A-Pickah-Bah!

"A-pickah-pickah-bah-pickah-bah-pickah-bah!"

Eli has a new catchphrase, which could mean something, nothing...or everything. He uses it now, as he circles and circles his new sleeping domain.

"Do you mean 'peek-a-boo', Pet?" We ask him.

He merely flashes a toothy triangular grin, "A-pickah-bah!"

Yes, time does fly ever so fast. Just yesterday the baby was struggling to pull himself up the bars of his crib. Now, he's moved himself into a new bed. The milestones are zooming past faster and faster, my blurry eyes and pounding heart can barely keep up.


Ok, so the effort at intelligible speech is taking a little bit longer to catch up, but still...

In an effort to get in some quality time with his sleep-deprived wife, Atch "confiscated" Woog's little boy fold-out and assigned it to Eli. All things considered equal (or more likely to prevent catastrophic sibling envy), he assembled his old wooden single bed for our older son.


The boys took to their new beds like...like...well, like little boys to new toys. It took us quite a bit of convincing before we could get them to come down for lunch.

At the risk of sounding like a broken wind-up toy: where have my babies gone?

Sometime soon, in a future which looms too close for my own comfort, these boys will be grown men sleeping in big beds with their own wives....er, partners (whichever the case may be). And their dear mom will be a little old lady with silver hair, grinning toothlessly up at her progeny. "A-pickah-bah," she will drool.

"Do you mean 'peek-a-boo', Mom?" They might ask indulgently.

"A-pickah-bah!"

Indeed.

One Day, When We Can Afford A Horse...

The carriage of a true horseman....

On second thought, I'd rather be a jockey. I prefer speed in my steed. Hyuk!

"Manong Woog, I got me a horsey!"

"Giddap....but Eli, this horse is dead."

Someday, my babies....someday....

Once-Upon-A-Holiday (or a story of how one family attempts some quality time together)

The recent spate of holidays found us with nothing to do on a Sunday night. No homework, no chores, no cars to clean, no dishes to wash. Nothing but the baby's dirty diaper to worry about. Dullesville.

What do four people with less than two hundred pesos between them do on a warm balmy night? Why, go to the Lagoon, of course.

In the middle of a bustling city, sits the "people's park". Wide and tree-lined, it has the requisite pond, jogging paths, stone benches, ancient naked statuaries, rusty playground equipment.... and most importantly - it's free.

In the early mornings, the Lagoon is a gathering place for power walkers, joggers and tai'chi-ers. A donation-run aerobics class. The occasional aged stroke victim and pregnant lady. All moving to their own version of rhythm to the piped-in music.

In the late afternoons, children run amok among the playground leaves, their parents resting weary bones while keeping a wary eye. In the evenings, the Lagoon teems with couples: flocks of young giggly tweens on the pretext of study group. New couples. Old couples. Seriously intense couples in want of a room. At the periphery, itinerant vagrants wait to occupy their favorite sleeping benches.


In this setting, we parked the car a stone's throw away from the very tree where Atch & I used to make out, several young and carefree centuries ago. Woog yammered excitedly. He had spent a lot of fun and memorable moments here. Eli clutched at me in anxiety. This was after all, his first time.

Carrying a packet of stale crackers for the tilapia, we made our way down to the fish pond. Woog ran ahead, narrowly missing a trio of septuagenarians out on an after-dinner stroll.

The fish were ecstatically grateful. The surface of the water in front of us violently churned with silver tilapia bodies as Atch, Woog & I scattered bits and pieces of crackers. "Ssshhhh!" Eli lipsed, laughing, holding fast to the metal railings "sssssshhhhhhh!"

It looked like the start of a wonderfully relaxing family evening.

Not.

The moment the crackers were gone, Woog ran off into the grass quadrant, intent on checking out some young show-offs having a somersault showdown.

"Come on, El," I called, beckoning to the wild-eyed toddler who was still super glued to the metal railings, his eyes darting around in ferocious anxiety.
Atch walked a short way off and lit one of his poison sticks, while his older son meandered on the rain-damp grass a few meters away, thinking to attempt a tumble of his own.

"Nwaaaa-aha-aha-ahaaaaaah'! Eli wailed, plunking his butt down on the concrete. The pond, the fish, the grass, the passersby and the wide open night sky had overwhelmed my poor housebound boy.

Sighing in resignation, I picked him up and gagged at his sudden convulsive choke hold. From that moment on, he refused to be put down, whimpering intermittently every time a stranger passed. For the umpteenth time, not without a trace of maternal pride, I halfheartedly wished he didn't weigh a ton.

"Mom!" Woog yelled, ankle deep in wet muddy grass, "I lost my slipper, Mom! Mo-OOOO-om!

Atch tossed his cigarette into the nearest bin, and went to rescue his panicking son.

The recent rains had turned a portion of the grassy quadrant into a swampy quagmire of mud and moss. And Woog, in a typical encounter with prime splashing opportunity, made the most of the situation.

Standing on one slipper-clad foot, mud splattered from the knees down, Woog was a study in comic relief, occasionally bending down to feel around in the ankle-deep grass and muddying his arms as well. "I can't find my other slipper," he whined.


