Chokehold Hugs and Razor Kisses

Tell me, honestly...would you yell at your 10-month old baby?

How would you when he greets you each night as you come home from work like you're the dearly beloved one that he hasn't seen in years. The delighted screams, the excited gurgles...oh, and the wonderfully asphyxiating way he latches on to your neck with both sausage arms...and the sweetly saturated smooches he slobbers upon your cheeks and your chin,

"Um-bwuh, um-bwuh, um-bwuh!"

he goes. And wouldn't you just know it, his passionate nature suddenly kicks in and he decides to kiss you open-mouthed, with teeth - all three of them.

It is at this point that you recoil in pain and try to disengage yourself from Mr. Sucky-face, and you go

"Owww! No, Eli. No biting. Biting hurts."

pro-forma, according to all the parenting advise you've read in dozens of baby books both in print and on-line.

But does this razor-toothed eel get it? Noooooooo. He rears his head back and lets out a throaty giggle, making your heart melt, just before he plunges back down and goes to work on your ear.

"OWWWWW! Eli, stop that. No biting. Please."

"Eh-hek-e-hek-hek-hek! Eeeeee! Um-bwuh, um-bwuh, um-bwwwwuh!"

So tell me, would you yell?

Too sharp for words

Even as you lie in bed at night with an uncomfortably twisted head, because he is nose-to-nose with you, milkily breathing into your face while

choking

hugging your neck and grasping at your ear. Even as you go to work with an angry welt rising on your left cheek where he has ceremoniously bestowed another of his lovingly moist enamel-tipped kisses (while the officemates loudly speculate about the passionate night you must have spent with the husband - lucky, lucky you - and quietly, shamefacedly, you let them).

Attempting to tear Tatay's lips off

Even as you anticipate coming home after work, to behold your beloved biter in all his fat-cheeked fervor, and to begin the jagged-edged welcome home ritual, over and over again.

Tell me...would you yell?

Travails Of A Nitpicking Wife

Today, I woke up at an outrageously early (for me) hour in the morning, mopped the floors, tried to get Woog out of bed, prepared the toast, tried to get Woog out of bed, did three loads of laundry, tried to get Woog out of bed, percolated some coffee, and tried to get Woog out of bed. Today I had a nutty day at work. My document formatting decided to go all Salvador Dali on me at the printer. The boss didn't help matters any by heaping on some extra-curricular work for his Rotary district. Today, my back hurts like the very devil (in fact, it seems the devil himself is having a jolly good time right now, pounding away with a mallet).

But all the above has nothing to do with what happened just a couple of minutes ago (and as introductions go, I would say this puts the raisin atop the moldy cupcake). I texted Atch asking if he would be picking me up from work. No answer. I called his office. He was out. I dropped him a ring, and he finally texted back. Oho, so there you are.

I remember, more than five years ago (although it gets more and more foggy each time), when he would text me constantly, every hour on the hour. How are you? What are you doing? Have you eaten? What are you up to? You want to go out tonight? And in the evenings when I got home from work, he would call.

He was persistent. He was consistent. I was a very wanted woman then. In demand, all so very often, and all the time by him.

And then we got hitched.

These days, I call him and text him: What time do we expect you home? Are you eating dinner here? Are you picking me up? Hey, what's up with you? You still alive?

I realize this may just very well be the universal language of love carried around by a majority of married couples, particularly, of the wives - those previously cozened and cherished denizens of some seventh heaven who now find themselves deposited unexpectedly amongst old and comfortable possessions (e.g., old shoes, a patched worn-out easy chair, the battered wallet), to be conveniently forgotten until otherwise needed (e.g., "Aifee, where's my mug/shirt/car keys/cellphone?", "Wanna bang you, Aif. *pant-pant-pant*")

Whatever happened to the "want-to-know-where-you-are-what-you're-doing-will-die-if-I-don't-see
-you-want-you-right-now-heart-on-my-sleeve" guy? Of course, I get this sort of flattering treatment from my kids all the time, but still, it isn't the same.

