Conversations With My Sons

Evening. Time for bed.

Mom: Let's go, 'Pet. Let's put on your 'jamies.

Eli (jumping in the middle of the big bed): No!

Mom: C'mon, 'Pet. I'll read you a story, then we'll drink milk. But first you have to put on your 'jamies.

Eli (still jumping while evading Mom's grasp): No!

Mom (nearly falls over the bed trying to catch Eli): Please, 'Pet.

Eli (piles pillows on top of one another and gallops away on his makeshift horse): No! No! No! Heee-yaaah!

Mom (exasperated): Elijah, don't you love Mommy anymore?

Eli: No!

Mom (losing her temper): You suplado, you!

Eli: 'Plado! You!

(proceeds to plant his fist on Mom's face)

********

Evening. Homework time.

Woog (busy opening his notebooks at the table): Teacher says I have to write 5 things about you, Mom.

Mom (busy typing on the PC behind him): Ok.

Woog (writing): Mom is....how do you spell “beautiful”, Mom?

Mom (preening): b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l.

Woog (still writing): Mom has curly hair.

Mom: Mmm-hmm.

Woog (still writing): Mom is fat.

Mom: *snort*

Woog (still writing): Mom loves me.

Mom: And you had better remember that!

Woog (still writing): Mom is....Mom is....Mom is kind.

Mom: Excuse me? I think you should tell the truth.

Woog: But I don't know what else to write.

Mom: Write “Mom is strict.”

Woog: But Mom....I want to write “Mom is kind”.

Mom: I'll whup you.

(pause)

Woog: How do you spell “strict”?

Not Much Difference Really

Panic. Panic. Panic.

Woog is moaning underneath the blankets. Clutching them up to his chin. Curled into himself like a shrimp. Shivering, burning, shivering.

Mom. Sniffle. Mom, my head is dizzy. My feet are cold. Mom. Mom.

Thirty-five years does not prepare you for the sight and sound of your son's first full-blown fever-chill. Not when the Biogesic fails to work. Or the cool sponge bath. Or the glasses of water. Or the two layers of blankets, one of which is thicker than his tongue.

Panic. Panic. Panic. Should I call an ambulance?

Eli is looking at his mother in wonder. She is fluttering about like a headless chicken. Totally useless female. He clambers up on the bed and tries to warm his brother by leaping upon the bundled-up febrile form. Maybe all Woog needs is a good romp to start him sweating again.

Ooomphff. Mom. Eli is bothering me. Go away, Eli.

Leave Manong Woog alone! He's sick!

'Tick, Eli says. 'Tick! 'Doog 'tick!

Mom, my bones are owwie. Mom.

I could give him a massage. Accupressure-something. Where did I read that?

I rummage through the medicine box, hunting for the ever-reliable cure-all. My bottle of Polar Bear. That menthol-eucalyptus essential embrocation that has seen us through headaches and toothaches, mosquito bites and back pain, clogged noses and sore throats. It will help Woog's owwie bones, at the very least.

But it is missing. I upend the medicine box on the bed. Gone. Who had it last? I rack my useless brains.

Oh! Woog did. For his asthma. I run to the adjoining room and start pawing through Woog's baskets.

Panic. Panic. Panic. Oh, my poor fevered and shivering son.

Woog! Where did you put the Polar Bear, I call, still ransacking through his well-ordered belongings. Woog! I yell louder, fear making my voice hoarse. Where is the Polar Bear?

Footsteps thundering on the floorboards behind me. Eli.

He lifts up his worried eyes and offers me:

Bear, he says, bear.

He is handing me Blue Bear. His comfort plushie of choice. Bear, he says again, gifting me with a frown of anxiety and his most precious possession.

I am nonplussed. I can hear Woog in the other room. Laughing, shivering, laughing.

Oh, 'Pet.

I gather Eli and Blue Bear in my arms, the object of my quest forgotten. Woog is still laughing hysterically in between bouts of shudders. I start to laugh, too.