"Well, where'd you last put it?"


"I don't know."


A grandfather figure was creeping alongside him, feeling his way into the grassy marsh. His teary-eyed granddaughter stood a few meters away on the dry sidewalk, barefoot. Apparently, she had lost her slippers, too.


"Is this it?" He wearily asked, holding up a pair of muddy pink maryjanes. The granddaughter shook her head and commenced her silent weep.


Atch & I exchanged a disbelieving glance. Welcome to the bayou of lost footwear.


"Oh, throw your other slipper back in, Woog," Atch advised his frantically searching son, "maybe tomorrow, some poor little boy will find both of them, and you'll make him very happy. You'll be like Rizal." In reference to Woog's pre-school reader book where the young national hero had tossed his remaining slipper into the water for some poor fisherman's son to find.


Woog grumped all the way to a faucet where I washed off most of the mud as best I could. He stepped gingerly all the way to the car, urging us to please hurry let's go home already. Eli continued to whimper in Atch's arms, a scared and timid version of his normally cheerfully brusque self.


Sitting in the car for a breather, trying to console a cranky Woog and a weepy Eli, Atch & I exchanged long-suffering glances. "How's your sense of humor, Atch?"


Atch rolled his eyes heavenward.

*****

The next morning, we gave the Lagoon another chance. Eli giggled merrily at the fish, and shrieked with terror when we tried to urge him to explore.


We searched for Woog's missing slipper in the bright morning sunlight. It was gone of course, just like Atch said. Some poor little boy was somewhere happily sporting a pair of size 4 lime green flip-flops.


The next few moments were spent watching Woog & his Tatay race the remote control Ferrari down a sidewalk, soaking in our requisite Vitamin D, and letting the morning breeze fondle the stray strands off our foreheads.

Murderer In Our Midst

There are a lot of reasons why my mother adores my husband: they both smoke the same odorous brand (Winstons) and freely filch from each other’s supply; they both share the same people management angst, and Saturday nights often find them railing against the horrors of dealing with incompetent staff, a cloud of smoke over their heads.

It has lately come to my attention that murdering mosquitoes is apparently one of reasons that draw them together, like to like.

Mom bought one of those electric insect killers shaped like a badminton racquet, with electrified strings to fry the little winged suckers into oblivion. Remembering her favorite (and only) son-in-law, she decided to buy two.

Atch was ecstatic. Not only did the device call to mind one of his favorite racquet sports, I suspect it brought back fond memories of the days when he used to electrocute poor hapless cockroaches in a basin of water by touching live wires from a voltage regulator to the surface. How they danced, he recalled with glee, his own eyes dancing with the possibilities of his new toy.

My mom is a notorious insect-killer herself. In her youth, she has smashed medicine cabinets and glass-topped tables in pursuit of this quest. She still holds the record for decimating the most number of common houseflies with a single rubber band, all within the space of minutes – a feat yet to be broken by any member of her family.

The night Atch received this gift was a night rife with opportunity. He went from room to room, turning off all the electric insect repellent lights (yes, he had them installed In. Every. Room.), waving the racquet in front of his face, Woog fast on his heels.

Ooooooh, they went, each time it hit some unfortunate flying body, cackling like crazy at the crackling sounds of said body frying on the wires. Woog begged for a try. For this potential insect killer, it beat having to wait for the sputtering sound from one of the stationary lights.

Late that night, Atch stationed himself downstairs in the dark with the tv on, electric mosquito racquet in hand. Aren’t you coming to bed? I asked for the umpteenth time.

In a minute, Aif, came the distracted reply, let me just finish this show. But his eyes were avidly scanning the perimeter, his racquet arm poised eagerly for the kill.

I sighed. This was going to be one long night.

Atch in action

Odoriferous Lullaby

Five-year-old Woog rocking fifteen-month-old Eli to sleep:

"Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetops...
When the wind breaks, the cradle will rock..."

Some wind, kid

A Walk to Remember

The gluttonously satisfying meal of tender pig knuckles in a thick spicy stew of red beans and slices of young jackfruit has Atch and I waddling away from the table, our distended tummies in the lead.

The night is young and the stars beckon to us from their berths in the sky, so we grab our caps and make for a walk, belatedly hoping to counter the effects of the cholesterol carnage that was our dinner. Perhaps the evening breeze would dispel our fragrant expulsions of air, as well.

A shriek. Woog is right behind us, homework-free and begging for attention. So we plunk his cap on him and hand in hand in hand, we make our way out to the courtyard. We pass Inday kneeling over her euphorbia, puzzling over why they aren't growing as abundantly as the neighbors' (look to the dogs, Inday, they have daily pee parties in your garden).

Woog excitedly shrills high-pitched wordless exclamations, jumping up and down and nearly pulling our arms from their sockets. Be quiet, Woog, you're so noisy, his Tatay scolds, stop moving so much.

Let him be himself, I say, dreamily sated, he's a child. In a couple of years, he's going to lose all the vocals and become as silent as a tomb. Now, that is going to be scary.