"Atch," I asked when he picked me up that night, "do you remember when you used to text me everyday to ask what I ate for breakfast...?"

He looked at me, both puzzled and exasperated, "Aif, I know what you had for breakfast. We eat breakfast together, remember?"

He was missing the point, as usual. So I jumped straight into the fray by reminding him of how sweet he used to be, constantly calling me, etc..etc...

Still, he managed to looked flummoxed, probably wondering why, at the end of the workday, fresh from all the stress, cross-eyed from reading heaps documents and solving all manner of crises, did his wife decide to dredge up the long-forgotten (and he has forgotten) past.

"Uh, Aif. I see you everyday. Why do I need to call you?"

*Sigh* Was he being honestly clueless, or was he trying to wiggle out of this one? I decided to let it go. Figure out how to re-work the romance back into our marriage one way or another (even if I have to club him over the head to do it).

"'Wuv you, Aif, " he said after a time.

You better.

*** Latest bulletin on Project Resurrect-the-Romance:

The car died the next day, and he escorted me across the street (walking on the danger side, yet!) and waited with me until I was able board a jeepney to work. Then he crossed to the opposite side to ride a jeep of his own. How gallant, my errant knight in rusty armor. I texted him, "Thanks Atch." and he texted back, "You're welcome."

I realize I may be settling for peanuts at this point, but hey, it's a start.

Woog Gets A Stiff One

Isn't it funny how the very traits that used to drive your dear mother to distraction are now visited upon you with a vengeance in the person of your own child? Perhaps it's nature's version of serving up your just desserts, karma at it's most potent, "an eye for an eye...", the wheel of ka, and all that.

Woog awoke yesterday with a crick in the neck. And for the rest of the day, he did his best to drive a crick into everyone's necks as well.

"Mom, I don't feel well, " he moaned from the stairs as I hurried to get ready for work. It was 8 AM and I'd given up trying to prod his inert form from the warmth of his bed.

"What's wrong," I asked, hurrying over to feel his forehead, "are you sick? What hurts?"

"My neck hurts."

Ah, the stiff neck. No biggie. I launched into a lecture about the hazards of staying in bed too long, despite the efforts of one's mother to rouse one for breakfast. He rolled his eyes at that and continued moaning. Typical.

Still, I urged him on to the breakfast table, where he commenced an exaggerated display of upper-body stiffness, groaning at each tiny movement and throwing long-suffering glances my way.

"Woog, you have to eat. Try and roll your neck around, just a little bit. Like this (rolls neck). Work the stiffness out, it'll go away, I promise."

And so he moved his head a fraction to the side...and wailed.

Patience is a virtue...I exhorted myself and went over to help him. But the moment I laid a hand on his head to move it, he broke into drawn-out pseudo-sobs, "No, it hurts, it hurts! Mom, I'm sick!"

"Alright, lets get you to the hospital then."

A terrified "No! They might cut off my neck!" and a continuation of his moaning sickbed mode. Over a stiff neck.

Wasn't this scenario gratingly familiar? Once, over a year ago, his Yaya had called me at work in a panic. It seemed Woog had fallen on his wrist after a rough and tumble game of tag and was screaming that he had broken it. Atch & I left our offices in a flash and rushed him to the ER for x-rays. And the result? The wrist carefully wrapped in flannel that this whimpering little boy held gingerly close to his chest (the x-ray technician had a devil of a time trying to get him to lay it on the metal table), WAS. BARELY. BRUISED.

"Mommmmmy, I'm sick...a-huh-huh-huh..."

Before I totally lost it and wounded his feelings completely, I was suddenly reminded of a certain 7-year old girl huddled for a good part of New Year's Eve in her father's arms, sobbing over a tiny burn in her forefinger from touching a warm ember of a fizzled firecracker. Or of the same little girl screaming blue murder as her mother held her in an attempt to tweeze off a miniscule wooden splinter from the pad of the little girl's big toe. The memories came flooding in, of the same girl feigning speechlessness because of the "excruciating agony" of lightly swollen tonsils, or calling in sick from school because of an aching shoulder blade.