Bear, Eli declares adamantly. He hands the toy to his brother, who is too bundled-up to reach out, and too shaken up with mirth to take it.

Eli eyes the laughing lunatics. Perhaps this is an inside joke, he thinks. If it is, he doesn't get it. But he starts to laugh anyway. If you don't get 'em, join 'em. The one who laughs last, and all that...

Our laughter subsides to snickers more than half an hour later. My panic subsides with it.

Woog is fever-free the next morning, and decides to do a whole day TV-thon. All is well with the world. Eli and Blue Bear with it.

Not much difference really

Two Weddings and A Monkey (Part 3)

Yes, I kissed a monkey. But it was nothing compared to the exhaustion.

*****

As the family of the groom, we were traditionally expected to shoulder, if not the expenses, then the job of playing nanny to the bride's family and friends. And so we did. On the very night we arrived after a two-day road and sea trip, we gritted our teeth and steeled our travel-weary spines as we surrendered cars and manpower, even for the most inconsequential and sometimes uncoordinated trips.

Poor Atch, who spent the rest of that night ferrying wedding gifts, make-up artists, photographers, friends of the bride, and various other hangers-on. Poor Tatay, who went with him to serve as navigator on the dark and bumpy roads from one district to the next - back and forth, back and forth. Poor Deedee, who hovered and fluttered over everything in a panic, having been appointed impromptu wedding coordinator over the whole affair.

Poor Dudu, who rushed out with the last remaining vehicle, responding to a frenzied phone call from the bride to make sure that her parents, who were decorating the church, had had their dinner. Dudu made her own hesitant way on streets she had never driven on, only to find out that it was a false alarm. Poor Emil, Dada's loyal boyfriend, who was there solely as our guide in unfamiliar territory, but ending up a chauffer-and-baggage-carrier extraordinaire, missing his dinner by more than 5 hours in the bargain.

But most of all, poor Nonoy, probably the only groom in the history of wedding-dom who gave up his car for the comfort of the make-up artist, videography crew and Lord knows who else, riding to the church in, of all public utility vehicles, a tricycle (!!!), while fully bedecked in his wedding barong and shiny black shoes.

Nonoy got hitched at a turn-of-the-century church on the coast of Dauis, Bohol, a spitting distance from the sea. Its claim to fame was a fresh-water spring that had miraculously spouted up during the Spanish era, after townspeople hiding from marauding pirates prayed fervently in their desperation of hunger and thirst. The spring had been analyzed to contain zero microorganisms, and it was said to cure all ills of those who drank from it. Before we left, we intended to fill up several gallons worth.

We were all solemn in the melting humidity as the ceremony progressed. Even Woog managed to behave reasonably well in his stifling coin-bearer outfit.

The choir's voices soared up to the immense domed ceiling, and descended slowly down upon us in gentle diminuendos, raising goosebumps among the congregation. At the back of the church, Atch and I took turns chasing Eli, who was bent upon exploring all the dusty and cobwebby nooks and crannies of ancient baroque architecture.

Family of the groom

Eli and Eish

"Romeo" and his rose

The reception was held by the lip of the sea, the many hanging lanterns casting a warm glow on skin, white tablecloths, and the raised wooden deck. The breeze blew in, carrying salty sea air, and as the bride and groom kissed in the luminous dark, a thousand fireworks exploded over the water, blowing away much of the exhaustion and ushering in a satisfied relief.

Nonoy had gotten himself a competent handler. All was well with the world.

Nonoy and RJ

Eli at the edge of the Dauis seacoast

Eli and Mom walk the red carpet

Woogie by the sea

*****

The next morning, despite our previous late and alcohol-laden night, we bounded out of our beds early, eager to face our first free (and only) day as tourists. We had to wait for a couple more hours for the family and friends of the bride to get ready, but as the sun slowly approached the sky's zenith, we decided we were absolved of our nanny duties and enthusiastically sallied forth:

Bohol Bee Farm

Cruising down the Loboc River

And yes, I kissed a monkey.