Atch grunts around his cigarette, holding on to his hyperactive son as we make our way out of the compound. At the corner store, the usual group of bare-chested taffys toughies brag loudly over a bottle of local rum, swigged sparingly while making occasional eye-contact with the drama series unfolding on the store's tv. Hi, Woog, they call out. Woog continues bouncing between us, oblivious to his fans.


Look at him, he's beside himself, I point out to Atch, he loves being with us. When he's older he's going to lock his door, and we won't know what's going on. And I'd go, 'break it down Atch, he might be jacking off!'

Atch laughs, ruffling his happy son's hair.

Or, I continue, he might be in his room dripping hot candle wax on himself.

*snort*

Or...slicing himself and dripping candle wax on the cuts. With his door locked.

Atch is disgusted. Aif, you're sick, his sharp glance says.

Well, you never know. We're getting too old to understand teenagers these days, imagine what it'll be like during Woog's time.

Woog is blissfully unaware of my speculations on his future behavior. He is skipping along and yammering about the super powers of his imaginary pet spider. I am glad he is getting this off his chest, he is, after all, deathly afraid of the lowly arachnid.

Woog, do you remember when all three of us used to walk together after dinner, just like this, when Eli was still in my tummy? I ask him fondly.

Mom, look! A squashed frog! A squashed frog! And our budding coroner rushes off to check out the gore.

Totally out of it, Atch shakes his head.

He won't be for long. I wonder what I'd feel cleaning his room and discovering girlie magazines under his bed...

Atch expels some manly approving laughter.

Or guy-guy magazines!

Atch nearly chokes on his mirth.

We round the corner to the main road, hand in hand in hand. Woog trustingly leans forward and back, sometimes swinging from our clasped hands like a monkey on a vine.

I continue to needle Atch. What if he locks his door, we break it down, and we find him with a girl... and they're both 12!

Or, I am on a roll here, he's with a girl... and a boy...

A threesome, Atch chuckles.

... and a goat!

Woog looks up at the both of us, wondering why his parents are shaking and holding on to their aching guts in laughter.

... and they're filming the whole thing, and the next day it's all over youtube! We're done for! I slap my forehead in mock anguish.

Atch is wordless. Between his teeth, the lighted end of his cigarette is in danger of a dousing from flying spittle and gusts of chortling air. Between us, our son skips merrily along, glad of a chance to be alone with the people he loves most in the world.

We do an about face when we reach the highway - a man, his wife and their little boy - smiles on our faces, the sweat on our brows dried by the night air. And we head back home feeling better about ourselves for a number of different reasons, but mostly because of our lovely Woog, and the child he has awakened in the both of us.

Rub-A-Dub-Dub, One Pig In A Tub

Moral of the Story: Trying to Stuff a Month's Worth of Stories Into a Single Post Will Play Hell on Your Cohesion

Time flies like a demented loon out of the forest of good intentions.

I am trying to shoot for a good metaphor here, instead I end up gunning down said demented loon out of my grammatical stratosphere. Or at least I try to. Because as time is moving ever onward, the only dementia that's left is clinging in tattered entrails to my frantic typing fingertips, trying to make up for lost time (and posts) on this blog.

In the amount of time I was on "blog sabbatical", Woog went through a frightening week-long asthma attack, reminiscent of the ones I used to have as a kid. His was brought about by a now-you-see-it-now-you-don't appetite and a staunch refusal to honor siesta hour. With a weakened resistance, the poor bugger succumbed to wheezing and hacking at the first touch of the cold.

Needless to say, we drowned him in anti-allergens, smoked him silly with his nebulizer, and whupped his stubborn ass each time he conveniently "forgot" a noon meal or his afternoon nap. After each whipping, we sat down with frowning growling Mr. Obstinate, trying to sooth his hurt with some well-meant parental platitudes.

The following vacation day (one among the many other ill-placed holidays declared by an ill-placed president), we took him out for a long scenic drive and tried to stuff him with food. We'd have liked to think we were successful, or perhaps it was his new appetite stimulant cum vitamin supplement, because in the weeks that followed, he started eating and sleeping again. We threw in a full body massage each night (with efficascent oil yet!) each time he met his food and nap quota. How he purred!

Food again?!

What a lucky thing to discover massage as a bribe for good behavior. I wonder if any other desperate parent has come up with equally unusual solutions.

Robust mom, frail son

Meanwhile, the 13-month-old had developed a temperament that ran the full range of the spectrum. He'd go from saccharine sweet to viciously angry in a matter of seconds, uttering harsh staccato barks, hands darting like quicksilver to yank on his Manong Woog's hair. Or rake down our startled faces. Maybe he was frustrated about the excruciatingly slow speed of his first tottering steps, who knows? But in the two weeks that brought him into his 14th month, he went from wobbling little piglet to prancing little piglet, leaving his handlers (two parents and a nanny) plumb out of breath. As part of his daily routine, he'd scuttle up the stairs to the very top, look down from his dizzying height, then wail in a panic for someone to help him down again.

He walks. Finally.

But despite his swift progress, the temper remained. An early caveat about what to expect from him at Terrible Two? We shudder at the thought.

