, good job!"

So every time they cheered the runners on, I visualised myself consuming their energy to spur myself on.

Didn't work. I was still tired.

By the 38th km, my strategy was to just keep running, regardless how slowly.

Though I didn't train specifically for distance, I'm glad my half Iron Man training prepared me for endurance, which I drew heavily on.

D was almost dying by then, but because he's very fair to begin with, I didn't know if it was just him, or that blood has drained from his body.

Nevertheless, he kept trudging on, determined to finish his first marathon with his target time of 5 hours 30 minutes.

Perhaps, it's the passage of time and the continuous movement of our legs, but soon, we saw the end point in sight.

D pushed on, as I kept telling him to RUN! RUN! RUN!

And run he did.

On June 1, at about 5am, D crossed the finishing line at 5 hours 33 minutes - slightly off his target time, but it was a good job.

He thought out loud after crossing his maiden 42km.

Should I run the year-end marathon?

I thought to myself inwardly, please count me out.   

Ah Boys to (police)men.

About 12 years ago, I found a letter addressed to me in my mail box.

Stamped somewhere on that off-white envelope were the words in bold, "On Government Service."

Inside, the letter said:

Dear Leong Wai Kit,

You are hereby required to report for National Service at the Police Academy on 30 April 2002, where you will meet other dudes - some very nice, others not necessarily so - but regardless of race, family backgrounds and education statuses, you guys are required to eat, shit, train, learn, shower, bitch about NS life, march around like toy robots together for the next nine months, whether you bloody like it or not. 

Okay, that wasn't exactly the contents of the letter.

But that's the gist of it.

Indeed, there are some dudes in NS who are not necessarily nice - some are pure fuckers (though none is from my squad).

Then again, even if there had been one or two of them, that would be part of what NS is all about. You'll have to learn to live harmoniously together and try not to poison your bunk mates or set them on fire.

I think I managed pretty well in communal living.

And so did my squad mates.

In fact, we got along so well that most of us try to make time to meet up at least once in a while.

Earlier today, I again met one-third of my squad mates at, of all places, Seoul Garden.

It's an effort which can be difficult to make given our current commitments. 

Sure, we have all transited from boys to men (thankfully), attaining some form of adulthood - evident in the wrinkles, receding hairlines, swollen tummies and tufts of white hair we were each sporting...

But none of us forgot how to revert to our cheeky, youthful selves we once were (thankfully).

As with all catch-up sessions, we had the usual rounds of updates on family and our respective jobs.

Some of them are civil servants bound by the Official Secrets Act, so it was tough prying their mouths for industry gossips.

So we quickly moved on to J - who's in the aviation sector - for sordid details of bored crew members' activities onboard, as well as a detailed guide on how to successfully smoke in the plane without getting discovered, and getting flung out of the flying aircraft by annoyed pilots.

And when we were done trading horror stories about our jobs, we dug up horror stories of yesteryears just for laughs.

Of how some braver ones would, ahem, smuggle certain items in camp to share the goods with likeminded friends - and lived to tell the tale today.

There were also fond memories of S, who, for some reason, have zero psychomotor skills. The poor fella simply cannot march in synch with the rest of us.

Once, out of pure mischief, I called out to S while we were marching: "Eh, S, I can't see you but wherever you are, change leg."

Everyone else turned their eyes on S and true enough, our un-rhythmic friend was struggling to keep pace with us, as if he were a puppet handled by someone with Parkinsons.

We also roared with laughter, as we talked about the man bits of some of our squad mates: One of them has a piercing on his favourite appendage (ouch!), another has low-hanging balls comparable to those of a German Shepard.

And then there was the infamous one who has a weener the size of a rolled-up bus ticket.

Of course, our all-time favourite memories were those with supernatural elements.

We spoke about sightings of black shadows jumping from one bed to another, mysterious knockings on the roof in the toilet, and how I was kicked by something under the blanket while a friend and I chatted in the bunk late into the night.

As I reflected our day's outing, I realise just how different we all have become.

Already, we had come from different schools, belonged to different cliques, and had different interests when we all first met as freshly-shaven NS boys.

And the distinction became even more stark after NS, when we each embarked on our respective education and career paths.

From bankers and entrepreneurs, to a reporter and several civil servants, all of us literally come from all walks of lives.

We also have very different hobbies - some collect expensive watches just because, another buys branded goods once in a while just for the heck of it, and at least two of us love paying to torture our own bodies - in a purely sporting context, that is.