Tarsius syrichta

We all did.

Eli's response to: "Don't touch the monkeys."

The following day, we had a repeat of our tedious land-and-sea journey back home. It's been two months since that day. We're still bone-tired.

Two Weddings and A Monkey (Part 2)

Puke. There was a lot of it. Particularly from the other car. We trailed the Revo across the pretzel-loop highway leading up towards the mountains of Don Salvador Benedicto. Two cars, eleven people, two carsick little kids, ears popping in the high altitude.

Not a week after Nat tied her groom down, we were making our way to the quaint little city of Bohol to witness my only brother, Nonoy get bound up, as well. Atch was continuously wincing at the thought of his rapidly dwindling resources. I was cringing at having two excited little boys under my charge, having permanently let go of the nanny that week due to some very serious infractions.

We started out after breakfast, half a dozen adults and four kids, bracing ourselves for a two-leg four-hour road trip interspersed with a two-leg six-hour trip by sea. Taking a plane was too expensive, my father, a do-or-die skinflint declared. And Atch all so readily agreed.

Wawa and grandkids, getting ready to board the ferry

I see the sea!

Nine hours and one ferry boat ride later, we were on a highway linking Toledo to Cebu. Woog was tiredly demanding for us to turn around and go home. He was tired, he was hungry, he wanted his soft bed.

But as the brilliantly lighted hills loomed ever closer, he started bouncing up and down on his seat, “Mom, this is the best day ever!”

Cebu at night was phenomenal. As the traffic inched slowly forward, my father made an equally phenomenal leap across the seat to the luggage compartment at the back, where he emptied his sixty-something bladder mostly inside a freshly upended water bottle, splashing some of his urea on places we preferred not to think about.

We spent the night at a hotel, too hungry to be nice to one another, too tired to go around and see the sights. More family members joined us: Dada, who took an ill-timed leave from her new job (“told them I had pharyngitis”), and the next morning we drove to the airport picked up her twin, Dudu, who flew in from medical school in Iloilo (“yes, sem break at last!”).

Eli: Trade?

Woog: *snort*

We unlucky thirteen drove to the pier where we tiredly boarded another ferry after a long interminable wait under the scorching noonday sun, on towards our final destination: Tagbilaran, Bohol's capital city.

By the time we had docked at the port, it was full dark. Deedee, the lawyer sister from Manila met up with us, as well as two uncles and their wives who had travelled all the way from Kansas and San Diego. It was mayhem and chaos as we tried to fit 19 people and mountains of luggage into two cars and the hotel mini van.

In all the rush and confusion, we didn't notice that we had left behind our legal eagle. Deedee, after having successfully directed the cramming of everyone and everything into every single available space, was left standing by her lonesome on the wharf while the vehicles carrying tired and hungry people sped away. Everyone in each car all thought she was riding with the other. It somehow seemed like a portent of dark beginnings for everyone.

Scaregiver

My sons are young and strong and resilient. They'll have to be. The world is a harsh, scary and unpredictable place, and the sooner they find out, the better it will be for them. What won't kill them will only make them stronger.

Not.

Not by a long shot, dammit!

I feel so helpless about having failed to protect and shield my babies from real life monsters. Especially if those monsters hide behind the mask of a caregiver.

Woog finally snapped and rang my office from the apartment next door. Yaya Merly had locked him out. Hot and sweaty in the noonday sun, he knocked and hollered while she ignored his pleas. In desperation, he ran to Door 4 and dialled my number. Oh bless little 6-year-old boys who have just recently learned to use the telephone!

I was speechless at her temerity. How dare her! I called her straight-away and she whined about how noisy Woog was, and how disobedient. Then she hung up on me.

We sent her away without preamble, trembling with rage at her haughty assumption that she was indispensable.

Did she hurt you, Woog? We asked. He didn't let out a single tearful word until she had packed her bags and exited the door.

Sometimes. Because I'm so misbehaved.

