Oh My Ghost!

Do you believe in ghosts? I've been asking myself that question for the past two months. It just seemed like such mundane coincidental occurrences that I didn't give it much thought. But it appeared to be happening with the most unnerving frequency at the exact same time of the day.

What am I talking about?

Eli. That's what.

No, no, no... my infant son hasn't turned into a ghost (although it looks like this is where this narrative is heading. Goodness gracious me). However, I think Eli's been seeing a ghost. Or ghosts. Or spirits. Or whatever it is he laughs and chortles at, looking at the exact same spot at 5:30 in the morning. For the last two months.

I kid you not.

The reason I never gave it any thought at the time was, at four weeks old, developmentally speaking, Eli couldn't see clearly yet. The parenting website I've been reading proclaimed most confidently that babies that age can see vague shapes, bright lights, shadows. And perhaps mommy's face if she's holding it two inches from baby's own.

To get to the point. At exactly 5:30 every morning, give or take a few seconds, Eli would pause from his frenzied early morning nurse, take his mouth off my nipple, look at a beam on the opposite wall, and smile. Huge, wide-mouthed, gum-glaring grins. Most times, he'd give a hiccupping giggle. This would go on for about a minute or so. Then, like nothing happened, my voracious son would go back to mashing my breast with his fist and vacuuming milk into his mouth.

At first, puzzled, I would glance at where he was looking. I just saw a beam, painted the same institutional pine green as the rest of the apartment, nestled in between Atch's cabinet and Eli's own. It was a blank beam, no painting, no wall hanging, nothing.

The first month, I put the blame on Eli's unfocused vision. He's smiling at me, of course, I'd think smugly, as well he should, after these long sleepless nights of jumping up at every one of HRH's hungry cries. And I'd crest the wave of maternal pride at having a baby who understood the meaning of “appreciating Mommy's sacrifices” really early.

This second month, I began to get skeptical. I knew for a fact that Eli could see clearly by this time. He'd often zero in on me from across the room five feet away and gum me a smile while waving his limbs energetically. So why was he still communing with that beam? At 5:30 am each day?

Curious, I began to gather random facts in my head. This apartment complex was over thirty years old. There were six doors, and Door Number Five, the door we were in, was in the oldest portion of the compound, having once been connected to the main house. The previous occupant was an aged widowed lady with a serious mahjong habit. She lived alone and sometimes had her equally ancient lady friends over for mahjong sessions which lasted well into the wee hours. Then she died.

Then she died.

Well, of course, she didn't die in the apartment. She died in the hospital, from complications of old age. She was nearly ninety, I remember. She liked kids, too. She used to hold lengthy conversations with a toddling Woog. And then she died. And now we have her apartment. Her very room.

By nature and as per cultural upbringing, I am a superstitious person. But I've never seen a ghost, or a spirit, not even a mythological aswang. This might very well be my one chance to do so. So, apprehensive, I braced myself for the proverbial windless chill and flurry of goosebumps that accompanies the presence of the paranormal. At 5:30 in the morning. In the first light of dawn.

On the dot of the clock, Eli began his ritual. Chlurp, chlurp, chlurp. Long pause. Lengthy look at the beam. Huge grin. Still grinning. “Eh-heh-heh”. Long pause. Back to breast. Chlurp, chlurp, chlurp.

All this while, I threw my senses wide open. Eyes, ears, nose, skin. Pysche. Never in the history of an early morning was a nursing mother more wide awake and in full possession of her faculties. And then...

Nothing. Not a single thing. No shimmer in the air. No chill. Not even a goosebump. I looked down at my son and his eyes were at half-mast, clearly enjoying his meal. Do you know something I don't, little guy?

In the car on the way to work, I told Atch. I even brought it up over lunch at work. Atch scoffed at me. The officemates laughed. But I have this theory. That little babies have a radar of consciousness the magnitude of which we will never be able to fathom. That until this cognizance is polluted by the noisy world around them, they can see and hear and feel things we cannot. That this special time of utter clarity draws to an end, all too soon.

Have I come remotely close, Eli? Is Mommy on the dot on this one?

What do you think?

September 2006

Where Did The Time Go?

Is that right? I was looking at the calendar. Has it been sixty days already?

It was the weekend before September 4, the dreaded date when my maternity leave ended and I'd have to go face the daily grind of work again.

No! My innards were practically screaming. It's too soon. Just when I've started to cement my relationship with Woog. Just when I've started to discover the wonder that is Eli. Just when I've started to tackle the labyrinthian nightmare that is the storage cabinet.

Still, I succumbed to the mad scramble of unearthing my Monday to Thursday office uniforms for pressing, clearing out my handbag of baby wipes, discarded feeding bottle covers and an ancient unused diaper, and finally finding the time to shine my office shoes. Gadzooks, I'd have to pack my milk pumping equipment, too!

What a hassle. I'd much rather stay at home. Nurturing my sons, cleaning, rearranging. Even welcoming my husband home like a seasoned housewife (As if!). And to think I was actually entertaining the idea of attempting to learn how to cook.

I thought there'd be plenty of time. But there never really is, is there? At least not for the things that really matter. Like continuing to rebuild Woog's self-esteem, or pampering Atch with a cold beer and a back rub whenever he got home from work. Or even snorting into Eli's tummy just to listen to those heavenly gales of breathless laughter. Instead my days have been filled with managing my new household (which was finally mine, mine, all mine!).

And now...I have to go back to work. Back to an all too necessary reality.

Basically, I'm a very hindsightful person. Which means to say I look back too much at past actions and pull my hair out at their figurative roots thinking about what I should have done instead. These past sixty days were supposed to be allotted to bonding with my family (*yank-yank-yank*), but somehow, I ended up filling my to-do list with household tasks (*yank-yank-yank*), just like a freaking house-a-holic. I am filled to the brim with good intentions, but like the froth bubbling over on a mug of beer, they evaporate all too soon.

Still, I try to console myself: Woog's doing better. There've been no major episodes at home or complaints from his teacher so far. Eli's thriving. And Atch. Well, he's still himself, as always. I may be going to work soon, and I may have to strive double-time to find quality family moments, but I'll make it. I have to. And I will.

And there's always room for good intentions, isn't there?

September 2006

I Know You...I Love You!

A month and a third has passed, and I am looking at this stout and somehow unfamiliar creature who is flashing his toothless gums at me in a smile.

I say the creature's name and try to smile back. My smile feels fake, somehow. But the creature opens his mouth to reveal even more gums and a throaty chuckle. I am highly astonished and deeply moved.

