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