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