I rolled my luggage out of the room, ready to go. It was breaking dawn; the kids were still asleep. I could not resist but to go into their rooms to kiss them goodbye.

Once I did that, I knew that I have made the wrong move. Both started wailing loudly. In my attempt to kiss them goodbye, I had woken them up. I explained to Audrey, my elder girl, the night before that I was leaving, which made it harder for me to leave them for more than a month.

With the helper stepping in to soothe both children, I rolled my luggage towards the door and said goodbye.

It was not an easy decision to make, and it took months of planning before leaving the kids. I knew that if I made the decision to visit my terminally ill father in Penang, I would be forsaking time spent with my children.

I would not be able to teach Audrey how to process issues she faced at school. I would not be able to send Betsy, my youngest, to school and buy her a treat after. Most of all, I would not be able to physically hug them and whisper in their ears – I love you.

Would my husband be able to cope with sending Betsy to school twice a week, while holding a full-time role? Would he remember to dress them up appropriately before they went for outings? Could I trust both him and our helper to play both the caregiver and parent role, just like I had?

At the time of writing, if I were to visit my father in Penang, I would be spending four weeks in quarantine – two weeks in Malaysia and two weeks in Singapore, due to the entry restrictions placed on both countries. In between those quarantine periods, I was not sure that the effort of travelling back to Penang would be worth it.

My mentor’s advice spoke through my subconscious: “Your dad has limited time left, but you have the rest of your life to spend with your children."

Looking at a longer time frame, the blip of a few weeks away from my children mattered far less compared to the guilt I may feel should I decide not to go, and my father passed on.

I have two roles – I am my daughters’ mother; but I am also my father’s child.

Reminiscing on my childhood, I recalled that my dad had been away for many months when I was growing up, but I did not miss him. Perhaps being away wasn’t all that bad, if it were for a good cause.

Perhaps I could trust my husband to care for the children. I decided to make the trip.

As I was getting ready for my trip, I prepared items to take with me. I wondered what I could bring so that I could engage the kids while I was away.

Knowing that I was the only person who spoke Mandarin at home, I threw in a few Mandarin language books, a pack of animal flashcards, and some photos of the family into my luggage to look at when I miss them. I was ready to go.

The flight and the journey to the hotel was rather smooth and mundane. As I arrived at the hotel for quarantine, I felt an uneasy sense of liberty. It initially felt odd not to hear high-pitched children’s voices either crying or talking, or the sound of blocks tumbling apart.

I heard the waves lapping gently on the shore. It felt like I was checking in for a holiday rather than feeling that I was spending time apart from my children.

At first, I was uncomfortable with the silence. I muted my inner struggles and thoughts with hours of Netflix. I numbed my emotions and shut my thoughts away. It was easier to click the play button and ignore my inner self than to create room for it to be exposed.

But I knew something was not right. I was not using my time away from the children to be a better version of myself.

So I began to gradually ease myself into the new normal. With no one with me, I prayed more, wrote more, and read more. I felt clearer headed, less angsty and calmer.

My thoughts, which were traditionally tuned to a to-do list mode and tasked to check off items within the day, slowed down as I had time to reflect and think deeper thoughts.

This was one revelation: I had been striving for far too long to manage the children’s lives as how I wanted them to be, rather than understanding them as they are, as Audrey and Betsy.

In one of our daily calls, I took out the Chinese books I brought with me. “Audrey, which book would you like to read?”

“The one with the bookshelf!”, squealed Audrey. Like a pre-school teacher teaching via a webcam, I set up my mobile phone so that the book was upright and in sight and started reading to her animatedly. I used the book to ask her questions, and to teach her lessons.

Surprisingly, she sat down in front of the mobile phone and listened. My attempt to engage her via an online lesson was working.

At times, my lessons were less successful. Audrey appeared distracted and refused to listen. I quickly switched tactics and innovated on the fly. As she was walking around the room talking about building a house using the blocks she had, I engaged her where she was.

“Audrey, you would like to build a house?”, I asked.

“Yes, mummy!”, quipped Audrey. We went on talking about the height of her building and what colour it was.

To make sure both of my kids felt loved, I had separate calls with Betsy. Although she has limited words, she understands what I say, and I engaged her with the flashcards I brought. She loves telling me what animals they are, as I flipped through the flashcards one at a time over the video call.

Although I was physically apart from the children, I was emotionally and mentally invested in them. I was with them, albeit via a mobile phone, hundreds of miles apart. They were angry with me from time to time, as they want me to be with them physically, but I knew they loved me, and would always be my sweet daughters.

“I miss you Mama”, Audrey said in another call.

“How are you going to find me?”, I asked.

“I am going to bring you a green airplane so that you can fly home from Penang,” she quipped.

I smiled, knowing that although I had another month before I could see her again, she would be just fine, and the time apart would help me grow to be a better mother.

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