Yaya's Leaving

When Yaya approached us two weeks ago to tell us she was leaving, we felt our little world tilt lopsidedly off-kilter. Her father had called her cellphone, instructing her to give notice up to April 22nd. It appears he had returned to work as a sacada in one of the sugarcane plantations to the north, and he would be able to send her back to school.

Yaya Rose has been the kids' caregiver, it seems, like forever. She came to us when Woog had started his first year of school, a sturdy and feisty laughing girl of sixteen, always with a quick-witted retort for every situation. It was her her first time in the big city and on her initial solo flight to pick Woog up from class, she took the wrong jeepney home and ended up miles from her destination.

How we panicked. Atch left work, ready to comb the streets for Yaya and Woog. Sam drove to the school and interviewed everyone he could get a hold of. And my father-in-law jumped into his pick-up and drove aimlessly around the district, looking for them.

Two hours after they were due home, Yaya and Woog returned. It seems Yaya had pleaded with the jeepney driver to bring them to the right street, and bless his heart, despite it being way out of his route, he did. Yaya, sobbing with fright, phoned me immediately. After reassuring her that all was well, I had a word with my son, who it turns out, had the adventure of his life. Such fun he had on the long drive, he reported.

That misadventure aside, Yaya Rose quickly grew into the family. She may have been young, but she exhibited such initiative, responsibility and resourcefulness that we left Woog in her care without turning up a sweat. Woog loves her like a second mother.

Yaya & Woog at Pa-on Beach

Yaya's duties multiplied when I had Eli but she took all this in stride, even if I knew she was tired in the evenings when we came home from work. Poor Yaya. Despite this, she stayed in on most of her days-off, opting to save rather than have fun. Occasionally her mother dropped by to borrow money off her salary.

Yaya with four-month-old Eli

When she told us she was leaving, Atch and I offered to send her to school if she would stay with us. What a life we would have without Yaya Rose! The kids would miss her terribly, and we would have to begin another exhaustive quest to find a trustworthy nanny, someone we would have to trust with our sons' very lives. Out of the blue, I had nightmares of a new nanny dropping Eli on his head and not telling us. Or mistreating our mischievous little Woog.

Yaya consulted her father about our offer, but he was adamant about her returning home. She had to bring her little brother to the local Daycare center each day ("Nanny without salary," Yaya smirked), and to herd the family's carabao home from grazing after class, he said. Yaya being the dutiful daughter she is (a huge chunk of her salary goes to home to her family), acquiesed to all of this.

So she's really leaving us. Yaya has become so much a part of our family, it'll be like cutting off an arm when she goes. And if someone were to ask if I ever felt depressed, now would be the time for me to say "yes".

Already time is growing short. Atch and I are scouting for a replacement, and yes, good help is so hard to find. The last person we hired a month ago to assist Yaya skipped out after less than a week. How does one find a person one can trust?

Atch and I are praying really hard that we find such a person. We've told the boys and Woog still doesn't believe it. He thinks it's all a great big joke. I cringe at the tantrum he is likely to throw on D-Day.

Still, the world continues to turn and I am hoping for a light at the end of our tunnel. Even if we have to lose someone for which we hold great trust and affection.

I wish Yaya Rose all the best. When she leaves, I pray she remains safe, finishes school and has a wonderfully blessed life. She deserves it.

The Brotherhood of the Ar-'cave'

When Atch was little more than a snivelly thirteen-year-old, a provincial lad from a sleepy little town to the south, his forward-thinking and highly optimistic father sent him off to the big city to get a high-school education. Left to his own wits and devices save for the guidance of his sister barely a year older, Atch took it upon himself to learn the ways and means of the city boys his age. That was when he discovered a mentor in the person of Monsieur Pacman. Also, Sensei Atari, and last but not the least, the highly celebrated brothers, Señors Mario and Luigi.

Atch spent his every spare moment (and often, most of his allowance), with these mentors, honing his skills in the downtown district's video enclaves. And might I deduce, although he may violently deny it, that he logged countless classroom hours there as well.

It was during one of these aforementioned days that Atch emerged, disoriented, from the encompassing dimness of the gaming consoles and beheld the dimness of the late afternoon sky. He had spent the better part of the day ensconced in another world (or worlds) and time had fled from him, fleet of foot. Behind him, an unnamed man approached, and pressing the point of a blade at his back, demanded his valuables. Perhaps this man thought a boy who could afford to play video games the whole day had money to burn. And Atch, this terrified provincial lad of thirteen, ignorant of the dangers of the streets, ran.