Eli. Who are you? I've been nursing you, changing your poopy diapers and giving you baths. For you I undergo chronic sleep deprivation and unending back pain. I rock your bassinet and sing you to sleep. And all of it just seems so automatic. Like something that needs to be done because its there. And because frankly, I've no choice in the matter.

Thinking about that now...God, that sounds awful! You're my son for juan's sake. And it seems I've just discovered you. Might it have been the lack of sleep? Perhaps the move to the new apartment shifted my neurons a bit. Or was it Manong Woog's deviant episodes that shoved your existence to the far reaches of my awareness?

I merely have to look at you and you present me with one of your pure unadulterated smiles. All my doubts about your ability to see clearly dissipate then and there. You never smile at your yaya like that. Not even for Tatay. After all these weeks of caring for you like an automaton, I must've done something right.

And oh, thank God you're too young to know the difference between true mindful mothering and the distracted zombie-like upkeep that you've had to put up from me.

But I promise you, son of mine, you whose grinning expanse of gums is surpassed only by your obvious rapture at the sight of your lackadaisical mother...I promise you a more attentive and attuned parent, a limitlessly patient and tangibly loving parent. Despite the exhaustion. Despite the lack of sleep. I promise you all my good intentions, no matter how tremendously outlandish they may seem.

And perhaps, when you are old enough to read, and you happen upon this obscure entry from this equally obscure blog under your mother's name, then perhaps you just might find it within yourself to forgive her lapses, past and present.

Because she means well, she really does.

Septemer 2006

Facing Goliath (Part II)

...Eli chose that very moment to cry. Saved by your brother, I thought. Yaya hurriedly shepherded Woog inside, her anxious eyes on me, lest I do damage to her precious charge.

Yet as I sat nursing the baby, a great heavy sadness settled somewhere in the region of my chest. What was happening here? Woog was by nature a mischeivous litle imp, but he had never displayed any willful destructiveness. In his sweetness, he never went out of his way to hurt other people. His heart was in a good place. Or was it?

After a time, he approched me. “Mommy, I love you.”

My heart wanted to melt, but I kept the mask of my stone-face on. Inwardly aching, I watched as my son wilted before my eyes. I was determined not to be a pushover in disciplining my children.

The next day, more disappointment was in store for us. Atch and I paid a visit to Woog's teacher. Miss Mae sighed heavily as she related how Woog frequently disrupted the class, wouldn't answer his seatwork, and refused to copy his assignments. Apparently, he also had the attention span of a gnat. She was stretching her patience, really she was, but she was nearing the end of her rope. It was never mentioned, but the specter of ADHD floated around our heads.

Have you ever felt that kind of helplessness as when your orderly world was falling down around your ears? I felt exactly like that that day. I'd take on work problems, financial worries, even a perenially busy and distracted husband, but please please please, don't let there be anything wrong with my kids...

It hit me then, right there, that perhaps I should stop thinking of all of this as happening to me. Maybe Woog wasn't problem. Maybe he was trying to tell us something. Only he didn't have the words.

Hysterical. My son, who on default mode has “palpitation of the tongue”, didn't have the words.

Atch and Miss Mae were looking at me strangely, and I realized that I had chortled out loud.

I think I know why Woog's not himself these days, I said. I really think he's behaving this way because he's had a lot of major changes thrown his way in the span of what? Two months?

A look of understanding dawned on Atch's face. Miss Mae asked me to elaborate.

Well, for one, he's started the schoolyear with a new teacher. Then he's had a new brother to bump him off his status as “baby of the house”. The following month, we moved to a new apartment. And, oh he has his own room now, too. He wasn't even allowed a transition period. Poor Woog. And to think he's only four years old.

Guilty thoughts flooded my mind of Woog creeping into our room in the dead of the night, begging to sleep with us. And his short-tempered sleepless mother sending him out because he might wake the baby. Damn me to hell and back for alienating my own son.

He's a David, facing Goliath. Several Goliaths. All at once. And to think that he never once went all-out-demented-berserk on us. I know I would have.

Miss Mae nodded. She had guessed as much. We discussed the ways in which to make Woog feel important again. She would try to give him more attention in school, as well.

Aren't pre-school teachers wonderful? They're approachable, sympatheric, proactive, and most importantly, totally focused on the kids they teach. For myself who went to school when corporal punishment was the norm, and for Atch who'd never even been to pre-school, Miss Mae and her ilk were a revelation of sorts. And a very wonderful one at that.

And so we headed home lost in our own thoughts. Thoughts which featured us hitting ourselves over the heads for being so clueless to what was happening with our son. Atch & I exchanged cringing glances. Poor Woog. He was raw and hurting from our indifference, uncertain of his status in our lives. It was up to us to equip him with the stones to slay the Goliaths he was facing. Time for us to blanket him with the support he was seeking, and which he truly deserved.

We headed home, resolving to love our son. Really love him. And hopefully, he'll turn out to be a mighty David some day.

August 2006

Facing Goliath (Part I)

I suppose it had to happen sooner or later. But when it did start to happen, we were caught up in disbelief. A this-sort-of-thing-does-not-happen-to-our-family kind of disbelief. Like a thief in the night, it snuck up on us, and particularly, on Woog, on whom this post is based.

I guess Atch and I were mostly to blame. We were exhausted from the move, bent on making the new apartment as liveable as possible. And then there was Eli to attend to. I was a cranky sleep-deprived zombie, spending most of my non-nursing, non-diaper changing time trying to clean and redecorate. When Atch was at home, he was in full fix-it mode.

Poor Woog was left to his own devices, and to his young mind, alone, to face the insurmountable changes thrown into his life.

It started with his hearing. Or more to the point, his lack of it. We would call him in to dinner. And soon it would turn into a “call of the wild”, our voices yipping into the wind. And that wind would whip out unto the broad plains of the courtyard, echoing back at us, unanswered. All it would take would be the soft clinking sound of Atch's belt buckle leaving his pants to send Woog scurrying homeward.

After his siesta, he would hie off to Door Number Four for an afternoon of Disney Channel (they had cable, we didn't). Give it half an hour or so, and his 18-month-old cousin, Ia, herself approaching that difficult age, would be howling in vexation. Turns out Woog would be grabbing her toddler's toys, or shoving her off her seat, or plain standing in front of the tv to block her view. He would do all this with a diabolical sort of smile (or so Ia's yaya would report later).

Soon, even his eating habits, not the best to begin with, began to suffer. It would take him an average of six minutes to consume a spoonful of food (I know, I timed him). Multiply that by 10 spoonfuls, and you get a whole hour spent trying to get him to finish his meal. You can just imagine our voices grown hoarse urging him to eat his breakfast and get to school on time.