In the midst of this dejavu, and mostly because I was shamed into facing this version of my childhood self, I tried to tame my temper and smooth over this impending crick in my relationship with my son. Wasn't his fifth birthday barely a week away? Surely he deserved some sort of break from his perpetually harried and irritable mother.

Patiently, I stayed by him while he nibbled at his toast in between whimpers and groans, and when he was done with that, he asked to be excused, leaving behind a plateful of rice, egg and vienna sausage. It was when he asked to be carried to the tv room that I put my foot down. "That's too much," I warned him. Offer the kid a hand and he takes off your whole arm. Sheesh.

I left late for work, in equal parts miffed about his insipid frailty and guilty over not having given him more of my time. By the time I got back that night, Yaya Merly had assembled her report: He refused to take a bath, for fear of moving his neck. He refused to take his siesta, for fear of moving his neck. He stayed in the same stiff position in front of the tv the whole day, for fear of moving his neck - despite a bathroom break outside to pee on his Lolo's rear tire and to squirt his cousin Ia in the face with his water gun.

At bedtime, as I rubbed a mentholated liniment gently around his stiff neck, he arched his back and purred, "Mommy, can you please do my back too?"

Like I said, offer the kid a hand...but then again, this is my childhood self glaring right at me. How could I refuse?

Breaking Out Of Bondage

I remember quite clearly the blood that gushed out of my brother's nose the day I punched him on the beak. I was both horrified, guilty, and yet strangely exultant. And the countless number of times I talked him into potentially dangerous situations, carrying that authoritative air of an older sibling. Like the summer I nearly got him drowned at a local beach. Or like the scar he carries on his forehead to this day, a remembrance of the time I persuaded him to dive from a rusty oil drum to another one shallowly filled with rainwater.

And what about those times we ganged up on the middle sister, making her cry, then tickling her to make her laugh hysterically. Everyday, over and over again, like some demented science experiment gone haywire. Its a wonder she didn't end up laced in a straitjacket in a white padded room. Or the countless times at the dinner table when someone would let fly a piece of bone (or a utensil, or a slipper, or a plate) at a sibling across its width. Or even the time, the middle sister got second degree burns from a steaming platter of newly-cooked rice upended on her lap by brother dearest.

Cats and dogs had nothing on us.

Even my husband and his sisters have their own battle stories. Inday has a burn scar on her back where Atch had once thrust a lighted firecracker. And Atch tells of the time he ran and left 8-year-old Nathalie alone in the family car when the hood caught fire. Underaged and sans a license, he had taken the car for a spin, with his youngest sister along. If it weren't for concerned bystanders who rescued Nat and threw sand on the fire, the gas tank would have have gone kaboom.

All this history has me marveling at the pair of boys that sprung from our loins, whose first act upon getting up every morning is to put their arms around each other and coo high-pitched unintelligible syllables with blissful smiles on their faces.

We had expected Woog to openly resent the intrusion of the baby, who bumped him from his number one status in the household. We prepared ourselves for the eventuality, both physically and mentally bracing ourselves for war. Instead, we were nonplussed from day one.

Woog is deeply in love with Eli. And vice versa.


We remain startled, unbelieving, and deeply surprised as every single day, without fail, these brothers who spring from a long line of bloody sibling wars - their ancestors once chased each other down rural mountainsides, after one sibling shot the other with a BB gun - greet each other with tight hugs and enthusiastic smooches.


The evidence is incontrovertible. The only person who can quiet Eli during a tooth-growing tantrum is his Manong Woog. Normally not a morning person, Woog would scream blue murder and kick at anyone who'd try to get him up at the unholy hour of 7am. Put Eli into the equation, and he'd be up and giggling within seconds.

Eli is the only child we have ever seen Woog share his toys with. Ever. No one, and I mean no one (not even his own mother), can cause Eli to scream in hysterical laughter like his brother. He is the one-man audience to Woog's stand-up routines (no one else can summon up the time or the patience.