He doesn't recall how far he ran before the man, older and slower, thrust the blade into his back, piercing through his knapsack and his shirt, before slicing into his flesh. The feel of the cold blade gave Atch the much-needed spurt of adrenalin, and he pumped his legs almost half a kilometer more before winding down with a stitch in his side. That was when he started to feel the pain and the seeping of blood from the wound.

He crept back to his boarding house, cleaned and doctored himself, not letting his sister know. He carries the scar to this day.

Fast forward to the present.

Once a gamer, always a gamer. Or the mango doesn't fall far from the tree. Whichever way one puts it, the true test of paternity will show itself in the way a child will automatically gravitate towards a father's old habits - all but dead and forgotten - almost as if the child were genetically predisposed to follow a certain behavioral pattern.

Woog mysteriously disappeared after a chicken dinner at the new mall. Nobody really gave much heed because I was feeding the baby the last of the mashed potato, Yaya was gathering a mound of bones for the doggy bag, and Atch was getting ready to go out for a smoke.

"Where's Woog?" He asked.

I waved my hand around vaguely, thinking our four-year-old was somewhere in the store, pestering one of the servers as was his wont. But Atch was having one of his premonitions, and he walked out of the outlet with a frown on his face. He came back ten minutes later looking bemused, leading Woog by the scruff of his neck.

"Guess where I found him...." Atch began.

"Mommy, I went to the ar-cave!" Interrupted his son.

"The ar-cave?" I shot Atch an amused glanced.

"The ar-cave." They both said in unison.

So we packed up and walked across the way, three doors down, and sure enough, a video arcade sat there in all it's dim-lighted glory, looking for all the world like some futuristic cave with flashing lights and bleeping sounds emanating from within.

We pushed our way through a multitude of kids and teenagers while Atch and Woog bought themselves some tokens. Soon they were engaged in some sort of electronic shoot-out:

Woog & his Tatay in a battle versus the evil dead

"I aim with my heart. He who does not aim
with his heart has forgotten the face of his father..."
(from The Gunslinger by Stephen King)

It went on and on while Yaya and I gawked around us in pitiful bewilderment, clearly out of our element, surrounded by a sea of gamers, Eli included:

Starting the baby's training early

He's already got that floaty disoriented "don't-bother-me" look

In the haze of all the zinging, bleeping and flashing lights, I suddenly had a vision of what the future was going to be: the boys will have reached their tweens, and as expected, the house will be empty on a Saturday afternoon. So do I know where my boys are? Yes, of course I do. They're in the video arcade, under the parental supervision of their father - who has taken up his old hobby (don't you know, it's like riding a bicycle) - where they improve their hand-and-eye coordination and work on their lightning reflexes. Meanwhile, the purchase of arcade tokens will take up a large part of the household recreation budget, and so will twice-yearly visits to the optometrist to renew eyeglass subscriptions. At least we won't be worried about bailing them out of juvenile detention facilities.

Finally, it is nearly 9 pm and none of the boys (baby included) show traces of tired. Yaya and I exchange a glance, and I began my quest to urge them homeward. We got home near 10 pm and we had to wake the sleeping baby for his bath. Somehow I have a feeling that this is going to be a weekend event.

Ah well, what goes around, comes around.

Calling Mr. Sandman...

It is six in the morning and I awaken to Eli chuckling

"E-heh, e-heh, e-heheheh!"

three inches from my face. What he is doing there, I cannot at first comprehend. Doesn't this little bugger have a crib of his own? Then recall comes with a sluggish wakefulness and I remember: oh, yes. Atch put him there. Beside me on the big bed. In the early hours of pre-dawn.

I am trying to sleep-train my 8-month old son. I am wondering if it is too late at this point in time to undo the beddy-bye routine that makes slumbering with Eli in the same room a living nightmare. You see, I feed him on demand. And if by demand you mean the getting up out of bed, the half-blind shuffling to the crib to lift a crying baby out and the the heavy sinking into the lounging chair to nurse him, every two hours, then yes, you have got it right on the nose.