One such morning, while dawdling at breakfast, he decided to take a fork to the new dining table. And, oh the masterpiece that carver did carve! So enraptured was Atch at his son's newfound artistic ability, he applauded him loudly on the bottom with the wide end of a thick leather belt.

I sent him, tearless, unrepentant and breakfastless to sit outside facing the wall. He missed school that day. There is no good cop in this family.

When I checked on him ten minutes later, I found him at the far end of the apartment compound, fiddling with the carpenter's handsaw. I shrieked and he dropped it, terrified.

The whole mountain of manure came crashing down one morning when he came home from school with Yaya, who reported that we were being summoned the next day for a conference with his teacher. I barely had time to call Atch at work about this when I heard an angry voice outside shout Woog's name. This is getting so old, I thought. The only way these days to utter Woog's name would be in an angry shout, amongst other furious explosions.

It turns out, Atch's brother-in-law, Sam, a contractor by profession, had laid to dry two freshly painted plywood boards for one of his projects. Woog had taken a broom, dipped it in murky gutter water, and swept it diligently across both boards. In the span of time it took to yell out his name, he had created a muddy Jackson Pollock on the sticky sky-blue background.

I cannot describe how speechless with embarassment I was. A livid Sam was removing the ruined boards with gritted teeth, and Woog was simply standing there, dripping broom in hand. His doomed bottomless eyes were on me, waiting for the axe to fall...

August 2006

Name Game

Woog's godmother phoned while I was nursing Eli on the couch.

“So how come Eli gets a decent name and my hijado (godson) doesn't?” She complained in indignation.

Oh wow, I wanted to tell her, Eli deserves a decent name. If you can only see who he looks like. Har-har-har.

Seriously. Not that I love my second-born any less, but he isn't going to win any baby beauty contests. Fattest baby maybe. But looks?

Alright, so he takes after his father's side of the family. I'm not discriminating against my own husband. But I can't help being painfully honest, love and affection notwithstanding.

Still, as far as nicknames go, Eli wins hands down, considering Woog started out as “Ogbai”.

Seriously.

We had decided to name our first-born Ogbai (don't ask). And as he was a two-week old fetus at that time, we didn't think he'd mind. As expected, both sets of grandparents and various friends and relatives went up in arms. So on the pain of eviction, disownment and threats of all assorted forms of social stigma, we made a compromise to christen him Owen Gabriel. But “Ogbai” stuck

Distinctive, huh? No other baby is named Ogbai . Believe me, I've googled it up (so babies Apple, Suri, Pilot Inspektor, Kal-el, Shiloh Nouvel, ad nauseum – go eat your hearts out).

However, time, circumstance, and Atch's penchant for his version of Shirley Ellis' The Name Game changed that a bit.

By his father, Woog has been called: Baloogwai, Waloogwai, Woogwai, Woogie, Doogie, Darloogie, Traloogie...

Our son seemed to like the sound of “Woog”, so we called him that.

Eli's still young, I wanted to sooth Woog's godmother. Give Atch some time, and you'll soon behold a baby with a whole new identity.

Elijah Raphael, I wonder what's in store for you.

August 2006

Conflagration

I tried to fry some chicken for Woog one afternoon. Put the pan on. Poured a dollop of oil. Turned on the heat.

Just as I was about to drop in my lovely marinated breadcrumb-bathed fowl pieces, a huge sheet of flame burst into my frying pan. In my panic, I threw some water in and was rewarded with a nice toasty bonfire spewing haywire towards heaven.

I glanced around wildly for help. Any help. And I saw my son peeking in from the living room, both his eyes and mouth rounded in “O's”. I didn't even notice the few dozen house spiders that fell from the ceiling above the stove, all nicely and evenly toasted.

Who's the adult here, ha? Who is the adult? I mentally slapped myself, braved the heat, and turned off the gas. Who's the adult here, ha?

But the pan was still on fire. And the cooking oil bubbled on it, black as the devil's very ass.

“Mommy, you're burning my chicken!” Woog exclaimed from a significantly safe distance away.

Help! Screeched my tortured inner novice cook. Taking a deep breath of clean air away from the fumes, I dove in and took hold of the pan's handle. I had intended to clear a path to the door, and dump this poor blackened flambe'ed cooking piece into the courtyard outside.

But horrors! An obstinate drop of hot oil burst from the flames and landed on my arm. With a yelp, I let got of the pan and watched it sommersault in slow motion, landing face down on the newly waxed floor.

And viola. The fire went out.

Cries of “Oh, thank you!” and “Mom, my chicken!” rang out.

Post-disaster. Yaya came in with the clean laundry and ended up frying Woog's chicken (to perfection, I might add. And she's 16 years old). She scrubbed the soot-blackened ceiling as well. And got rid of the poor roasted spider carcasses.

Meanwhile, the kitchen floor proudly displayed its version of the black hole, the exact dimensions of the coal-colored frying pan lying morosely in the courtyard. Small spots of singed chair upholstery from the oil, which I tried valiantly to scrub off. Alas.

The house smelled of burnt air for hours, even after Atch arrived from work. He eyed the disaster for quite a time. He was not amused.

Adult, my ass.

August 2006

So We Moved

I am not even about to harass myself with a retelling of this most prodigious and supremely stressful event. Suffice it to say, the apartment next door was up for grabs, and grab it we did. Door number Four was getting too crowded, what with the in-laws and all. So we moved. To door number Five.

So we moved. Why does that sound so blessedly simple? Foremost in my memory is leaving my three-week-old son in the old living room while Yaya and I negotiated the bulky dresser downstairs, across the courtyard, then upstairs again to the new bedroom.

Atch covered in sawdust and sweat as he drilled holes and stapled electrical cables.

Woog running wildly back and forth from one apartment to the next, unsupervised.

My milkjugs knocking painfully against my chest as I waxed the new floor.

Nursing Eli while helplessly listening to Atch's poor back creaking from the strain of carrying three sets of cabinets, one disassembled queen-sized bed, an aircon unit, a tv, and various other odds and ends.

Combing the city to find the least expensive possible dining table...and wincing anyway while shelling out the money for one.

Going back and forth for the gazillionth time carrying clothes and shoes and pillows and sheets...how can three people accumulate so much stuff in five years?

Trying to appease Woog who shied in terror from his new bedroom, and his first ever prospect of sleeping alone.

Vacuuming. Wiping and disenfecting. Again and again. And yet again.

In the end, when we finally settled down to enjoy our first breakfast in the new apartment, it started to feel like home. We were practically sleepwalking in exhaustion, but we were home.