We are holding our breaths in suspense. Will this outrageously wonderful situation change? Given our histories, Atch and I keep expecting it to. And we are bloody idiots who cannot comprehend this miracle in front of our noses. This breaking of the chain, this re-routing off the beaten path. This gloriously open expression of brotherly love that breaks all the bondage of sibling rivalry in our family through the ages.

They are blessed. We are blessed. We give thanks.

Aifee's One-Sided Soliloquies

The dreaded cold-developing-into-flu has come upon me. I am listless and despondent, and it shows. Not that Atch cares much. It's work for him, as usual. This stoic poker-faced take on the world makes my teeth itch. And when my teeth itch, I tend to wax eloquent about the current state of affairs getting my gander up - which is lately, the price of birth control.

This morning, as we were rushing to get dressed for work, I riffled through the mess of our dresser to take my usual medication, only to find that I had ran out. Atch was in his usual unruffled mode, pawing gel through the diminishing stubble on his head.

"Atch, the pills are expensive," I complained, holding up my empty pack, "maybe we should think about using condoms?"

He sliced a telling glance at me in the mirror, showing exactly how numb he felt about the subject. Funny how much sentiment he can convey through his silence.

"Condoms are four pesos a pop. It's not like we have time to do it that often."

Another sharp look (thanks to you, that look seemed to say).

I ventured further afield into the realm of fantasy. "Maybe you should get a vasectomy."

A snort.

I appealed to his cheapskate nature. "It's done for free in government hospitals. And if I do get pregnant after that, you can point a finger at me and go 'that is not my child!'"

Atch wrinkled his nose in distaste, showing just how much disdain he held for the sowing of intrigue.

I tried once more, "because if I get a ligation, they'll have to slice me open and I won't be able to wear a bikini again." As if that made perfect logical sense.

Atch sighed, finished dressing and left the room. Somehow, I wasn't at all surprised. This type of one-sided conversations happen often. I get to yak and he gets to listen (and make all-sorts of faces and non-word responses). When I need to vent, he seems to know - and waits until I get whatever it is off my chest. Then I feel better. But not by much.

Later at work, I sent him a text message: "Am feeling sick. Slight temperature. Headache, chills. Tonsils the size of your balls."

He texted back: "Poor Aif. Drink lots of water and take medicine."

There's hope for him yet.

Maybe I'll be able to wrangle an acupressure massage from him later. Now that's something that's best served with absolute blissful silence.

Fugue

The compulsion to write has deserted me in the last few days. Perhaps it may be the low-grade cold that's been hovering over the horizon of my much-abused immune system. Or maybe it's having to go through a series of short-term nannies that's left me with an exhausted fatalism: I leave it up to you, Papa God, to find the right person for my kids.

Who knows, it may even be the fact that I've jumped back on the pill wagon lately, not wanting to add to the country's overburdened population rate (or strain the family's already non-existent coffers). All urges to bang my husband have flown out the window. Enter tepid unenthusiastic Aifee, exit cranky unsatisfied Atchbund. The ripple effect has included my creative process apparently.

I've neglected to write about the time that Woog was unenthusiastically plodding his way through breakfast: a two-hour affair punctuated by occasional visits to the tv room and epochal pauses to chat about the Power Rangers. I've of course neglected to say that this happens At. Every. Single. Meal.

Long story short, I took away his nibbled-at food (buttered toast with sugar, french fries, rice, egg and sausage), and withheld lunch as well. How he howled. He subsisted on water and a stolen piece of chocolate until dinner-time when, with warnings from Inday that he might get dehydrated, I finally plunked down some food in front of him. He wolfed it down in record time and asked for seconds. Needless to say, I've learned my lesson: why the hell did I withhold food from him as punishment when the object was to get him to eat in the first place? Such a messed-up mommy I am. Poor Woog.

Or about the nights when Eli kept us (and is continuing to keep us) awake screaming. His first upper incisor is beginning to break through, and he grumps around during the day with the personality of a rabid menopausal rhinoceros, drooling at the mouth and snorting at the nose.