Were I younger and in full possession of my sleep-deprived faculties, I wouldn't mind night-feeding him up to his tenth month, as I had with Woog. But age and its accompanying physical infirmities are doing wonders to my perception of reality. Just this week, I find myself climbing into a car idling at the curb. It is quitting time at work and Atch is here to pick me up. But it is not Atch gazing down at me from the driver's seat. It is a stranger who is smiling at me in a puzzled sort of way. I hurriedly apologize and back out of the vehicle. Behind me, the building's security guard is trying his level best not to guffaw. I look left-a-ways, and there is Atch, leaning on his horn and looking daggers at me. Ah, the extraordinary life of the walking dead.

So I am in the process of attempting to Ferberize my son, as they say in the child-rearing books. I am going to let him cry it out in the night so he will eventually learn to sooth himself to sleep. In turn, allowing me to pay the interest on my sleep-debt. I come equipped with research and I implore Atch to bury his head under a pillow while I begin to disorient Eli's sleep schedule like a rigid taskmaster. I am confident and I am determined. And of course, I am doomed to failure.

Which brings us to the reason why the beloved subject in question is right here and now, spraying minute bits of morning saliva on my face as he hyuks it up with great enthusiasm. And I look back at the night previously, wondering where it all came askew:

It is bedtime at Door Number Five and I am tossing and turning in half-sleep, anticipating. Then it comes. A whimper. Building up to a full cry. I let it rise to a crescendo before I slide out of bed and gently attempt to pat him to sleep ("Mom's here, Eli...ssshhhhh....sleep). Eli cries harder. And yet louder.

In the big bed, Atch is groaning and slapping another pillow over the one he already has over his head. Eli is cranking up the volume. Then he is screaming. I continue to pat him and I hum. From deep within himself, my son is discovering his inner bullhorn, and he lets loose with passionate blubbering abandon.

An hour passes. I am nearing my wit's end, and my chest is near to bursting. What mother can stand the pitiful howls of her own child? With Eli's every tortured wail, my heart hitches in my chest. Then and there I resolve to murder Richard Ferber. Apparently, Atch feels the same way, because he throws off his legion of pillows and thunders his way to the crib. He picks Eli up, and immediately, as if someone has pushed the off botton on his remote, his screaming stops.

Atch carries the hiccuping baby to the big bed, and as soon as he puts him down and snuggles in next to him, both of them fall into deep sleep. I shake my head in wonder. Atch is certainly mellowing in his old age. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he relents to allowing me to co-sleep with a yowling baby Woog, all those centuries ago.

And so the next morning finds me struggling to peel my encrusted eyes open while my baby son is on his tummy, shuddering in a fit of giggles. I turn my head and behold the source of all this mirth. It is Woog. He is sitting on the other side of the bed and making silent gruesome faces, while his brother near busts his gut in glee.

"Good morning, Mommy!" Woog exclaims. And suddenly, I remember that it is summer vacation. School is out for the next two months and the hot days stretch out before him with all it's endless mischievous possibilities. Ah, so this is why he is up so early. And I want to ask him why why why is he up with the sun now, when he let me plead with his sleepy, kicking self to "please get up or you'll be late" during the previous ten months of preschool mornings?

I sigh instead and allow the high-piping sounds of his voice and Eli's laughter to wash over me, fuel for another grisly night of sleep training just around the corner.

Would anyone know the Sandman's mobile number?

All tuckered out after a rough night

An Uneventful Sunday

When I regaled Atch about the ongoing brouhaha that was the SM craze, he shuddered and promptly shelved our much-awaited plan to bring the boys on a tour of the place after Mass on Sunday.

"Let's wait two more months," he announced, "maybe by May or June, people will get tired of crowding into SM."

Woog did his pouting stomping routine. He was so looking forward to spending some serious quality time on the kiddie train that plied the commuter route from one end of the mall's north wing to the other. After such a build-up of anticipation, this unexpected downturn of events was too much for his four-year-old self to take.

Eli merely goggled at his brother's spectacle and grinned.

But Mass ended early after a relatively short sermon by a relatively sloshed Father A. Apparently the allure of communion wine was harder to resist this Sunday. So Atch had a change of heart (a very rare occurrence) and hauled us posthaste to the city's destination of choice.

The mall opened at 10 am, and there we parked with the motor idling, the blast of car air-conditioning shielding us from the summer glare, while a humongous slice of the populace accumulated in front of each of the yet-to-be-opened doors of the mall.

"Oh God, Mommy, you were right." Woog exclaimed in horrified outrage, and Atch and I exchanged a horrified-mirthful glance of our own. Should we give in to laughter at the seemingly blase observation from the lips of our little ingenue, or should we chastise him for using such blasphemy on such a holy day?