Eli on top of the world

One morning, under a slight drizzle, he made it out the front door and glanced up the drainpipe, hoping for a gush of water to dunk his hands under. Denied that pleasure, he turned his attention on the droplets of rain dotting his grandfather's car. Ooooh! By the time we caught up to him, he was damp and giggling. Eyes lost in the folds of his cheeks, drool mingling with the raindrops on his chin.

It may very well have been the same kind of curious excitement that led his Manong Woog to play with the new set of kitchen knives in the new knife block the day before, losing him a night's massage in the bargain.


Hah! Massage as both positive and negative reinforcement. Who'd have thought it'd work?

In other sad news, my second hand rose died. It is currently serving as compost for my growing sunflowers. Atch made it up to me by buying me some celery. The stalks I chopped and incorporated into our workday meat sandwiches, the leaves garnished Woog's favorite pancit, and the roots I buried in a pot where they are growing fresh shoots even as I type. Thanks to all this rain.


And it is still raining. It has been raining all week. It is flooded from China all the way to Ghana, and our damp days-old wash hangs in sodden downcast flags, sometimes blowing three sheets to sudden gusts of wind.


Oh, what I'd give for a touch of sunshine and some thoroughly dry underwear!

Second-hand Rose

The bank where Atchbund works celebrated it's third anniversary lately. The following day, inspired by an outflowing from the deep well of thoughtfulness that springs forth from wherever, my husband plucked a rose from one of the congratulatory baskets sent by a well-wisher.


"Here's your flower, Aifee," he announced dramatically when he got home, handing me a deep scarlet rose in the last stages of full bloom.


"Where'd you get this?" I asked, half ecstatic that he'd finally gotten my thinly veiled hints, and half mournful at the memory of the elaborately arranged dozen roses I used to get from him all those aeons ago, it seemed.


Atch being Atch, blurted out the whole bald truth with no regard to his wife's finer sensibilities: "It was the bank's anniversary yesterday."


Ah...so that explained the bluntly cut stem and the two wistful remaining leaves.


I put on a cheerful face anyway and threw myself into his arms, "Thank you, thank you for my second-hand rose! You're so sweet!"


He pouted at my sarcasm, offended.


I unearthed a styrofoam cup from the pantry and plunked the rose into it with water, placing the sad-looking arrangement atop the fridge, where it gazed upon the family eating dinner that night from its place of honor.


Later, when everyone was asleep, my second-hand rose and I contemplated each other in the kitchen's dark. "Hello, second-hand rose, " I said.


"Hello," it said back, "you never seem to appreciate your husband."


"Ouch. You don't pull your punches, do you? And a rose at that."


"Let me tell you a story, " it began. "Once there was a man and wife married for twenty odd years or so. The wife complained, 'in all our years of marriage, you never once gave me flowers.' And her husband shot back, 'well, you've never once made me a cup of coffee in the mornings.' "


I gaped at my second-hand rose. It was silent.


I stood and made my way up to bed, shaking thoughts of The Little Prince out of my head (Tired. I'm just tired, that's all. Holding conversations with a half-dead flower, 'sus).


The next morning, I took the rose (outer petals drooping) out of its styrofoam cup and carefully planted it with the sunflowers I was growing in a pot. If it gets lonely, it'll have a couple of other plants to lecture to. Assuming it lives.


"Hey, Atch," I joked in the car on the way to work, "I guess I'll have to wait for the bank's next anniversary to get more flowers. Second-hand daisy, maybe? Even second-hand baby's breath. Ha-ha!"


He pouted again, but he wasn't so thick he didn't get the joke.


Apparently, I hold that honor.

Eli Gets His Period

I buy sanitary napkins for my 13-month-old son. No kidding.

From the time he'd turned one, he'd started leaking out of his night diapers. Do you know how much of a hassle it is to get up from sweet (finally!) sweet sleep to change a whimpering toddler who'd soaked through his eight-peso-per-piece XL diapers and burnt a pungent spot on the fragrant sheets, as well?

Much too much. And just when Eli had started to sleep through the night, too.

Two XL diapies - sixteen pesos - a night. Extra laundry-ables from damp pajamies. Two extra sheets of wet wipes to scrub urine spot. Electricity wasted blow-drying bedsheets in the dead of the night. Above all, an upset baby with broken sleep. Much too much.

The next grocery day, we looked at diaper options. Pull-ups? Nah. Eli can't do pull-ups. He hasn't even started walking yet. And at twenty pesos a pop? Fwah!

XXL varieties? At fourteen pesos each??! They're kidding, right? Might as well do a milk formula downgrade to keep him in these.

Atch and I were actually considering sticking a long plastic bag (the ones they use to make ice candy) to the tip of the baby's willy each night with micropore tape. Sort of like a catheter-wee bag. (Yes, we really are cheapeskate crazy). Until we imagined Eli rolling over, busting the bag, and gushing a whole night's urine quota unto the mattress. Oh, eeeewwie!

We went home frustrated. But as surely as necessity is the mother of invention, it was a relative no-brainer attaching one of my sanitary pads to Eli's diaper. A bit bulky in the crotch, maybe. But he didn't seem to mind.



