Murderer In Our Midst

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Atch in action

Odoriferous Lullaby

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

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

Some wind, kid

A Walk to Remember

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Atch laughs, ruffling his happy son's hair.

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

*snort*

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

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

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

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

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

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

Totally out of it, Atch shakes his head.

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

Atch expels some manly approving laughter.

Or guy-guy magazines!

Atch nearly chokes on his mirth.

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

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

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

A threesome, Atch chuckles.

... and a goat!

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

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

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

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

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