In the end, laughter won (blast our souls to Sheoul), and to my great surprise, Atch changed his mind twice in one morning, deciding to drive to the opposite end of the city to visit the other mall. I wanted to say: 'Observe my kiddies, and take note, for this is a rare day indeed, one not to be repeated in another millenium'. But Woog had gone back to sulking, and Eli had fallen fast asleep in the backpack. Oh well.

As soon as we got out at the nearly deserted grounds of SM's rival, we made a quick stop for some groceries, then brought the kids to the resident Toys 'R' Us. Woog perked up immediately and Eli awoke from his stupor to behold the colorfully furry world of plushies.

I took out my camera phone and squeezed in a couple of shots



before store security came and warned me that it was prohibited to take pictures of the merchandise.

Eh? What merchandise? I was preserving my kids faces for posterity. What did he think we were? Secret agents from the rival store, out to take inventory their stock? But the security guy shook his head adamantly: cease and desist. Fine. Whatever does you. I stuck my tongue out at his retreating back and I felt much much better.

Woog spent some time at the Megablocks station, but as soon as Eli started yawning again, we headed for home.

And such was our uneventful Sunday.

Woog eventually did get to ride the SM train, at near closing time when the crowds were thin and the train had ceased the day's run. He was beyond ecstatic. And it humbled us to never discount the simple pleasure that kids derive from such pittances. It makes their memories of childhood all the more sweet.


Would that we could have given him more.

The Madness Continues

Thrilled about a foray into the realm of mall-dom, we planned to spend our lunch hour at SM. We figured the 1-minute walk from the office to this spanking brand new edifice would give us a headstart on the rest of the city. Roming, in the spirit of bountiful bonhomie (and because he was near to peeing in his pants from the excitement), volunteered to treat all ten of us to lunch. There was a collective hurrah, and we settled down unto our wriggling behinds, every once in a while glaring at the clock and urging father time to hurry up.

Five minutes to the hour, we assembled our hick selves at the lobby, dragging along with us wrinkled Mrs. G., a septuagenarian from Sales, who started to complain about the heat the moment we stepped out into the noonday sun. But no matter, we were hungry and all keyed-up with the promise of a tour and the free lunch.

We crossed into the unusually heavy lunch hour traffic only to discover, with absolute horror, that the rest of hicksville (indeed, and citizens of the surrounding hick towns, as well) had the very same idea.

It was shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow inside the sprawling 16 hectares of mall. A throng of thousands crammed every available breathing space, sending the stench of humanity into our cringing nostrils. And where the day before the hum of centralized air-conditioning raised goosebumps on the stubble of newly shaved legs, the heat from the crush of bodies brought to us the humidity of the approaching summer. By the time we were inches inside, we began to sweat freely. Woe to the person whose deodorant was not up to par. And further woe to whoever was squeezed in next to him.

There were students on their lunch break, office workers, young lovers, old couples, berserking toddlers and screaming infants asphyxiating in their strollers. There were well-heeled hicks and rubber slipper-clad hicks. Was that the vice-mayor crushing past? (or was it the city prosecutor? Hard to tell in this slippery sea of faces)

We inched our way through, employing the sharpness of our elbows as was necessary. The escalator was blooming with people, and Mrs. G. gave a terrified squawk as this piece of moving stairway creaked in protest.

Forty sweaty swear-filled minutes later, we crowded into Shakey's Pizza and comandeered three tables, pushed together. Roming barked off items from the menu, and we huddled together in tense hungry misery, not envying the swirl of starving mall-goers wandering outside, looking for a space to eat. In fact, we practically gloated. From the corner of my eye, I watched Marivic stick out a surreptitious tongue. Sneaky.

Halfway through and still hungry

Second course, with Roming looking none too happy.

The meal, both first and second courses (who can deny the clamor of ten hungry bellies) was finished in quick quiet succession. Not a word was spoken until the last crumb was consumed. Then and only then did we rue our luck at placing ourselves in that unfortunate situation. We heaped abuse on our own hick heads, and ended up laughing and planning the next day's escapade (once a hick, always a hick).

Roming hemmed and hawed over the tab, but our server presented him with two free mugs and he promptly forked over his cash, satisfied for the nonce. Outside, the crowed ebbed and flowed, flowed and ebbed. We were stuffed, who cared about them.