August 2006

And I Call Myself Mother

My sister-in-law paid a visit one night while I was using the breast pump to relieve my engorged breasts. I was glad for a chance to have someone commiserate with me on my mastitis, my seriously cracked nipples, and the fact that I had banned Eli from latching on to me until I healed (the shame of it!).

Inday came upon the comic (if it wasn't so painful) sight of me with one breast on the pump, and the other poised dripping over a feeding bottle. She oooh'd over how ripe they'd become and tsk'd at the moistly dark scabs forming over the cracks on my nipples.

In my anxious miserable state, she couldn't have possibly fathomed the gratefulness I felt at having another female to share, if not the psychological, then the physical deprivation I felt of not having Eli's little face sucking away at my chest. That plus the guilt of allowing my pain threshold to overcome the maternal instinct of letting my infant suckle.

I wasn't even about to tell her what happened that morning as I gingerly tried to nurse, with Woog worming his way into my arms for attention at the same time. Truth be told, I yelled at Woog. Worse, I yelled at Eli as well. And he was in mid-smile too. This person who dared call herself “mommy” turned that sweet baby's grin upside down...waaay upside down.

We ended with Woog sulking at his desk and Eli wailing with a broken heart. What I would've given to be an ostrich and bury my head in the sand of shame.

Self-preservation aside, if there was any head-bashing to be done, mine would be the one with a dent the size of Mindanao.

Do all harassed mothers do this? I remember my mother yelling so often at all of us, but she had five kids and I only have these precious two. How could I waste this fleeting stage when both the boys still need me? It won't be long before they grow up and start needing other people, and oh how I'll regret my waspishness then.

Inday bid me goodnight and wished me luck. I was grateful for her visit, yet oddly desperate at the kind of person I think I was becoming. I have no words.

So help me God.

July 2006

Survival of the Kick-est

When the little guy suckles, his eyes are screwed shut in fierce determination. He issues guttural little croaks and the occasional squeek. His fists are clenched, insistently pushing against my breast, or waving around as if to ward away prospective competitors.

You'd think he was born along with several other litter-mates. What do you think I am, little guy? A sow?

Funniest of all, his knees and feet push against my tummy, just like when he was in utero. And if my stomach wasn't in his immediate radius, well, the poor naked air would take the brunt of his ferocious drop-kicks. Aren't I lucky my nose and jaw aren't at torso level?

I remember when Woog was nursing. Such a serene fellow he was. He'd feast leisurely at my breast while staring up into my eyes, drinking deeply from the sight of me that I'd fall in love with him all over again at every feeding. Most times, he'd smile up at me from around my nipple - a most bewitching sight to behold that I wouldn't mind him dribbling rivulets of milk down his chin and my chest.

And Eli. My fierce little fighter. The way he suckles, you'd think he was trying to vacuum the whole breast into his tiny mouth. And I always get a laugh trying to catch hold of his little sausage arms and legs.

Are you punching and kicking your way into the rat race, my friend? I hope not. I pray your world stays as peaceful, as beautiful, and as uncomplicated for as long as I can possibly make it.

July 2006

Post Birth Pessimism

I am swimming in a sea of disorientation. Apart from the lack of sleep, I am in a constant state of hunger. I am striving to take care of an adamantly needy Woog, feed a voracious baby, and try to keep the room and bathroom reasonably clean.

Partly, I am in a state of disbelief that Eli turned out so dark and “Atchbund-y”. After four years of getting used to fair-skinned and comely Woog, I naturally expected the next one to be another Mommy-clone. Instead I am finding myself in very upclose and personal circumstances with a changeling (Atch forgive me). I am in denial. Oh the guilt this feeling spawns!

But he is so fat and juicy and deliciously bite-able. I can spew all that mush about my heart being so surprisingly accommodating. But I won't. I'm still so tired. And hungry. And sleepy.

Woog has suddenly become a giant. I hold this stoutly compact bundle that is Eli, and then I look at my older son, with his suddenly huge feet, his hard scabby knees, large awkward fingers, the flare of his booger-filled nostrils – and suddently I am overcome with a mild case of ... distaste? A mild case. But still. Oh the guilt!

Atch is still in full fix-it mode. He repairs the breastpump, assembles the crib, fixes the baby monitor. In between, he washes the car and supervises the fixing of nice gingery batches of hot shellfish soup to encourage my breastmilk. He even nails my broken bakya together. Yet I find myself outraged by his constant absence from my side. Like I want a vigil. And my every wish granted. Now. At this very moment. I am constantly cranky towards this lovely man who has done everthing within his means possible to make me comfortable.

Oh the guilt!

And I worry that I'll be a fit enough mother. One child, yes. But two? The feeling persists, inspired by the confluence of sleep deprivation, my bloated post-natal belly, and my stinging cracked nipples.

I hold Eli and I wonder if I should be feeling more ... maternal? Oh, but I am so tired, and hungry, and sleepy. And the room needs dusting, and there are baby clothes to launder, and the toilet bowl wants a good scrubbing, and Woog has homework to get done...

I have never felt so overwhelmed.

July 2006

Mr. Fix-it

My bare-chested Atch was wading through the coiling mess of innards that used to be my electric breast pump. His sweaty grin floated up from the haze of his soldering gun. “Its a fix-it day,” he remarked.

Indeed it was.

As an attestation of our ill-prepared journey into the life of second child-dom, we unearthed the basinette, the breast pump, the baby monitor, ad nauseum ... just days before Eli arrived, only to discover that four years of storage was enough to attract some electrical “ghosts in the machines”. As a consequence, Atch spent a large chunk of his 7-day paternity leave hunched over repairing one item or another, and in general being missed by the post-partum members of his family.

Woog alternated between neediness and puffed-up possessiveness. “I have a new baby brother,” I'd hear him proudly tell the neighbors, just before coming inside and crowding in with Eli during a refill at the Mommy pump.

Thankfully, Atch was there in between repairs to distract and regale, while I floated in and out of disorientation, trying to adjust to the new member of our family.

What a waste of Atchbund time, I thought rather ungratefully. I wanted to be cuddled and waited upon. I wanted an affirmation of his undying love in the face of my newly wrung-out body. I wanted someone to pick up the mess slowly accumulating around Eli and me in our once spic-and-span bedroom. I wanted Atch to stay still for one second so I could take his picture carrying the baby. Hell, I was as needy as Woog.

I dreaded the day he went back to work, to leave me forlorn and feeling abandoned, dreading the thought of being left with two children both under the age of five.