Or about our new nanny, a 49-year-old grandmother of four. Yaya Rose is really leaving this time, and she has been training the new nanny in earnest. Yaya Merle is a fat squat jolly little lady who can cook up a storm (its not in her job description, but she does it anyway), and snores like a locomotive in full steam, rivaling even Atch's sonorous nocturnal murmurings. Her first night here, Woog awoke in fright at her snores that reverberated all the way downstairs. And I thought one of the electric fan blades had broken off.

Or about the paid-to-blog opportunities that have been cropping up in my inbox. Normally, I'd be slavering and panting at the chance to earn moolah while practicing what I've come to call my craft. This time around, I deleted them as if in a dream, with some inner warning faintly screaming that I'd be regretting this rash move.

And my back hurts like the devil.

What other excuses can I come up with?

I cannot ascertain how long this floaty indifference is going to last. Perhaps after the winners of this year's local elections have been proclaimed ("Thieves, every one of them," Atch is wont to say, and I'm wont to agree with him), perhaps longer.

Who can tell? Certainly not me.

...And God created mothers

May 13, Sunday, is Mother's Day here in the Philippines. A salute to all the mothers who struggle to raise their brood the best way they can, utilizing the resources they have, and struggling against all the psychoses they harbor from their own childhoods.

A deep curtsy to the mothers who plod on despite sickness, exhaustion, sleep deprivation, poverty, abuse and absent partners. A round of applause to the mothers who do their damndest not to yell at their tantruming toddlers, slap their disrespectful tweens and disown their hung-over teenagers.

A bow to the mothers who fight to keep their children alive, despite the unavailability of medical care, the absense of technology, and the cold shoulder of society. Further, a pat on the back to the mothers who constantly live with the GUILT of not having done their best, thinking they could have done things differently, but not having known how.

A toast, a toast, to new mothers, middle-aged mothers, old mothers, and mothers in their grave! The hands that rocked countless cradles, the lips that kissed away mountains of hurt, the overworked bodies that labored, the smiles that brought out suns, the careworn arms that both spanked and shielded, the breasts that nourished the world. To us, who have taken on this non-paying, physically painful, emotionally rending, mostly thankless job - but what a most important job it is!

For my mother-in-law, who struggles against stubborness, self pity and her wheelchair, as she recovers from the debilitating stroke she had last August. For my late aunt, who once told me: "when they're young, they'll stomp on your toes. When they're older, they'll stomp on your heart." - how right she was! For my sister, a mother before her time, who misguidedly continues to make up for her lost youth in all the wrong places and with all the wrong people. For my mother, who raised us the best way she could in her own unconventional way, a chain-smoking and loud-mouthed motherhood that turned out four unconventional girls with fewer psychoses than the fingers of their hands. No candidates for a shrink's couch, we.

And finally, for myself. A Happy Mother's Day to me, a Happy Mother's Day to all.

Counting My Blessings

Ironically enough, two days before Atch was to take over caring for the boys so I could return to work, Yaya Rose texted me to ask if she could come back. I was puzzled about this new turn of events, but never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I texted back in the affirmative.

With mixed feelings, I contemplated this new twist in the saga of my life as Yaya Mom. I was itching to get free of the household fetters, true, but there was always Woog and Eli think of. Everything came back to them. They were the be-all and end-all of my having taken this extended vacation leave, and because of them, I was actually reluctant to return to work. When one is totally depended upon and practically worshiped by one's nearest and dearest, the sensation is close enough to send one to one's knees. (goddess syndrome, anyone?) In the two weeks I was mom-of-the-house, they practically bloomed before my eyes, something I never saw when they were in the charge of a caregiver. Would I have the heart to leave them back in the care of a nanny now I had discovered the exhilaration of exclusively raising them?


Directly the next day while I was scrubbing the kitchen sink, Yaya Rose arrived: thin, dark and out-of-breath. Apparently, with the enrollment period at the her local district high-school still weeks away, her father had required her to labor in the sugarcane fields under the scorching summer sun to help augment the family income. She earned over 50% more as the boys' nanny, so she argued her way back. Poor Rose. I urged her to have lunch and she ate like it was going out of fashion. Hunger can be a very potent argument too.