On the way back, we passed through the hypermart and scored ten cups of free coffee. There was ice-cream too, but said cart was sprouting with students so we finally chickened out.

Waddling back to the office and sipping coffee, we ticked off the pros and cons of this new SM branch. All this will pass, we collectively agreed, give it a month or too.

We walked back leisurely and we were thirty minutes late for work.

Of course.

Suddently, SM

With me wiggling at her heels, Mamsie snagged the VIP invitation off RPG's desk. He and his family were leaving for Boracay the following day on some week-long Rotary conference of sorts, and three very opportunistic scavengers were waiting in the wings with bated breath to fill in the available rsvp gap.

"So, who are you bringing with you," RPG asked in a gruff absent-minded voice as he ruffled through the mountain of papers on his desk.

"Dondi and Tonet." Mamsie said, and I bounced in silent affirmation, waggling my eyebrows at the boss. Tonet, more sedate, was peeking in from one side of the open door.

"Hmmm," he concurred, blowing his signature cloud of Philip Morris smoke at all and sundry. Mamsie gave us the thumbs up while holding her pharyngitic breath, and I jiggled out on the springs of my heels, grinning and panting like an eight-week old puppy on ecstacy.

And so we three, powdered, combed and scented, climbed into Tonet's "limousine" the following afternoon, hearts palpitating and nostrils flared. Like all backward provincial hicks everywhere who have finagled their boss' opening ceremony invitation, we giggled our way into the blessing of SM City Bacolod, this grand chain of shopping malls, this Walmart of Asia.

The excitement had built up slowly over time, when this 26th branch of the chain slowly grew up a loud shout away from our office building. The anticipation buzzed through the city, as the populace sighed in relief at not having to spend on ferry fare to sail all across the straight to Iloilo to shop at the SM there.

And finally, after nearly two years of anticipation, we made our entrance into it's gilded doors.

We wound our way amongst the VIPs, the semi-VIPs, and the pseudo-VIPs (e.g., us truly), shivering in the chill of the centralized air-conditioning and clutching at each other in goggle-eyed awe, like a trio of schoolgirls let loose in Malacañang.

The general public would not be due in until the grand opening the following day, and we basked in the boast-worthy glow of being among the first guests to walk the polished tile flooring, gawk at the leaping Masskara Dancers, and finally set eyes on the great man himself, Henry Sy.

A crowd of Who's Who surrounded the founder of the SM Group of Companies, this man who rose from humble shoe peddler at age 12 to become the 14th richest man in Southeast Asia; this moon-faced liver-spotted patriarch who now sat in a wheelchair and gazed with blank detachment at the wall of people and cameras and bouncing wiggling puppies (e.g., yours truly) that surged around him.

"Good afternoon, sir!" I gushed, shaking his hand, "I'm Dondi of (so-and-so) Company, can I have a picture taken with you?"

And he glanced at me woodenly, his lips slitted open in a quarter-smile as he shook my hand back. So I tried again, this time in Tagalog: "Magandang hapon sir, ako po si Dondi, ng (so-and so) Company, pwede ho'ng magpa-picture kasama nyo?"

Again the semi-smile blank look. I was debating on having to ask him again in Chinese, wondering if he was deaf, when an impatient Tonet grabbed my camera and snapped our picture:

Hoping his luck rubs off. With Henry Sy at SM Bacolod blessing

The throng moved off, lighted candles held out, as Henry Sy and groupies took off for the far reaches of his SM realm, with Mamsie, Tonet and I - on the fringes of this impromptu caste system - in hot pursuit.

A few leagues later and out of breath, we asked ourselves WTF we thought we were doing, and finally slowed down to admire the scenery, mentally marking products and services to purchase and avail of as soon as our purses were fat with next payday's hard cash.

We chanced upon a camera crew interviewing some very tall, very thin and very white person, and in the spirit of moviestar mania, we had our pictures taken with her, too:

Long, tall and whitey. With model/actress and fellow mom, Charlene Gonzalez-Mulach

By this time, the muscles of our calves and the tendons of our insteps were doing some frenzied moviestar screaming of their own. So much so, that we blatantly ignored Sports Unlimited host, Marc Nelson (he of the rippling abs) and august warbler, JoseMari Chan (he of the golden voice), to park ourselves at the food court and gorge on the vast array of food laid out by no less than three caterer's of tasty renown,

Free food!

all the while wondering about a couple of squatter colonies at the far edges of SM City Bacolod's sprawling 16 hectares, most of whose families would be sitting down for their first and only meal of the day. SM will be providing permanent and seasonal employment to some 3,000 people at any given time, but will trickle down economics do it's magic on this job-benighted land? Perhaps in time? Perhaps never? But perhaps we shall also shove this issue away for another day (or two) while we cater to the chirpy consumer prancing madly about in our chests, panting every which way, slavering.