The next day, we all woke up rested, happy and leak-free. But above-all, within budget (eight peso diapy + two peso sanitary napkin = ten pesos per night. Hah!).

Yaya Merly can't get over it, she continually chuckles about Eli getting his period every night. Eli chuckles right along with her.


We realize this is temporary. Pretty soon (but not too soon, we hope) he's going to leak out of this layered nightly contraption. How do you toilet train a 13-month-old who still doesn't walk?


I guess we'll cross the bridge when we get there.

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

What do you call a toddler-to-be who has just discovered the joys of climbing stairs?

"Eli! Stop! Get Away From There!"

... and a lot of other panic-based expletives better left within the private confines of our apartment.

Eli is thirteen months old and has yet to take his first step. He pulls himself up and navigates among the furniture, letting go to stand alone for minutes at a time, only to lose confidence and fall back down on hands and knees to speed-crawl his way across the floor.

He has tried getting a leg up the water dispenser bottle. Ho-hum. And the sack of rice. Boooring. Then right about the same time his Manong Woog dispensed with afternoon naps altogether, he discovered the stairs. All two sets of them.

In a cautiously daring expedition, he scooted over to the vertical wonder from whence he'd often observed giants going up and down. Pullling himself up the first step, he lifted one leg, trembling. Then back down. Leg up again. Then back down.

Finally, resolutely locking his full lower lip, he brought himself up two steps before we all turned our heads to check on his whereabouts. Yaya screamed. Needless to say, we screamed along with her.

Hair-raising episode notwithstanding, we are tentatively looking to see how this latest caper goes. Under extremely close supervision, of course. Who knows, we may just be raising the future rock climbing champion.

In pretty much the same way champions are made, Woog just recently decided to champion his own cause - constant wakeful awareness. In particular, during the period normally designated for his afternoon nap.

I read up on afternoon naps for children and discovered that around this stage, five-year-olds normally forsake siesta for other worthier pursuits - like Disney Channel marathons or engaging in wrestling matches with a five-inch Transformers action figure.

However, put in the perspective of his slight, constantly asthmatic figure, his father and I had to put our foot down. It isn't an amusing pasttime having to painstakingly explain the addition of two-digit numerals while your drowsy student hangs his head sleepily during homework nights. By 8pm, he is a useless wreck.

Atch went up the slippery roof one rainy evening and removed Woog's cable channel connection. We told endless stories over the dinner table about how our respective fathers would whup us soundly for not observing the afternoon siesta rule. I described my belt-weals in graphic detail. Atch related the time he attempted to evade nap time by going over the family gate. His great escape was foiled when he slipped and grazed his temple on a pointed metal spoke. He ended the blood-splattered tale by showing wide-eyed Woog his scar.

Still, no go. Woog continued to remain awake during siesta hour. In the face of his delicate heath and a particularly nasty asthma attack.

We've even considered whupping his narrow ass. *Sigh*

Meanwhile, our younger son has taken on the highly entertaining hobby of single-fingeredly slaying ants. Ummm! He'd go, squashing their tiny bodies with his fat forefinger, even as his Manong Woog whimpers away from the creatures.

What a cha-cha this is! Two steps forward, one step back, swinging our hips for balance, raising our sons in this frenzied dance called life. And praying, constantly praying, that we get all the steps right.

Woog (and Mom) Keep The Faith

Woog moans, forcing his eyes open to the sight of me shaking him gently awake. He turns his head to one side and sees Eli grinning a good morning and slobbering all over the nose of his Tigger plushy ("Tighh," Eli says, "Tighh.")

"Mom," Woog pleads , "did I wake up early?" His desperation is so palpable I wish I could reassure him.

I glance at the clock. 7:00 AM. "No Woog," I say regretfully into his hair, "because here I am, waking you up."

He is crushed. And I am crushed at his disappointment. Only Eli, still chewing on Tigger's threadbare snout, is oblivious to the swirling emotions in the air.

"But I prayed to Papa God last night to help me wake up early." Woog looks ready to cry.

Oh dear.

I'm in a pickle here. How do you reaffirm your child's budding faith and support him in accomplishing the first ever worthwhile goal he's set for himself?

I feel his tortured angst. Who else but a son of mine would beat himself up over imagined wrongs, and carry lengthy grudges over imagined slights. All in the first hour of waking up.

Like me, Woog is not a morning person. He is a struggling little sleepyhead who goes through an elaborate stretching-in-bed-before-thoroughly-waking-up ceremony, and an even more elaborate dawdling-over-breakfast-to-savor-every-bite-whilst-talking-nonstop ritual, before rushing to school at the unholy hour of 8:00 AM.

His parents and his teachers have been on his case for the last three years. Whether it's been our earnestness in convincing (nagging) him, or his classmates' teasing that's inspired him, we cannot tell, except that a couple of weeks ago, he suddenly decided he would ask for wake-up call assistance in his nightly prayers. "I'll dream about waking up early, Mom," he announced. How he has unwittingly stumbled upon motivation-through-visualization, I haven't an inkling. Needless to say, I am so freaking proud of him.