Yet, when we come together there's always something to bind all of us: The common memories of the good old training days, in the old Police Academy.

No matter how different we all are, we were forced to interact and accept the differences and shortcomings of everyone else.

And that's one thing I appreciate about NS.

That apart from making us tougher (and giving us the chance to serve the nation), it's led us to mingle with others so different from us (and to befriend some of them in the process) - something which we wouldn't have thought of doing under normal circumstances.

I'm looking forward to the next NS outing - as soon as my buddy gets down to planning it. 

Infant gratification

Oh, My, Godson. 

I'm officially obsessed. 

It's only day two, but I'm already convinced I'm in love with Kal Ezra, my godson. 

Funny I'm back paddling so furiously because not too long ago, I had decided I disliked kids. Maybe deep inside, I still do. But right now, I am so won over by this tiny being that there's nothing I won't do for him, including learning how to lactate, just for him. 

Pardon me for milking my newfound Godly status, but Kal is, after all, my first godson. 

As early as when he was merely a fetus, my friends had approached me to be their child's Godpa. 

"I will definitely say yes," I tapped on my iPhone, knowing -- but not fully understanding -- the extent of my promise.

Until two days after Kal's birth. 

On his birthday, I approached Kal cautiously in the Family Suite of Mount Alvernia. 

I tiptoed around Kal, and observed him politely, as if he were some Please-Do-Not-Touch artefact on display. 

I was not fully confident that I could cradle him in my arms without freaking out, the way first-time drivers panic in the face of traffic stress. 

It was only the next day when I received him with open arms.

And the moment his soft, warm body rested on my arms, I was enveloped by a sense of calm (no kidding). 

Perhaps, it was because I rubbed off that little fella's aura of peaceful slumber. Or maybe it was the work of my conscious self, reminding me not to drop him from my arms. 

Whatever the reason, I savoured every moment of watching Kal in his sleep. The way he stretched his tiny arm with a yawn. The way his wrinkled hand shivered in the cold. And the way he momentarily snuggled in his shawl bundle.

And it was then that, believe it or not, I felt a connection with Kal, whom I had been praying for every day, since I learnt of his existence.

And he will be in my prayers always -- that he be healthy, and grow up to be a kind, cheerful person.

Is Kal's birth preparing me for fatherhood? I don't know. What I do know is, he's preparing me to be Robin Hood.

I mean, with all the splurging and spoiling to come, there's no guarantee I won't need to rob a bank. 

But let's leave that to another day.

For now, there are more important issues at hand.

While my friends are cracking their heads, making lists of things to do - such as settling into a pattern of feeding, washing, and watching over Kal, as well as planning his next medical appointments, I too, am making my own list.

What terms of endearment should I call him? Ah Boy? No, that's too Cheena. Sayang? Erm, that's too Melayu. Ah, how about something more true-blue Peranakan, like a hearty, vulgar nickname such as "Kotek"? Or should I just modify his name - like Kally? Ezz? Oh, dear, Godparenting is so stressful.

And then, there's the headache of gifting. 

Sure, he's received my birthday Ang Pao. But what should I get him for his cukur rambut? Surely, I have to be more creative than just stuffing notes -- which must mean nothing to him at this age -- into red packets that look gigantic in his palm? And what souvenirs should I buy for him when I’m on holiday? Will he like trains? Can I secretly influence him to like swords, just like I did as a kid? Who says Godparenting is easy?!

And when he’s slightly older, I’ll have to regale him with stories. Of how Godpa had always loved kids so much. And of how Daddy and Godpa were such great pals from way back in university that they became roomates and looked out for each other while they studied in a foreign land. And how Godpa was the Best Man when Mummy and Daddy got married.

Yes, there are many things to do from now on.

According to the unwritten handbook of Godparenting, I am confident I’ll make a good Godpa.

For a start, the handbook states that all Godparents are to return their Godkids to their birth parents when they start to misbehave or cry. That, I can do.

Next, all Godkids are expected to run merrily towards Godparents – as if they were Santa Claus – whenever they drop by to visit them. That, I too, can manage.

Also, the rules have it that Godparents need not worry about their Godkids’ every progress in life, or feel the stress over their homework, or remember when their dental appointments are. Again, something I can do.

And because my responsibilities as a Godpa are so scaled down, there’s no reason I can’t do my part well – namely to pamper and love, and, more importantly, to nurture Kal as a complimentary father figure, so that he gets all the help he can, to grow up into one fine person.

Godpa loves you.