And so way past office quitting time and into the first hour of night, we found ourselves at the hypermarket stocking up on a grocery item or two (Mamsie went hogwild on the pork specials, Tonet took home two dozen eggs). We saw our tired selves tucked into Tonet's "limo", laughing at our adventure (a.k.a., the great office escape) and comparing aching body parts.

The very next day, we ventured out again with all members of the company staff in tow, only to be faced with a shoulder to shoulder horde of humanity.

But that is another story....

For Every Woman...

For ages, women have been complaining about sexism, masochism, discrimination, abuse - all because, and in the name of our gender. We claim that men have always had the easier time of it. Which is true, to a certain extent.

But what of men? I got an inkling as to the other side of the coin when I came across this one:


For Every Woman...
by Nancy R. Smith.

For every woman who is tired of acting weak when she knows she is strong;
There is a man who is tired of appearing strong when he feels vulnerable.

For every woman who is tired of acting dumb;
There is a man who is burdened with the responsibility of ‘knowing everything’.

For every women who is tired of being called an ‘emotional female’;
There is a man who is denied the right to weep and be gentle.

For every woman who is called unfeminine when she competes;
There is a man for whom competition is the only way to prove he is masculine.

For every woman who is tired of being a sex object;
There is a man who must worry about his potency.

For every woman who feels ‘tied down’ by her children;
There is a man who is denied the full pleasure of parenthood.

For every woman who is denied meaningful employment and equal pay;
There is a man who must bear the financial responsibility for another human being.

For every woman who was not taught the intricacies of an automobile;
There is a man who was not taught the satisfaction of cooking.

For every woman who takes a step towards her own liberation;
There is a man who finds that the way to freedom has been made a little easier.

This Is My Life

Found an online quiz. Went ahead and answered it (I mean, what the heck). This is the result:

This Is My Life, Rated
Life:	7.3
Mind:	7.2
Body:	7
Spirit:	8.4
Friends/Family:	6.5
Love:	9.1
Finance:	7
Take the Rate My Life Quiz

It amazed even me. If I took this seriously, apparently I'm doing better than I thought. Thank you, Papa God.

Rebel Without Applause

Fast Forward

They say you can tell you're getting old when you glance at the calendar and realize a couple of months have gone by and you haven't even noticed. That and the new set of wrinkles which have apparently appeared overnight at the corners of your eyebags (your eyebags!), and aren't those liver spots dotting the back of your hands? There...right there, over where a new strand of milky-blue veins has sprouted on the crinkly paper-thin skin.

And some days, you're grateful for the accumulated wisdom of the ages, but other days you wish you had a horse on hand, or some other herbivorous quadruped with hard hooves to kick the ache out of your back (and maybe, hopefully, carve out a new one).

Another year of life. Another year that didn't bother to approach stealthily, to gently surprise you like a rainbow forming over the wide blue yonder, but a year that chose to jump violently in front of you wearing a colorfully feathered dragon mask and yelling "Ooogah-boogah!" whilst shaking a wooden coconut rattle in your face. Oh, is it that month already? So soon?

And the time warp that just occurred? (or perhaps an early visitation of Alzheimer's, take your pick) It seems to have carried both your children in it's wake: suddenly they seem twice the size they once were. And you shake your head and wonder how it's possible that Woog's pajamas, all of his pajamas, that once covered the length of his shins, now rest on the balls of his knees. Or how Eli's extra long, extra roomy t-shirts have bunched up above his burgeoning belly, making him look like Buddha in a shrunken vest.


And wait. How is it that Woog can now reach the kitchen sink? Wasn't it only a couple of months ago he was on his tippy-toes, hard put to deliver his empty dinner plate for washing? And Eli? He's walking!