And I would like to tell him about my struggle for self-disicipline and willpower, and the terrible horrible battles I've fought through the years against sleepiness, laziness and half a dozen broken alarm clocks...but in the same vein, I am determined to shore up his trust and reliance on Papa God, upon Whom this family puts a lot of stock on.

"Woog," I proceed cautiously, "I know you feel bad about not waking up early, but didn't you wake up before everyone else the other day?"

A sniff. He remembers.

"Sometimes Papa God answers your prayer with "yes". Sometimes, when it's not good for you, He says "no". And mostly, when He wants you to be patient, He says "wait."

Woog is puzzled by this, "but I can't hear Him, and I prayed twice last night." My sweet innocent! He probably expects this huge booming voice issuing edicts from heaven.

"He'll speak to you in your heart," I tell him, with the beginnings of inspiration, "you'll hear Him there. And I promise, you'll feel much better. You just have to learn to listen with your heart."

At this point, I get over the feeling that I'm winging it, lost in the turbulent sea of parenting. It gets harder to present a front of competent authority as my child grows older and starts to question the world around him, and sometimes I feel like a fraud, conning my way through with fingers crossed, hoping against hope I'm doing/saying/showing the right thing, but somehow in the middle of my explanation, The Competent Authority spoke. And He spoke in my heart.

"Papa God wants you to learn patience, Woog. And to keep on praying to him. And if you can't wake up early, He'll send me to wake you up."

Woog is smiling, wriggling out of his pajamas. The idea of mom waking him up in the mornings appeals to the remaining fragments of babyhood in him. I send up a brief prayer of thanks. One morning scene deflected, a trillion more to look forward to.

Meanwhile, Eli has abandoned a poor damp Tigger and turned his attention to opening and closing Woog's cabinet, his fingers in squashing proximity to the slamming door. I rush to the rescue once again, this time feeling infinitely more capable.

Self-reliance? Sure. Reliance on Papa God's parenting skills? Even better.

And wouldn't you know? Woog got to school early today.

His Dumb Mother

Incident Number One

Sunday grocery shopping. Heap stuff on cart and leave Atch to pay for loot. Lead boys to pizza stand for snack. (Great job, mom. Ruin their appetite an hour before lunch)

Instruct Woog to hold table. Bring baby to kiosk and get the two-in-one special (cheap mommy, too).

Woog wolfs down share. Baby struggles, whines, keeps reaching for stool. (You can't sit by yourself, Eli, you'll fall off). Baby threatens mini-tantrum.

Exasperated. Plop baby down on floor to fend for himself (Fine, do whatever!) Baby grasps stool top and goes cruising down the way, shoving stool before him. Resembles miniature geriatric geezer - pushing futuristic walker. Woog laughs. Mom laughs. (Oh, so that's what you wanted, such a dumb mommy I am).

Atch returns laden with grocery bags in time to see baby plodding a hundred meters away, unsupervised, stool in the lead. Atch laughs. Until unsuspecting shopper nearly stumbles over baby. Atch totes us home, disgruntled.

Incident Number Two

Sunday afternoon. Watching Son of the Mask (dumb film, but there's super-toddler in it - boys are riveted). Woog gapes. Eli gapes. Mom....gapes.

Baby starts to whine, restless. Mom lifts shirt and absentmindedly shoves baby's face into chest. Baby is quiet. For a time.

Baby smiles, looks up from mom's empty flaps of skin. Utters words: 'Kee-'kee...

Mom looks down, smiles at baby, turns attention back to super-toddler flattening Loki's head with metal trash bins.

.....'Kee-'kee.... chlurp...chlurp...chlurp...

Yes, Eli, 'Wuv-wuv.

Chlurp...chlurp...chlurp...'Kee-'kee! (listen to me, ya dumb mom!)

Yes, Eli, 'Kee-'kee.

Baby starts to cry, 'Kee-'kee, 'kee-'kee!

Atch peeks in from kitchen. I think he wants his milky. His milky. The one in the bottle?

Oh? Oh. Ohhhh! 'Kee-'kee! His milky! (Where's ya brain, mom?)

Mom runs to fridge and gets bottle. Hands to starving baby.

'Kee-'kee, baby smiles around nipple ( I forgive ya, mom).

_________________________

Waiting for incident number three. They say dumb-dumb stops at that number.

We hope.

Bumble-Bee and Sam Witwicky vs. John McLaine

Atch is so puzzled by the fact that Transformers was a million years better than Die Hard 4. He finally admitted this to me one morning on the drive to work and I laughed my head off (Come on, Atch. This is Michael Bay we're talking about. Against an old bald guy? Hello?)

I'm still laughing. Atch is not amused.

I'm Ok, You're Ok...We're Ok!

Selecting a subject matter for this post is getting me into a tizzy.

I could write about how Woog startled me off my seat the other night by reading three-letter words. All. By. Himself.

I know, I know. At his age, it's not that big a deal. I mean, he is five years old. And it is about time he's hurdled this milestone. After all, the rest of his class started reading a year ago, and I've let up on pressuring him about this. Woog does not respond well to stress, no sir. He flutters about in a panic like a chicken without a head. Not a pretty sight.