Still, I was thankful for all the mealtimes I was able to eat downstairs with the family, the newly repaired baby monitor beside me humming with Eli's steady breathing. Still, I was glad for the luminous glow of the lamp light during night-time feedings. Still, I sighed in relief as the freshly assembled breast pump gave me respite from full to bursting milk ducts.

Grudgingly acknowledged, Mr. Fix-it saves the day.

July 2006

Little Yella Critter

We had to leave Eli at the hospital. Jaundice they called it. AB-O Incompatiblity they concluded, and their Photolight Theraphy the only cure.

Whatever happened to good old plain sunlight? It worked in my day. When I was a kid they didn't have any of that high-tech mish-mash that was supposed to be good for you, for whatever high-tech ailment you were supposed to have. In my day, mothers held babies up to the first morning light and loaded the kids with a good dose of Scott's Emulsion. The doctor kept away for damn sure.

I am venting my spleen here. And sorely missing my son. It doesn't help that the Newborn Screening results...yes, they have that now...found Eli positive for G6PD Deficiency. We didn't have that in my day either. Now, they tell me Eli can't have any soy or soy products, all sorts of legumes, certain medications, red wine(!), ad nauseum... or he'll end up with hemolytic anemia. (Oh, please... he hasn't even started on breastmilk yet and I'm supposed to be worrying about his impending solid food intake?)

And among other things, if he, by some fortuitious event, partook of any of the above-mentioned prohibited victuals, Eli would be the unlucky recipient of headaches, nausea, palpitation, seizures. I read the photocopy-generated symptom sheet and nearly had a seizure myself.

I read up as much as I could over the internet, and found G6PD deficiency is an inherited enzyme malfunction affecting nearly 400 million people worldwide (egads! We are not alone.)

Carrying the hefty moniker glucose-6-phosphate dehydrogenase, it is one of the many enymes that help the body process carbohydrates, turning them into energy. It also protects red blood cells during the onset of infections (does this mean my son will grow to be a listless little boy with no immune system whatsoever?). Without sufficient G6PD to protect red blood cells, they become damaged or destroyed, and hemolytic anemia occurs when the bone marrow cannot compensate for this destruction by manufacturing more red blood cells.

Certain triggers of such as fava beans, napthalene balls, and some malarial medications ending in 'quine' can cause paleness (hard to tell if I have a dark-skinned kid), extreme tiredness, rapid heartbeat, shortness of breath, jaundice, enlarged spleen and tea-colored urine. On the plus side, once these triggers are removed, the symptoms disappear within a few weeks as new red blood cells are formed.

Can't I have a kid without complicated health issues? Like Atch and myself, Woog has asthma. And now here comes Eli wth a deficiency of his glucose-6-whatchamacallus.

*Sigh* The hospital nursery called and told me he'd been crying his head off. Perhaps I could try to breastfeed him? So we visited Eli during his confinement. I met my son at the Breastfeeding Room and I held him close to me, examining in minute detail the cradle cap on his eyebrows, his pimple-like milia, his potato nose...everything that wasn't bundled up in swaddle cloth. Mr. Hideous himself.

He didn't look yellow to me. Why were they making sure I got so damn worried? My son is normal. Heaps of kids didn't get newborn-screened (this inhuman pricking of tender baby skin and the cruel drawing of baby blood from a screaming red-faced infant), or been diagnosed with G6PD Deficiency. They lived. At least they did in my day.

And Eli will live. The best life we can possibly give him. Just as thirty-eight years ago, my parents-in-law refused to give up on Atch when he was a Coke bottle-sized seven-month preemie, just as we refused to let Woog's asthma get in the way of his extremely active lifestyle...Eli will thrive. I'll make sure of it.

July 2006

Newsflash: New Specimen Unearthed!

9:00AM Atch and I trek all over downtown doing errands. Three hours of walking and my left bakya breaks in half.

11:00AM Head home to change shoes. Damned inconvenience. Spend rest of morning traipsing the mall.

4:30PM Internally probed by OB-Gyn yet again. Forty weeks today, no sign of contractions. Head back downtown. Maybe catch a movie.

5:00PM Was that a contraction? Nah. Probably just gas.

5:30PM Convinced Atch to buy me a pair of Happy Feet sandals (have pity on this poor pregnant woman who just broke a bakya). Am at boutique when...

5:45PM Whoa! These ARE contractions. Sales girl looks on worriedly as I make selection, hunched over. Breathing. People start to stare.

6:00PM Forget it, Atch, this is embarassing. Buy them for me next time. Let's eat, am hungry.

6:30PM Atch & I get some hot steaming batchoy to go. Contractions every 15 minutes. Breath. Breath.

7:30PM Eating batchoy at home with Atch and Woog. Hunched over soup. Contractions. Breath Breath. Whoosh. Whoosh. Woog asks: “Is the soup really hot, Mom?”

8:15PM Decide to go to hospital. In bathroom, drop soap at every contraction. Was that my water breaking? Nah. You're in the shower you paranoid fool.

8:45PM Arrive at hospital. Beg OB-Gyn for epidural. OB-Gyne laughs. Doesn't help she's my sister-in-law.

9:00PM Oh, the paaaaain....! (Go with the pain. Breathe. Don't fight it.) Who...who said that? Is somebody there? ........ ?! That you, Papa God?

9:17PM Delivery room. Pitifully whine to student nurse if I could hold his hand. Human touch and all that. He nods yes and I mash his hand to a pulp.

9:18PM Pushing. Pushing. Pushing. Puuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuush!!!

9:23PM Baby squirts out. Four heaves. World record. Oh... hi! HI! My precious! My pokey bear! *Sniffle* Its me, its Mom! (pause) Some nose you've got on you!

Auntie Nat after pulling out her new nephew

9:40PM 7.8 pounds. APGAR score 9:9. Dark as twilight. Hear Atch outside snapping pictures. “Look at your nose!” Atch exclaims, laughing.

10:00PM On gurney on the way to room. Pain? What is pain? I want to see my baby again.

Pressure tank survivor and his amazing nose

Marbles

Woog had been wanting to own a bag of marbles for such a long long time now. But being the parent that I am, I had horrible visions of him accidentally swallowing one. Or of offering to share them with his one-year-old cousin, Ia, and her swallowing a couple of them, as well.

Then with my imagination on overdrive and I would picture the whole household speeding posthaste to the hospital, where amid the ruckus of pumping out the children's tummies, my husband, my sister-in-law and her husband would be glaring at me, the guilty perpetrator of it all.

Still, in my heart of hearts, I couldn't resist this simple need of a little boy to acquire such treasure. After all, didn't I have a bag of my own marbles at his age? And I don't ever recall swallowing one either (even if I did, I'm still here, aren't I? Healthy gastrointestinal track and all).