Which brought to mind the bitching I succumbed to in my previous post. While I was needlessly complaining about being torn between work and family, hundreds (nay, thousands) of women were scrounging for measly opportunities to make more than than the $1 a day that their families lived on. I am blessed to have been born to this privileged life: a college education, steady employment, more than three meals a day, internet access yet! And in this poor unfortunate benighted land, I am living what is considered the good life.

My husband would have called me the shallowest person alive. And he would be right.

In the midst of my musings, Yaya, between mouthfuls of sotanghon , rice and fried chicken gizzard, informed me that she would stay until her matriculation period, and would willingly train her replacement, should I find one. Her father was allowing her until then. I wondered what kind of a father would be small-minded enough to subject his only daughter to the harsh life of the boondocks, when she could have a better future (not to mention, a bigger income) were she to stay in the city. I voiced my concerns, but Yaya only smiled and shrugged. So much for that.

Woog was matter-of-fact about Yaya's reappearance (how grown-up my baby has become!), while Eli couldn't take his eyes (or arms) away from Yaya Rose. It brought a jealous lump to my throat, and an urge to actually shoo Yaya away. These are my children, mine!

With a sobering thought, I realized that these were indeed MY children, and I would have to double (triple!) my efforts at spending quantity quality time with them. No more complacency about having to leave them completely at the mercy of a nanny.

So it was back to work for me. We did have to keep our kids in the good life after all.

Stir-Crazy

The downside of being housebound is that one loses a huge fraction of the independence that every working girl takes for granted. The most important of all being one's purchasing power.

During the two weeks I spent taking care of the boys, I sorely missed the freedom of dropping by the grocery store on the way back from the bank or after work, to stock up on the usual household necessities that we were running low on: bread, butter, coffee, mayo. Sanitary napkins. I cringed for every single time I had to text Atch to please buy this, and to please buy that. I was stuck at home, saddled with the boys, clutching at my cash, with nowhere to go.

Atch's text replies went from: "Which brand did you want?, How many?, and Where do I buy this?" to a single letter: " 'K". He must've began to see me as the proverbial ball and chain, and I began to see why thousands of housewives all over the country go stir-crazy and lit on their work-weary husbands every evening as soon as they get within inches of the front door. I feel for them, I really do.

And here was my husband, trying to strike a balance between a crucial full branch conversion and new site transfer at work, and having to deal with a hormonal just-turned housewife with two hyperactive kids at home. Poor Atch. Still, he managed to force a rare smile in the midst of his wife's seemingly endless discourse.

Tuning out the audio with a grin

Things came to a head on Labor Day when I presented Atch with a long list of grocery-ables. Eli was running out of diapers, the salt cellar was at an all-time low and there was nothing in the fridge save ice cubes. Atch sighed and packed us all into the car for a sortie into our favorite grocery stores. The kids had fun, and like a monkey let loose in a warehouse of bananas, I scampered eagerly from aisle to aisle.

Cart hogs

Woog builds the diaper fort and Eli drives with the instant noodles steering wheel

Woog: "Why does Eli always get to be top dog?"

Exhausted but happy, and for the moment, his wife silenced, Atch drove us home wedged among a month's worth of supplies. After a moment's reflection, I realized I was turning into someone I swore I would never become: a fishwife. How much of my mobility and financial independence did I treasure vis a vis this precious time spent raising the boys by my own hand? Would my mental health stand the rigors of becoming a housewife long term? Would I be a better wife and mom then? This is, after all, what this blog is all about.

Some wonderful mommy I am, having to go through an internal debate on having to chose between work and family. There shouldn't have to be a choice. Why can't I silence the disquiet brought on by choosing to work AND be a wife & mom? Men NEVER have this kind of guilt. Why would they, they're not the ones obligated to take a leave from work to handle family emergencies, whether or not they bring home the bulk of the bacon.