ADHD. Dyslexia. They came floating over our heads during homework nights when even tried-and-tested Mr. Phonics gave up on us. I despaired at his despair over my despair. Going round and round in a vicious circle. And then finally, out of the blue, while studying short letter e, he went and read four columns worth of words. Some hesitation, yes. But he got them all! And he beamed this wide wonderful smile that speared me right through the center. He reads! He reads!

(background sound: "...and the crowd goes wild!" Roaaarrrrr!)

And although I continue to float in the euphoria of that moment, I don't think I want to write about it just now. Too new and too precious, that.

Let's see. I could write about the dengue scare Eli gave us last week. He woke up with a fever and a half-dozen red spots on his dusky skin. Hasn't he been vaccinated against the measles? Checked his baby book. Yes he has. Gave him paracetamol drops and went to work.

But horrors! A client came by to transfer his memorial plan to his four-year-old daughter who succumbed to dengue the night before. The poor child! It was too late for transfusions. And the symptoms he described sounded terrifyingly familiar. I rushed to the phone forthwith. Shaken, Atch agreed for us to bring Eli to the hospital for blood tests over lunch. Oh please let his platelets be ok, please let his platelets be ok.

The epochal wait at the hospital frayed our nerves and pummeled at our growling tummies. Eli didn't help matters any by screaming his head off each time someone tried to take his temperature, or listen to his heartbeat. By that time, he was totally covered in small dull red dots. My poor spotted son!

Atch and I were nervous and irritable, mostly at each other. Not a good sign in a marriage trying to hurdle a frightening crisis (but that's another story). Finally, a hugely obese guy in a scrub suit approached with a syringe. The blood test. At the sight of him, Eli let out his horrendously grating wail, not letting up until Jabba-the-medical-technician actually left his field of vision. I doubt my anxious son even noticed he was pricked.

Two hours later I was on the phone again, begging the hospital for lab results (oh please let his platelets be ok, please let his platelets be ok.). And allelujah! It was a viral thing. Fever rashes, not dengue. Thank you, Papa God!

We're still recovering from our scare. Don't want to write about this, either.

Hmmm. What about Atch's improved response time at night whenever Eli cries out in his sleep. No more grumbling, no more whupping, no more "Eli, #$%&^ shut up!" These days, he sometimes manages to shove a bottle into his son's mouth. Viola. Instant silence. One time, he even got up and changed a leaky diaper. (Atch, is that you?)

Early morning mining expedition

But that isn't the point at all. Right this moment my family is doing great, and I don't know where to even begin. I could wax eloquent. Or I could just put up a smiley @:). Neither can describe my utmost gratefulness.

I know, I know. This can all change in an instant. But that doesn't alter the reality that right here, right now, we are truly blessed. And for this, I give thanks.

Conversations With My Son

Woog (lounging at dinner table): Mom, where's the shooter of Rodimus? I can't find it.

Mom (busy rummaging in pantry): I don't know Woog...mutter...mutter....you were the one playing with it.

Woog: (whining): But I shot the shooter and it fell near you, and now I can't find it!

Mom: Woog, I'm busy. Why don't you use your eyes instead of your mouth and come look for it here.

Woog: But I can't find it!

Mom: Woog, I can't do everything all at once!

Woog: But you're my Mommy!

*****

Eli (tries to grab Woog's toy machine gun) Aaaaaaah! Waaaa-aaaaah!

Mom (busy making bed): Woog, lend Eli your toy, please.

Woog: It's too big for him, Mom.

Mom: He'll get tired of it in a while, just please lend it to him. Set a good example. Don't be greedy.

Woog: I'll give him the small gun. Here Eli, you can have this. (hands over small plastic handgun)

Eli (still crushing on big machine gun): WAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Mom: Woog, just please lend that big gun to Eli, ok? Please?

Woog (sternly): This is not for you, Eli. Guns are violent. Don't play with guns. (*rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat!*)

*****

(In car, on the way to school)

Mom: Woog, copy your assignment properly, ok?

Woog: Yes.

Mom: Listen to the teacher and be a good boy, ok?

Woog: Yes.

Mom: Are you going to finish your lunch and sleep this afternoon?

Woog: Yes.

Mom: Are you going to lock all the doors again like you did yesterday?

Woog: Yes.

Mom: !!!

Mom: Woog are you listening to Mom?

Woog: Okay...okay...what did you say, Mom?

Girls' Night Out

There are five of us and we are sitting in the dining room shovelling spoonfuls of chicken paprika, fried milkfish in onions and chicken broccoli casserole into our mouths, talking at the same time. We try not to let specks of food fly. We are seldom successful. And we don't care.

This is supposed to be a once-in-a-month gathering, a coven of five giggly "girls" who heap insults and compliments upon each other's heads in equal measure. The power of five. Alas.

This is my first attendance, while most have made it to four. I am abashed and ashamed at my reticence, yet almost reluctant to leave my wifehood and motherhood behind to take up where I left off on scattered friendships. I have calcified into my comfort zone. A pox on me.

What seems like aeons ago we were lawschool hopefuls: studying, partying, intriguing, arguing. Young and immortal, tireless zealots (mostly) without cause. Now four are wives and mothers. Two proudly wear the badge of counselor. One feels the odd man out.