His quest for marbles wasn't an insistent one. He would talk about them, wish he had some. Sigh a bit. Then perhaps, if it occurred to him, to wonder out loud most politely if we would buy him just one. Or maybe even a couple. And being the parent with the over-active imagination, I would hedge and say something like, “maybe...if you're behaved, and maybe...if we had the money. (like, sheesh, how much would a bag of marbles cost?)”

So yesterday, as I was aimlessly wandering the aisles of a china-goods shop (walking, walking, walking to get the baby down to birthing position), wouldn't I just happen upon the most deliciously colored translucent glass marbles in plastic fishnet bags? Fifteen pesos a bag, barely half of what I usually spend for a mid-morning snack.

And wouldn't you just know? I bought them.

This morning, I came in from the bathroom to find Atch hugging a yawning Woog. It being a Saturday, we allowed him to wake at his own leisure. We were about to leave for work when I suddenly remembered.

“Hey Woogie, guess what I got you.” And some interest sparked in his sleep-chinky eyes.

I pulled out a plastic bag from my purse and the clinkety-clink of glass balls sent him off his bed, all thoughts of lying-in forgotten.

“Mommy! Marbles! Thank you!” His voice was squeaky.

Atch and I took in his excitement and we exchanged a glance moist with full-hearted wonder. How simple it is to make our child happy, we should do it more often, Atch's glance seemed to tell me. I blinked back my affirmation.

We left Woog with hugs, kisses, and warnings about putting them in his mouth. Last we looked, he was sprawled on the bed in his pajamas, flicking one colorful glass sphere against another.

And hey, if he does swallow one, he can always poop them out, can't he?

07/01/06

Off Our Rockers

Today is such an off day for us. Well, perhaps not for Atch, who usually runs perfectly well on autopilot. We slept late, we woke up late, and we had to leave a dawdling Woog who was clearly not in sync with the day's schedule.

Poor Woog was designated to take a jeep to school. When I left him to say goodbye, he was querulously allowing his yaya to give him a quick bath and complaining he had soap in his eyes.

What slaves we are to the schedules we've set for ourselves. What makes it even worse is that we're practically forcing our children to conform to the program.

So what if our son wakes up needing a hug and some cuddle time for a nightmare he must have had. We're off schedule. So what if he whines for some attention while half awake, he struggles with his clothes. We're running late. So what, if near tears, he rushes down to the breakfast table trying to keep up with us. So sorry son, we're off, you go and take public transport to school. Serves you right for being such a slowpoke.

I was quiet on the drive to the office. It was head-bashing-against-the-dashboard time. Couldn't we have at least given him some time to wake up, hugged him and said his morning prayers with him? Nooooo, we had to rush, work was waiting. Onwards to those great hallowed edifices of steel and stone - the great dictating force in our lives.

Couldn't one of us have listened about his nightmare and commiserated with the pounding in his heart and the ringing in his ears? What a time-waster. Instead, we had left him raw and vulnerable to face the day without the armor of our loving support to draw around himself.

At some point, a clueless Atch commented on Woog being such a whiner. Already heavy-hearted from guilt, I lit on him, all hellfire and brimstone.

We're there, but we're not there, I bitched. We spend less than three hours a day with him, and instead of really sitting down and listening to him, we rush him through homework and bath time and bed time. We make a pretense of communicating with him, but what we actually do is lecture him on what he must do and what he must not do. No wonder he craves our attention.

But then, I argued, contradicting myself, if we take all this time to be there for him, we'd go off schedule. That's the thing, see, Atch? We have to strike a balance somehow.

We need to take the time to celebrate him, his being a kid, his being unique: warts and scabs and all. What we don't need is to leave him feeling rushed and somehow incomplete, without building his self-esteem, or letting him know that he is a priority for us and that we truly love to be with him.

I was near tears and near the office when I finally finished my diatribe. Atch was quiet, thoughtful. Commendable of him, quipped my peevish inner dialogue. Even if his silence merely meant he was trying to avoid a fight with me so early in the working day. What valor is there in arguing with a very pregnant and very emotionally distraught woman, after all.

Later, I am going to sit down with Atch and lay down a concrete plan. We need to save us from ourselves and this harried lifestyle we have imposed on our son. We need to allow him to be himself and to let him know that he's wonderful, brilliant, creative, compassionate and marvelous.

We have to. It's imperative. After all, we hold his heart in our hands.

06/30/06

Shedding

Almost every night, Woog and I take our bath together. It's part of our bonding process. And well, truth be told, it saves both time, water, and ergo - money. (What cheapskates the members of this family are).

One might ask, where is Atch in all of this? One may find the man of the house taking his own sweet time in the downstairs bathroom – his one concession to luxury – where he may fill the sweet air with the acrid smoke of his Winstons as he sits on his “throne” and contemplates his day. Later, all fresh and moist, we come upon each other at the junction of the stairs, whence we proceed to retire to our room for some quality family time.

Last night, as we were toweling off in the bathroom, I found the urge to have one last pee. Wiping myself off as Woog was doing his running commentary on all and sundry (he sure does talk, that kid), I pulled away a long sticky brownish clump of mucus plug with the toilet paper. Woog stopped in mid-sentence and gaped. I have been shedding these things for about a week now, and although Woog has seen this phenomenon before (and been duly informed of the facts), it was the first time he witnessed such specimen in such globulous quantity so up close and personal.

I took one look at Woog's face and tried not to laugh. His eyes were gleaming with a kind of horrified fascination normally reserved for say, freshly squashed roadkill frog, or his Wawa (grandmother) taking off her dentures. His upper lip was curving upwards, and whether it was the start of a gag reflex or the beginnings of an “oh ewwwie, Mom!”, I couldn't quite say.

Again I explained to him that I was shedding my mucus plug, that thick gel-like substance that blocks the cervix and protects the fetus inside. Once a mommy is nearing labor, her cervix thins out and releases the mucus plug. This is a sure sign the baby would be coming soon.

After a very long thoughtful pause, Firstborn declared, “I'm not going with you to the hospital, Mom.”

“Why not?”

“I'm afraid of the mucus plug.” (and at this, I mentally waved a sad little adieu to the subtle brainwashing tactics of his two doctor aunts who have been enthusiastically, albeit prematurely, grooming him for the medical profession).

“You can stay in the hospital room with Tatay,” I ventured hopefully.

“Can I stay home with Yaya instead?”

*Sigh*

“Mom,” Woog said, exiting the bathroom with a pat on my belly, “don't give birth to Eli until my birthday, ha...?”

