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!

The Mommy-Guilt Phenomenon

Not so very long ago, I was having an in-depth chat with a former lawschool classmate during her baby's first birthday. Subject in question: mommy-hood. In particular, mommy-guilt.

What is it with us mommies? Why do we subject ourselves to an absurd amount of guilt for things not done and left undone.

For her, the guilt often came whenever she took time to have her nails done prior to a hearing in court ("Oh my poor baby, why did I leave her? I wonder if she's crying out for me right now"). Despite having fully breastfed her daughter, despite having stayed up late cooking, oesterizing and freezing three day's worth of personalized baby food, despite the sleepless nights and the backbreaking days trotting protectively after an early walker...she still felt guilty.

Why is this so? And why is this so universal among mommies alone? Where do the daddies figure in all this? Are they ever tormented by the guilt of parenting inadequacy?

The other night, I was helping Woog with his homework, trying to take it slow for his sake, and yet continually glancing up at the clock, hoping to finish before an hour was up, which from painful experience, is Woog's breaking point as far as homework is concerned. "We're running out of time, Woog," I finally warned, "so please concentrate."

Immediately, a wave of intense guilt washed over me. Why was I harassing my son? Wasn't it my job to guide him lovingly and patiently through this tiresome repetitious task which will occupy a fourth of his life for the next 14 to 16 years? What kind of a mother am I?

At the same time, I worried about Eli somewhere downstairs, either in the care of his nanny or snoozing in his stroller. I felt another twinge of guilt about not spending enough time with him. We hardly ever have time to read a book together before his bedtime rolls around. And feeling guilty about my inability to cellularly subdivide into several super mommies to accomplish everything somehow seemed like an appropriate emotion for the occasion.

I do not just feel guilty like this once a month, or once a week. I feel this way almost as often as I think of my sons. That compulsion to provide for one's children to the best of one's mothering abilities - from pregnancy to childbirth, from breastfeeding to nurturing, from teaching to supporting - and falling short of one's own expectations, is one hell of a lousy emotion to go through Every. Single. Day. And yet I still do feel this way. Apparently, so do most of the other mothers I interact with.

Yesterday, I was part of a support group that empathized with a fellow mommy co-worker, who sobbed in our collective arms about the problems she was having with her older son - a love-addled fellow who wouldn't quit stalking the girl of his dreams, said terrified girl having reported the incidents to her mother, his mother, and the police (!!!)

My co-worker cried, "What have I done wrong? Haven't I done everything I could to raise him right?"

Again, the guilt weights heavily on the mommy's heart.

Is it our pre-determined gender-ingrained roles that keep us feeling this way? Not so long ago, the daddies brought home the bacon. Now, most of us mommies do, too. Did the generations of women before our time, who stayed at home, kept the house and raised the children, ever feel this way? I may be extremely fortunate to be a working mom, and yet I am irrationally guilty about how this dual role limits the time I spend with my kids. Puzzle that conundrum out.

And the daddies? Today's fathers have taken an increasingly hands-on role in the raising of their children. My husband is one (and I am so insanely proud of him for that). But do they feel the same deep remorse after having spoken curtly to their children? Or spanked them, for that matter? Atch being Atch, simply takes everything in stride. For him, what's done is done. No going over and over the incident wishing he could've done things differently. Gently. Less abruptly.

Like a male co-worker who was talking excitedly the other week about the recent promotion he received. His dream job, he said. Said dream job requiring him to move to the mother office several regions away, relocating his wife (who happens to have a successful retail career here) and his daughter (who'd just gotten settled in school and formed her own circle of friends). Not one iota of guilt there. In his place, what would a mommy do?

I realize mommies today would need to ease up on their harsh expectations of themselves and come to terms with the reality of what they're capable of doing - and not doing. We're not out to raise serial killers or bank robbers or even stalkers. We're here to mother. And if our hearts are softer, more vulnerable and prone to guilt than most, then so be it. If we weren't made that way, there wouldn't be any mommies around at all.

The Making of Home-Sweet-Home

Well, now. It's been quite a while since I've been here. I've been kind of obsessed busy with an on-and-off obsession hobby I've had since I got hitched - planning our dream home. It's a wonder I've actually gotten back to blogging about this family. When I get hooked on something, I become totally enslaved engrossed. To the exclusion of all else. (Which is why I am constantly reminding myself to go easy on Woog as he turns a deaf ear on all and sundry whenever Shawn The Sheep... or Totally Spies... or Jake Long, is on. He has to have gotten this trait from someone in his family. Besides, his tv viewing has been limited to weekends since school started. So, getting one's gander up about one's catatonic son is not a very productive thing to do. But that's another story).

A couple of weeks ago, we attended the house blessing of our good friends, a lovely couple with four kids who set up shop in the same neighborhood where we bought our residential lot. And boy, was their home drool-worthy!

I slavered over the life-sized rocky waterfall formation just beyond their lanai. I lingered over my hazy reflection on each step of the oiled Narra staircase. I ran my fingers along the granite-tops of the kitchen counters, went full rotation around the island worktable. I kept returning to the wonder of the white wooden blinds, and Atch had to forcibly pull me away from the spacious walk-in closet just as the opening prayer began.

Don't even get me started on their lushly landscaped garden and brick window planters.

When we made that first downpayment on our little plot of land two years ago, I made copies of the lot plan and started sketching the lay-out of our future home-sweet-home. With no architectural experience whatsoever, not even access to a downloaded Auto-CAD program, I spent precious hours on what Atch deemed a waste of time ("That's totally premature, Aif. We have to pay off the lot before we start on the house."). After decimating reams of paper and turning a deaf ear to the husband's exhortations, I finally put my dream on the backburner. But not totally forgotten, no.

That house warming party brought it all back.

On the last two days of his vacation, I had Atch drive me all over the city (I knew he was good for something), looking at furniture and house design. I wanted to go into the private subdivisions to take pictures but Atch put his foot down. No sense getting arrested for invasion of other people's privacy.

My enthusiasm was catching. Finally the major financier of the family estimated we had just about made it more than halfway through with the lot payments, it was time to think of renewing the bank loan for the...*gasp*...house of my our dreams. Atch can really be useful once he sets my his mind to it.

We turned over the much-abused, dog-eared lot plan to the contractor brother-in-law for a rendering of an honest-to-goodness house plan. I also handed in a couple of others I copied from the internet (much rolling of eyes on Atch's part), for additional perspective.


I intentionally refrained from mentioning the fully appendiced table of finishing and furnishings (from roof material to paint and fabric color, from flooring to furniture) that I'd painstakingly prepared, complete with sample photos. One thing at a time. Now that I’ve we've gotten the ball rolling, I've got all the time in the world to inch my way through as foreman (Or forewoman. Whatever does you).

Nice, no?

Not that I'm under-appreciating my pragmatic and pennywise bitter better half. He ultimately sees things my way, and for that I adore the socks off of him. Not that I'm discounting the major role that Papa God plays in our life. We lay our plans before Him, and we let Him decide. And I'm so very glad He has decided in our favor.

So I'm easing back to spend time with this here blog, preparing to stoke my energies to take on this this much-awaited future task with all the gusto I can muster.

Good luck to us. And God bless our future home.

Dream home, here we come!