How I wish with all my heart that I were made differently, but if I don't get a replacement nanny and return to work soon, I'm bound to drive my husband (and sons) batshit, I swear.

Yaya Mom

As far as taking over someone's job went, this one took all the honors. I got a 3-day leave from work to take care of the boys full time. Nursing the tail-end of a flu, on the second cranky day of my period and in the muggy heat of a full-blown summer, I woke up dreading incompetence and clumsy panic.

And I wondered why I was fretting. I am the mother of these angels, am I not? I am the keeper of this house (ok, apartment), am I not? I am woman, hear me roar. And roar I did. Eli was clingy and Woog tested the full complement of my limits on the first day I took over. In the early afternoon during siesta, the power failed twice, shutting down the air-conditioning and causing the kids to wake all sweaty and whiny. I resorted to turning myself into a human fanning machine, which fooled them not a bit. So siesta was cut short and we spent the afternoon outside, courting the errant breeze. When Atch arrived from work that night, I practically collapsed from the tension, only to remember too late that I had to get up to breastfeed.

It seemed strange not to have to rush in the mornings throwing on the uniform and putting on the face. Even stranger still that my little darlings minded not a bit if I forgot to gargle away the morning breath or wash the encrusted sediment from my eyes. No problem. Mommy's here. I fed them and gave them their baths, read to them and sang along to nursery rhymes. They struggled against siesta time, but I soothed them to sleep, and when they awoke, I put them on bike and walker and tired them out in the courtyard.

Three days turned to 8 with no sign of a replacement for Yaya Rose. And I found myself actually hoping no replacement came. Hell, I could get used to this. I actually imagined myself handing in my resignation at work and becoming a house mommy full-time. How else would I continue to relish Woog's arms around me, telling me constantly, "I missed you, Mom, don't leave me." Or Eli kiss-biting my cheeks and chin, slobbering and yammering all over my face.

Perhaps fearing I was going out of my mind, my father picked us up and deposited the boys in my parents' rubber pool. The boys had ecstatic splashy fun, while I relaxed with ice-cold glasses of Coke.



Still, I looked forward to the three of us being together: mom and sons. I'd missed out on how independent Woog was growing. How could I have taken for granted that he made his own bed, got dressed and hung his own p'jamies in the mornings. Or that he brought his plate and mug to the kitchen after every meal. Or that I could rely on him to fetch the baby's bottle, or my cellphone, or my sinus medicine, or any damn thing I might have forgotten to bring downstairs. He even gathered and put away the baby's rubber floor mats without my having to ask. And he's four. Four!



I had recently worried that Eli was a mite behind in the physical development department. At 9 months, he still hadn't learned to crawl. Or even sit up by himself. It took a lot of tough-love days to re-wire the circuits that Yaya Rose had welded into my 'Pokey Bear. Eli was clingy and cranky, but I refused to pick him up unless it was absolutely necessary - something that Yaya Rose could not fathom. She had carried him around constantly. When I took over, Eli spent mucho time on the stroller, on the walker and on the floor. Lots of hugs and kisses, but sorry, 'Pokey, no carrying. By day 4 he sat up by himself. By day 6 I taught him some rudimentary sign language. And by day 8, he pulled himself up to a bona fide standing position. Oh, I am so proud of the both of us!

Making up for lost time

He's totally delighted about his newfound mobility, he's been driving us nuts with all his wriggling around to see what else he can do and how far he can go. Good for you, Pipsqueak!

But as always, reality came and took a huge bite off my complacent ass. One of my clients called and asked me when I was coming back. He must have come by the office an awful lot of times that the admin. officer just had to give my home phone number. Mamsie told me the big boss had noticed my long drawn-out vacation. Ten loyal years in the company - I did have a responsibility, after all. My extended time with the kids was drawing to a close.

Filled with a sense of remorse, I haggled with Atch to take over so I could take up my backlog at the office. I looked lovingly at my sons, and inside I longed for more time.

Is this trade-off even worth it?