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

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

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

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

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

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

Food again?!

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

Robust mom, frail son

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

He walks. Finally.

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

Eli on top of the world

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

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


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

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


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


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