Well...ok...he isn't really walking. At least not yet. But didn't you vaguely remember introducing him to Woog's old walker at the age of six months? He sat there for a while looking puzzled, fiddling with the musical buttons, and when he involuntarily kicked out with his feet, the sudden momentum that carried him a few feet backwards startled him so badly he loudly burst into tears. These days, you're hard pressed to keep up with his meanderings. "Uhm-buh!" He explodes, propelling his eight-month-old self in the general direction of the whirring electric fan, his curly topknot of curls bobbing like oft-jumped upon mattress springs, Yaya hot on his heels.



You feel joyous yet somehow despondent, and you sigh the bittersweet sigh of parents whose children are growing up too fast for you to keep up with, leaping through milestones at the speed of light. Don't grow up yet, you want to wail, hoping to hold on to their baby-hood and childhood selves as long as possible. Even as Woog reminds you, all adult-like, to wash behind your knees. Even as Eli reaches out from his high-chair and crams a couple of biscuits into his two-tooth maw, without even breaking into a sweat.

And you exchange a glance with your dearly beloved and equally aged husband, who is rubbing his lower back and wishing for some equine assistance of his own, both of you wanting years upon years upon years with which to enjoy life with the children, without the bothersome occurrence of time warps (or Alzheimer's, take your pick) to distract you from them.

But you finally settle unto yourselves with the realization that, indeed, another year has come upon you, and you are powerless to stop the inevitable progression of seasons. That the only thing left would be to devote unfailing attention to each passing day, to never miss a second of the beauty of your children unfolding.

Woogie Does Hawaii

Woog was a nervous bundle of anxiety the morning we left for Robinson's for his school's annual field trip. On this one, the kids would be paying a visit to Greenwich to learn to assemble their own pizzas.

"I don't know how to make pizza, Mom," Woog worried for the umpteenth time. And in turn, I worried about him. My normally confident and excitable four-year-old has for some reason, recently developed a case of the nerves. He obsesses about the most inconsequential of matters and frets about everything, and nothing: the night's potential bad dreams, the size of his toast, that he might miss a certain children's party, the exact placement of the food on his plate (eggs on the left, fries at 10 o'clock, ketchup dead center). He even broods about events far off into the future.

All this feverish uncertainty in one so young has me frantically nitpicking through our methods of raising him. Are we too stingy with praise? Do we not acknowledge his efforts often enough? Are we remiss in building his self-esteem? Too tough about tough love?

The list is endless, and it piles up into the huge mountain of guilt that all mothers hoist about their shoulders, like Atlas bowed underneath the burden of the world. Don't we all just wish we could do more for our children, but somehow fall short of our own expectations in doing so? I continually bash my figurative head in for failing to be more patient, more loving, and more there (as opposed to thinking about the next thing on my to-do list while Woog tells me about the events in his day).

And so there we were, the worried pair of mother and son, standing before a packed throng of kids and parents grouped around a Greenwich outlet. "Don't worry, Woog, they'll show you how to do it." I assured him with a hug. But he looked at me with clear uncertainty and even managed a faint moan of distress before his teacher roped him over with an apron and stuck him with his name tag, "Owen".

I sighed with resignation and seated myself as near him as I could get, wondering if his agitation were a result of being a year younger and a good head shorter than most of the kids in his class.

More than 50 kids from the pre-school's morning classes were seated around wooden trestle tables and cordoned off from twice the number of parents who were either seated or standing and proudly directing all manner of digicams, videocams and phonecams (yours truly included) at their prodigy.

Woog exhibiting performance anxiety

The moderator was the store's young manager, Tito Al, who carried on with all the good-natured vim and vigor of a clown hosting a children's party. The kids held their own the best they could, up until Tito Al started on an enthusiastic if long-winded narration of Greenwich's history, it's sister stores and various other pizza-pasta statistics. Truly I marveled at their staying power, this huge group of four and five-year-olds, and alas, it was soon obvious that Tito Al had no kids of his own. At least none who were pre-schoolers itching to wiggle off their seats and create chaos. Which, with much aplomb, they soon did.

Woog leading the pack into chaos

The teachers herded their charges back into their seats, only to herd them off moments later, for it was time to make their way into the kitchens.

"Do not touch the hot ovens!" Tito Al bellowed into his headset mic, and most of the parents present exchanged amused glances at the edge of desperation in his voice.

A pizza-making demonstration soon followed (much craning of kiddie necks), and after washing dozens of kiddie hands, the Greenwich staff made their rounds handing out the pizza-making ensemble for Solo Hawaiian Pizza. Through all this, Tito Al pleaded with the kids not to touch their hair/pick their noses/suck their thumbs. He was, as expected, thoroughly ignored.