They chide me for my flimsy excuses, and for having cut my hair. They coo at pictures of my babies. I coo at pictures of theirs. Giddy from the food and strawberry wine, we gossip in front of the television, striving to keep up with a tagalog teleserye of step-siblings in love, while scoring the latest news on our peers.

I am trying to dance an old dance, struggling to remember the steps, while they waltz around me in circles, urging me back into the cotillion.

Time induces the of strangest things. While I have become confident at mothering and wifedom, I suck at friendship. I can tell. They can tell.

After groping for a time, I call it a night at eleven. Outrageously early for a girls' evening out. But I am embarrassingly eager to get back to my sleeping babies, feeling guilty for having missed out on kissing them goodnight.

I wave goodbye, relieved, yet unwilling to give up on myself. If I have lost the spark of my youth, I shall fight to regain it. As with the friendships I refuse to let slip from my grasp.

Girls, same time next month?

07-07-07, 7PM

The number 7 has held a special significance from the time of the ancient Babylonians, who revered the seven sacred planets. For the Chinese, it is a lucky day to get married as the number signifies togetherness, while Japanese mythology has seven lucky gods personifying earthly happiness. Seven is a sacred proportion in Islam, and Buddha is said to have taken seven symbolic steps at birth. In the Bible, God rested on the seventh day. Roman Catholics have seven sacraments. Even gamblers see seven as a lucky number - just look at the slot machines where a trio of sevens equals the lucky jackpot.

And for Eli, who turned a year old on July 7, 2007, he began the momentous day at 7AM wetly gaping at chandeliers and statues of saints for a thanksgiving prayer at the nearest church. By 7PM, at his birthday party, he showered the significant night with a healthy dose of tears, and his special brand of tantrum fireworks, retiring upstairs to leave his guests gorging on a hefty repast:

His lucky banner and balloons

His lucky food and family

His luckless overstimulated self

His mom, the lucky rescuer

His lucky bottle

His spoils, the morning after.
A Fisher Price, the lucky boy.

Sippy Symphonies

That's it? That's all there is?

I can get 8 whole ounces out of my bottle.

This sippy cup is waaaaaay overrated. Bleachh.

Baby on The Brink

You there, Pokey Bear. Why do you blatt on so? Your mouth is an overturned cereal bowl glistening with saliva and tiny rice teeth.

It pains me to see you, twisting and turning in Yaya’s grasp, your arms pathetically held out to me. Wailing.

I hate leaving you like this. I imagine you must be thinking: why are Tatay and Mommy and Manong Woog leaving again? It must be such a fun place for them to be going everday.

Poor, pet. You’re too young to understand that we’re going because we have to, not because we want to.

Wait. I speak for myself. Manong Woog loves school (thank Papa God for that) and Tatay enjoys bossing his people around (so he won’t have to boss us around at home. Thank Papa God for that, too).

As for me, Baby-boo, I would like to stay home and hold you to my chest until you quiet down and hug me tight, patting my back with one hand like I was the one in need of comfort. Perhaps I am.

Such a month it has been for us, no? Sleepless and snot-filled. Fearless and fast. Time has pulled you forward and forward at such dizzying speed. Why, last month you hardly crawled at all! Now you scuttle across the floor like one of the crabs Manong Woog was chasing all over the beach last summer.

(Remember how I nearly died of fright last night when I got back from checking on Manong Woog and found you had woken up and crawled to the very edge of the big bed?)

Last month, you had four teeth, now you have six. Your awful cold morphed into a chest-rattling cough, and it scared me to listen to you hack half the night away, until you puked into my neck and soaked my hair with phlegm and half-digested milk. Poor ‘Poke. Such a lot of weight you’ve lost. Even my arms don’t ache as much when I carry you around these days.

I keep thinking we have to make up for lost time. Then I remember…time has brought you to the here and now. Time has brought you clear into the brink of this eleventh hour of your eleventh month, where you nonchalantly let go of your grip on the tv rack or the sofa or the bureau drawers, and stand alone for minutes at a time while I hold my breath, my heart in my throat. And you are laughing. Laughing.

You will be cruising soon, and I must prepare all of my nerve for that. You will be turning a year old, as well. And ever more curious, too. It is all Manong Woog can do not to shoo you away from his toy shelf after you’ve tired of opening and exploring all the drawers and cabinets within your reach.

Don’t cry so, my Pet-a-poo. Tatay is leaning on the horn, and I must get to work, else I’ll end up not going. Yaya urges you to wave goodbye, and you make a half-hearted gesture with your hand before you remember that I’m leaving, and you bawl harder than ever.


I force myself to walk away, and I’m hoping you might call out “Mommm-mom-mom-mommm!” like you did last weekend from your crib with your arms held out to be carried – I might just end up staying, who knows - but all you do now is yowl fit to break my heart.

Hush-hush, Poke-poke. I’ll see you again, I promise. Tonight, when I get home, I’ll hug you so tight and tickle you so hard, you’ll forget that you ever were so sad.

See you later, Eli-gator. You take care. Papa God bless you.

And Mom-mom wuvs you soooo much!