And since Woog just turned four earlier this month, the thought of carrying this prodigious, malingering fetus for another year almost sent me to my knees in laughter – and tears.

29 June 2006

Tired and Terrified

Atch winced mightily as his wedding ring cut across his clenched fingers. The pressure was growing intense, but he silently endured the pain just as his wife bore down unceasingly on his hand. This was his role, after all, and he dutifully soaked everything up like a sponge.

This is not a scene from the delivery room. Or even the labor room. This incident is set around a routine check-up of a full-term pregnancy. The OB-Gyn withdraws her latex-gloved fingertips from the violated orifice of this red-faced algophobe. Freed at last, said algophobe's husband shakes his poor mangled hand gingerly, perhaps hoping to get some of the circulation back.

The OB-Gyn is shaking her head. The mucus plug is still too thick, the uterus still too high up. For a second pregnancy 38 weeks old, this is a bit unusual. And I've been 3 centimeters dilated for the past week.

Atch starts getting a determined look on his face, and I could almost imagine him hectoring me through a regular exercise regiment of power walking, squats and lunges. Anything to get my uterus contracting and the baby descending. Anything to avoid a costly cesarean section. As one, we blink away the image of hundreds of peso bills flying out the window. This is probably one of the reasons we fell in love – the irresistible primal call of one skinflint to another. *Sigh*

On the way down, we take the stairs. I am so tired. I can feel the clenched muscles in my aching lower back and Eli's weight pressing sharply down on my bladder, incessantly grinding against my pelvic bones. My thighs are trembling from exertion. I am snorting like a fire dragon out of steam.

Stoically, I have borne this for the last few bloated months.

I am so tired. And so terrified.

Four years ago, I nearly became a permanent occupant of the labor room. I lay for three agonizing days in induced labor before some sympathetic senior resident burst my amniotic sac with a wicked-looking plastic probe. After that, I lost all remaining shreds of dignity as I clawed my way through my husband's shirt and the drenched sheets. I fancy if I had any more strength left, I would have bent my IV stand in half. As it is, Atch tells me he has heard carabaos with a more mellifluous bellow.

Four years after pushing out a 7.11-pound Woog, I am back at square one.

I am so tired. And so terrified.

And so, undoubtedly, Atch and I will be pounding the pavement, son and dogs in tow. Muttering our prayers, shoring up a courageous front, and hoping to raise a low pain threshold.

We'll see...

27 June 2006

War and Peace

I came upon Woog stomping up and down the stairs in his school uniform, hyperventilating. It looked like he was going through the full range of Lamaze breathing exercises.

“What's up with you, hey.”

“I'm blowing my mad out.” He retorted (huff-huff-huff), still noisily wearing out the soles of his shoes.

“Who're you mad at?”

Tatay! (huff-huff-huff)”

Oh dear. I was afraid of that. I hauled my heavily pregnant self into the bedroom to find Atch doing his adult version of letting off steam. He was violently flinging himself into his work clothes, and I winced, anticipating the sound of rending cloth.

Turns out father and son had another of their many arguments involving the former's predilection for speed, and the latter's tendency to dawdle. Atch is the type who wants everything done yesterday. Woog takes time to pause and ponder out loud on the number of horns a Styracosaur has, among other things. This morning, the object of dispute was Woog's poor abused shoes. Or rather, how slow those shoes took getting into their owner's feet.

I imagine Woog daydreaming about the line of ants traversing the bathroom tiles whilst slipping his right foot into his left shoe. Meanwhile his impatient father fumes. Father then growls out something with gritted teeth, and son, rudely startled from his random thoughts, immediately launches into a thundercloud of temper. All hell breaks loose, and both parties harrumph away from each other in testosterone-filled indignation.

“After all, he is only four years old.” I try to soothe Atch. And I get a glance which spoke volumes about the household chores he was obliged to do at such and such a speed, all at the tender age of four. I have long since discovered that going head-on against my husband's dagger looks will only leave me with a slashed and tattered psyche. I instead attempted some good-natured parrying and doing the wifely duty of smoothening out his collar and ego. As soon as I assured myself no clothes were getting ripped that morning, I went down to soothe the other man in my life.

Turns out Woog didnt need my ministrations. I found him fiddling with the dog's collar and regaling his grandfather about how said dog sent him sprawling off his bike earlier that morning. His enthusiasm was catching, grandfather was chuckling.

How wonderful that children recover so quickly, unlike us adults who jealously hoard hurts and misgivings in all our Scrooge-like splendour. The distress of a moment before already forgotten, my son was regenerating as only the young can. His heart was intact, and I sent up a brief prayer of thanks. I am hoping against hope it will always be so.

As Atch came down in a rush, all pressed and dressed for another working day, Woog spun around with a start, eyes wide. He haltingly reached out, and blurted out a tentative “I'm sorry, Tatay...”

My husband paused, scooped our son up into his arms, buried his nose into a fragrant neck and made snorting noises (his version of an apology, I'd wager). Woog burst into his signature high-pitched giggle. All was well. In that moment, the apartment was filled with sounds fit to make a mother's heart swell. And for a time, I blinked up at the ceiling for some imaginary cobwebs that might need dusting.

19 June 2006

Firstborn Furor

“Mom, I want you...!” A plaintive voice calls from the top of the stairs.

It is 7:00 in the morning and my son has just woken up. My uncharacteristically needy four-year-old son.

I swallow as much breakfast as I can & hurry upstairs. Woog's tousled head is sticking out of the bedroom, his pj's hitched up to his knees, making him look like a dwarfish buccaneer. As soon as he spots me, he ducks back inside the door and jumps into his bed. “Mom, I want some chocolate milk”. And belatedly, “please...”

I sighed. The clock is racing against me. I have to be riding to work soon. But I get him his favorite dinosaur cup anyway. What do they say about time flying...before I know it, he'll be chugging down his own beer without my help.

Ever since my bump started showing, Woog has compensated for his burgeoning insecurity with increasing bouts of neediness, petulance, whining and (heaven help me) baby talk. Translated: regression. This from the self-proclaimed “big boy” who would insist on changing himself, even if his shirt were on backwards; who would bring his plate to the kitchen after every meal; who would make his own bed with special attention to the sheet corners; who would give himself his own bath, warding off any adult with a fierce flash of unibrow, his only concession to helplessness being “please wash my back”.

Where did my big boy go?

I had expected this. Sort of. When we first learned we were pregnant, the husband and I took him aside and explained this coming-of-age phenomenon known as Big Brotherhood. Ever conscious of being as objective as possible, we told him of the pros (the baby will spend most of its time sleeping; you get new stuff, it gets all your hand-me-downs) and the cons (it'll cry and poop a lot, and maybe, just maybe, you'll have to wash some baby bottles).