That he would think that of himself, my wonderfully precocious, hyperactive and insatiably curious little boy. That she had stomped down on his delicate self-esteem, stooping to the level my children, the bitch! Were she in front of me I would have punched her square on her insufferable smirk.

But she was gone, and good riddance to bad rubbish.

I blamed myself for each time I pooh-pooh'd reports from next door of how Woog and Yaya Merly held regular shouting matches: oh, he's always that noisy, I'd say. And whenever poor Eli cried while she gave him a bath, I put it down to his being skittish about water. I didn't give a single thought to why my normally sweet children were standoffish around her.

Even my own mother was vocal about how the nanny would continuously be texting on her cellphone while the baby made his own unsupervised way about the living room. She makes my blood heavy, my intuitive mother often said.

And now it comes to this. Because I didn't listen. Because I didn't take time to sit down with my babies and feel their inner temperature.

Despite the horrible guilt I harbor, I take heart that my sons are tenacious. In time, they will forget, I try to reassure myself, strengthening my resolve to be more involved and more vigilant about these two priceless jewels that I need to protect with my life.

Two Weddings and A Monkey (Part 1)

The city was in a fever. It was the month of the MassKara and traffic swelled to horrendous proportions everywhere. Not helping matters any, the sun beat down on every available surface, melting asphalt and frying stagnant dura matter. Erupting tempers were rife, as were drunken knife fights in the plaza at sundown. It was a wonder to certain irate locals why tourists kept flocking to this city every October, despite the traffic and itinerant vendors, despite the heat and violence at happy hour, year after year after year.

At the home front, the flurry of activity was building up, as well. It was the 18^th, the very height of the MassKara festival. It was also Nat's wedding day.

She arrived from Manila a couple of weeks before that, taking a leave from her sub-specialty stint as an OB-Gyne-Ultrasound internist to join with her one true love. Atch and family breathed collective sighs of relief, the youngest was finally settling down.

Like a mini-reunion of sorts, my husband's teeming cauldron of kinfolk came pouring in from all four corners of Christendom. We managed to stuff some of them into the already tourist-laden hotel where the wedding was to take place that afternoon, and the rest we crammed into our two cramped apartments like so many flopping sardines.

Apart from the mad scramble to get suitcase-rumpled suits, barongs and dresses pressed, there was an equally hushed moment when we all held our breaths as Atch carefully inserted Eli into his elegant satin coin-bearer outfit. He had previously threwn passionate tantrums at all his fittings, pawing at the shiny material. He rolled on the floor at the wedding rehearsal, as well.

Atch turned the hotel room's air conditioning full blast on our diaper-clad son, and when he was sufficiently covered in goosebumps, eased him into his costume. Eli was surprisingly compliant. Until he left the frigid zone.

Meanwhle, Woog's fingers and feet were literally everywhere he could get them into. He prowled the hotel lobby, shaking the silver-cast condiment containers, cruising the floor on the bellboy's baggage trolley, picking pebbles from the landscaped garden and dropping them surreptitiously into the blossom-bedecked pool.

It was when he almost tipped over one of the tall crystal centerpieces brimming with calla lilies that I gave in to my itchy finger compulsion to give his femoral artery a hearty tweak. He subsided momentarily, eyeing me with wounded sheep eyes, but only until he took fraternity with a spoon and fork not five minutes later and discovered the lovely tinkling sounds that wine glasses make.

Atch took over at this point, herding the boys away from livid temperaments and melting make-up. By the time the wedding march was set to start, three of them looked like drunken survivors from a stag party.

The wedding planner and her minions separated the whole messy gaggle of entourage and relatives, and cordoned everyone off in the sweltering garden where we awaited curtain call.

In the end, Nat's wedding was a breathtaking vision of bubbles and butterflies and smoke. Strains of violin music pierced through the mist of our tears as my ethereal sister-in-law floated down the aisle to meet her destiny...

Nat and her Eric


The bible bearer marched.


The coin bearer didn't.


Atchbund and Aifee


Smiling for the requisite shot, tummies rumbling for dinner.

Finally