Spread evenly

The general babble died down as the kids enthusiastically set to work on their respective crusts. Spoons were dropped and liquid was splattered in globulous quantities, but they gamely plodded on.

"Do not lick the pizza sauce!" Clearly, Tito Al was losing it. Woog spared me hardly a glance.

Sprinkle all around

Tito Al's frantic exhortations not to gobble up all the cheese went mostly unheeded, and more cheese had to be brought. Indulgent parents called out encouragement to their preoccupied children, also unheeded.

A million years and some thirty minutes later, the finished products were carried off on trays to be baked. Woog shot me a glance of triumph and exhilaration, and a bright ray of relief banished the cobwebs of worry in my heart. Nothing to it, Woog, I silently mouthed at him, I knew you could do it. My son glowed.

Beside me, a group of concerned mothers debated on stepping in to assist the teachers and poor Tito Al as he personally supervised one parlour game after another in an attempt to keep the kids occupied while their pizzas cooked. The earlier vim and vigor had dissipated all too soon and the poor man was at pains to keep the smile pasted on his put-upon face. Clearly this one would think it over a gazillion times before even considering the giving up of sperm in the spirit of procreation.

An excited hum arose as the smell of oven-baked spiced ham and cheese wafted over to the famished younglings. Soon, the much-awaited Hawaiian Solo pizza and softdrinks were served, and the whir of cameras proceeded, thus:

"Owwie, hot, hot!"

Hawaiian Solo ala Woog

Forget the sugar content, I'm glad you have your confidence back

The morning's end saw us waving a fond adieu to an exhausted Tito Al and the Greenwich staff, the former I'm sure entertaining second thoughts about having the pre-school's afternoon classes over for a repeat performance. Too late, man, sorry. You're booked solid for the day. I feel for you, I really do.

And I followed in the wake of my happy son as he led the rest of the gang upstairs to invade the resident Toys R Us, where the pizza-stuffed and sugar-fueled kids commenced to wreck havoc with the Mega-blocks and the Chikko jungle gyms.

No matter. All's well that ends well. Until the next anxiety attack anyway.

Party! Party!

...so let's go shake some booty...!

...To Remind Me Why Atch Cannot Stay Up With the Baby

Atch means well. He usually does. He is a consistently reliable provider, a supportive partner, a loving parent, the family chauffeur, a fixer of all things broken, and most importantly, he cooks. But if the good Lord giveth talents overflowing, He also provideth chasms of fantastic incompetence, as I was reminded all too clearly the other night when Atch volunteered to stay up with the baby.

I was feeling under the weather at 3 o'clock in the morning when Eli commenced to wail as per his two-hour alarm schedule. Atch roused himself, weaving his groggy way from bed to crib. Three quarters asleep, I was witness to the following "conversation" :

Eli: Waaaaa-aaaaaah-aaaaaah!

Atch: (lifting the baby off the crib and settling them both on the lounging chair) It's okay, sleep, sleep (humming "Moon River" under his breath while patting the baby's bottom).

Eli: Waaaaaah!

Atch: Sleep, Eli, sleep.

Eli: Waaah...*whimper-whimper*....waaaa...

Atch: Shhhhh..... (immediately falling asleep himself and snoring into the now quiet baby's ear)

Eli: Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Atch: (starting awake and commencing to pat the baby furiously) Sleep! Eli! Sleep! $%^&*#+##$!!!

Eli: Waaaaaaaaaaah!

Atch: If you don't sleep, I'll whup you!

(Whappak!)

Eli: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

At this point, unable to take any more, I forced myself to get up and take the hysterical baby away from his brutish arms. Atch made his way back to bed and was snoring in 2.5 seconds.

As Eli settled down in my arms, sleepy memories trickled back of the one other time, centuries ago, when I pleaded with Atch to sooth a screaming baby Woog (forerunner of the every two-hour infant alarm clock). The screaming never abated and I opened my eyes to Atch violently swinging the crib on its wheels around and around the room. He said he was rocking Woog to sleep.

Eli & his Tatay on the infamous lounging chair

The following morning, Atch ruffled Eli's curls as he sat on his high-chair for breakfast, "Who got whupped last night?" He teased.

Eli flashed his two-tooth gums at him and gave a delighted gurgle.

I am so glad babies have such short memories.