We did this, every single chance we could get. The child rearing books say at this age, the key was repetition, repetition, repetition.

And it did seem to work. For a while. Many times I'd wake from dozing to find Woog kissing my tummy goodnight. Upon arriving home from work, a tiny human projectile would fling itself at my midsection (“look baby, I made you a robot dino from my lego blocks!”).

Things were going so smoothly until, spawned from a well meaning sentiment of family-togetherness, we took Woog along with us for the baby's ultrasound. There in the clinic, with both parents and doctor cooing over the monitor, Firstborn's forehead creased ever more inward, and his generous brows gave a forecast of thunder on the horizon.

And thunder it did. In the next few months, Atch & I tried to keep our tempers, our sanity, and our hands from Woog's obstinate little neck. We were treated to behavior that ran a gamut from overly saccharine (“Mom, am I your sweetest?” - multiplied 20 times), to deeply sore (“I'm mad at you! You're not minding me!”), to downright stinky (bedwetting! When he hasn't had an accident in almost a year!). In between, he tried his damnedest to keep us by his side at all times (“Don't go, please don't leave me!” - clinging to our clothing exactly two seconds before we set out for work in the mornings, and in the exceptionally dire instances when a bathroom break was necessary).

In the rarest of times when the husband & I get to really sit down and talk, Woog's increasingly downward spiral becomes prime fodder. Are we paying him too little attention? Should we smother him in more hugs, kisses and cuddles? Have we been growling at him too much?

We took a long look at Woog. A really long look that had the boy squirming in his short shorts and biting nervously at his hangnails. We hugged him, inhaled his aromatic head and nearly gave him hickeys. By the time we were done, he was squirming to be released. “Woog,” we said, “you're a big brother now. Its time for you to show a good example for the baby to follow. Would you like the baby to whine like you?”

“No.”

“Would you like the baby to be misbehaved, rude and disrespectful?”

“No!”

“So will you be in charge of showing the baby the proper way to behave?”

“Yes..... Mom, am I your sweetest?”

So we started giving him more responsibility. He gets to turn on the electric insect repellent in the evenings and lay out his school clothes for the following day. We put him in charge of switching off the night-light, and lugging his potty to the bedroom before bed. He still has to master the art of folding his underwear, but he's getting there. Altogether, he's too busy being responsible to worry about being the flavor of the month.

The other week, I took out his old baby stuff for cleaning. “Lets give these to the baby, Mom.” He decided. Inside, I smiled and I smiled.

As an experiment, I sent him off to sort out all his toys: those he would keep, and those we'd donate to an orphanage. It took him a whole sweaty indecisive day, but afterwards, he proudly showed off half a garbage bag of discards.

He's trying mightily hard to please, my little one.

The other day, we took him with us for a pre-natal check-up. While I was weighing in, a woman in bed behind a hastily drawn curtain started groaning loudly in active labor. Woog, holding my handbag, started looking anxious. In a startling preview of the kind of man he'd likely become, I saw him glance up, glance down, glance at me. But never again did he let his eyes drift back towards that woman in the throes of childbirth.

In the car, we explained to him that giving birth was a messy but necessary affair. It hurt like hell, yes, but the end result was wonderful. Point in case: himself. I brought up the possibility of a midnight labor, that he might wake up in the morning and find me gone (to the hospital), but Atch smoothed over an impending rough patch by deciding that he would haul everyone, Woog included, to the hospital when the time came. “It'd be better to make him feel included.” That settled, Firstborn relaxed with a smile.

This morning, Woog woke at 6:00, excited. Today was P.E. day. Half asleep, I observed him from the corners of my mote-encrusted eyes as he made his bed. Noisily, he dragged a chair to take down his change of clothes (prepared from the night before) and grunted his way into them. He gathered up his used dinosaur cup, his tiny towelette, and turned off my alarm clock just as it rang.

“Wake up Mom! Its morning. We'll be late!”

Despite my rough heartburn filled night, I sat up and gathered him in a hug. My big boy was back.

16 June 2006

“Alien Lifeform” Within

Eli kicked up a fuss over lunch today. Being quite used to it, I lingered over my grilled milk-fish, fresh tomatoes and the usual office gossip, until one of my co-workers exclaimed that my tummy was heaving in irregular little bumps and bulges.

My Eli. He's turning 36 weeks soon, and the apprehension of future labor pains washes over me. This is NOT the kind of pregnancy where I have to monitor fetal movements intermittently. With Eli, I have become the privileged recipient of enormous belly-quakes that wake me up in the middle of the night. With Eli I have mastered the art of sleeping upright, proudly surviving heartburn, acid reflux and the accompanying breathing problems.

Eli at 12 Weeks

In the middle of the working day, I load the cd-rom drive with the classics and bring the speakers right up to my belly: voila! The tiny tornado that is my second child quiets down to the occasional stretch and hiccup, allowing me to get on with trying to earn a living.

The other night, sandwiched between my husband and four-year-old son, Woog, while watching Disney Channel (you can guess who wears the viewing preference pants at home), a tiny limb from within began to violently poke Atch's arm. On the opposite side, another body part started an epileptic little dance against my volatile pre-schooler's ribs.

Two sets of eyes turned to me. One crinkled with amusement, the other with two thick eyebrows bunched into a unibrow. My husband laughed and gently rubbed my belly, while Woog moved away from his offending sibling muttering a “tsk” sound, his eyes turning back to Lilo & Stitch.

Boy, do I have my future referee work cut out for me.

While browsing through some baby websites, I learned that at 35 weeks the baby should have grown to around 18 inches and would weigh in the neighborhood of 5 pounds. The snug-as-a-bug scenario should about limit the room to somersault in. But this medical fact hasn't seemed to stop my little blackbelt from issuing regular roundhouse kicks and elbow jabs to my poor abused insides. Sometimes I imagine my uterus to be one whole black-and-blue mass of tenderized meat, courtesy of the unstoppable juggernaut that is Eli.

A deluge of folic acid and iron supplements notwithstanding, my OB-Gyn assures me everything's normal: from the initial butterflies-in-my-stomach fluttering in the fourth month to the UFC-inspired moves in the ninth. But Eli's hyperactivity came as a great surprise. Woog, while not the most complacent of fetuses, was gentle in comparison.

As I type this, Eli is drumming an energetic sousa march against the top of my stomach – his heels, most likely. I think its about time to turn on the classics again.

08 June 2006