By the way, the periodic table doesn't tell women when they're going to have their period. For me, my face does the job.

What the table does show is the position of the elements (no, not metal, wood, water, fire or earth, but iron (Fe), copper (Cu), silicon (Si) and selenium (Se), et cetera) as arranged according to their atomic make-up, or something like that.

Back in junior college, it was useful to those of us taking chemistry to memorise the table. The lecturer suggested that we stick it onto the toilet wall so we could use those daily potty moments to get it stuck in our brain. It worked, and I scraped through the chemistry paper.

Unfortunately, it worked so well that I've become like that dog conditioned to salivate whenever a bell rings: A vague vision of the periodic table floats before my mind's eye whenever I catch a whiff of pong.

Now, decades later, two walls in my children's bathroom are a patchwork of paper stuck to the tiles with scotch tape. My captive audience - which is whenever one of my boys sits on the throne - reads the writing on the wall.

There are some pages torn from a World Vision newsletter giving a glimpse into the lives of children in Third World countries. There's the report from The Straits Times about the teacher accused of molesting school boys, and one on the problem of bullying in schools in Japan.

And, from the National Geographic, articles about Pluto, waterspout sightings, global warming, amazing new species discovered, among many others.

Whenever I read a report on a fatality involving a motorcycle or an unfortunate drowning, I snip it out for the wall. It's never too early to warn my boys of the dangers of riding a motorbike or riding pillion, and the dangers of any body of water such as the pool, the sea or even a canal.

Recently, there was a piece from The Sunday Times. It wasn't funny but the three boys chortled with mirth when they read it off the wall.

Written by Douglas Tseng and headlined 'Hit below the belt', it was about a poor French chap, Marc Gicquel, being hit on the balls by a tennis serve travelling at 208kmh during a tournament. I had circled in red crayon the different phrases used to refer to the man's testicles.

The next day, I checked with the boys if they could remember the different terms used. They were able to rattle them off in between giggles.

'Right in the nuts; receiving that powerful thrust with his gonads; like getting kicked in the groin; scrotal or testicular contusions; the testis gets twisted; gets whacked in the rocks...'

I suppose it all sounds funny to my little monkeys.

Naturally, I told them that we should empathise with poor Marc Gicquel and that it was no laughing matter but a rather well-written piece of work. Instead of using the same word repetitively in an essay, it would be more challenging to use different words, I added casually.

As soon as the wall runs out of space at eye level (both when one is seated and standing - because I figured the boys could also read while brushing their teeth), stale news is replaced with fresh clippings.

After over a year of reading the wall, the 11-year-old is now getting hold of the day's newspapers and skimming it on his own accord, almost on a daily basis. The nine-year-old does the same once in a while. They seem to have cottoned on to the fact that there are juicy nuggets of information in there, waiting to be absorbed.

Even then, I still read the papers with a pair of scissors at my side, ready to snip anything which I think the young ones would find interesting.

If, like me, you'd like to broaden your kids' general knowledge and get them into the fine habit of reading the papers, perhaps you might consider building a wall.

Don't attempt The Great Wall immediately. Try starting in a small way. It doesn't have to be the toilet, but the tiled wall in there is wonderfully scotch tape-friendly.

Then, once you have their attention, put up articles that the young ones are not normally exposed to. Some of the ones about Cherie Blair (the wife of former British premier Tony Blair) can be humorous. Besides getting a taste of the journalist's style of writing, the kids learn who TB and his wife are, and become familiar with the No. 10 address.

Of course, now we can introduce the Browns - just wait till something funny crops up, which won't be long.

And indeed it was so. The very next day after I wrote the above, I was able to put up an article introducing Mr Gordon Brown as the new British PM. I circled the sentence, 'Some believed that Mr Balls actually comes from another planet'. (Mr Ed Balls is Mr Brown's 'closest adviser'.)

My little imps love to read about extraterrestrials, even suspected ones.

And don't forget reports on language, such as when Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong said: 'That's a no-brainer.' We learned that 'no-brainer' is an American phrase, and that it does not mean what most Singaporeans think it means.

I give the boys impromptu quizzes and, oh, how they love these! They snap to attention and their competitive juices start flowing, their eyes turn into beacons and you can just see their little brains whirring with activity, impatient and straining to be unleashed - quick, what's the next question?!

My boys score points in exchange for Gameboy playtime. I gain the satisfaction of knowing that they are learning a bit more about the world around them.

To top things off, everyday I witness my spouse's amazing love and tolerance. You see, my husband, God bless him, reads the holes-ridden papers without a word of complaint. Sometimes I think I married a saint. Oh, how I love him.

valjbosco@yahoo.com.sg

The writer is a full-time mother who has just started to do freelance writing.