No Contest

Sunday. Day of the Pacquiao-Diaz fight. I wake slowly, reluctantly. My eyelids are glued together with encrusted motes and it takes a while before my lashes untangle themselves.

Woog is already awake. As is his habit on days when school is out, he is up from bed before the sun. Class days, I have to shake him awake for what seems like hours. I can hear him in the next room, noisily slamming his Megablocs structures on the floor. Tsk.


Eli is beginning to wake, as well. He is somewhere below, clinging to my left leg like a gecko, murmuring sleepily.


Atch suddenly drapes himself all over me. Apparently his anticipation of this day has turned his testosterone on full-throttle. It seems he finds the need to unburden some of his excitement lest he explode all over the tv screen even before the fight begins.


As expected, Eli, our reliable romance radar, senses something is amiss in his world. He begins to scold in unintelligible consonants and climbs in between his father and me, right heel snagging Atch's nose upon descent.


To distract him, Atch turns the ringtone function of his cellphone on and gives it to the baby, who predictably grabs it and holds it up to his ear. But only until Atch discretely rolls me down to Eli's bed, which results in Eli hurling the phone at his father. It bounces hard on the floor, narrowly missing his head.


My husband sighs. "I'll change him and bring him down to Yaya..." he begins.


"We'll be late for Mass, Atch," I interrupt, glancing at the clock, "maybe later?"


"But I'll be watching Pacquiao." He protests.


Ah, yes. Pacquiao. I hate you Manny Pacquiao.


"Pacquiao or me, Atch."


"Aifee!" He squawks.


In the car on the way to church, the radio is on full-blast, not playing the Amy Winehouse or Enya the kids have been enjoying of late, but strident sports commentators making absurd predictions on the fight.


I learn later that it is a historical joust for the Pacman who is making his debut bout in the lightweight division, a weight class higher-up his usual featherweight. But Eli is looking puzzled. He cannot dance to the radio announcers' quacking voices. Blackmark number two against Manny Pacquiao.


Somewhere in this benighted Pacquiao-loving city (no, blast him...world), my officemate, R. will have left his two toddlers in the care of his harried wife while he hies himself over to somewhere called Otso-Otso where they serve lunch and a live telecast of the fight, all for two hundred pesos. Meanwhile, F. will be squeezing in for free with hundreds of other fans at the Bay Center, never mind his wife and three lovely daughters.


Back home, I look at my husband expectantly, but Atch gulps down his lunch and hurries to the tv. I know I ought to physically fight for his attention (like maybe grab some cojones and squeeze really hard), but all hope is lost when he throws absently over his shoulder: "give Eli a bath and go take your siestas, Aif, okay?"


No contest. No contest at all.

Pacquiao versus Aifee

End Note: Pacquiao won. Round 9 knockout. Atch is ecstatic. The Pacman is now officially the Lightweight Champion of the World.


Bugger.

Friday Night Craptastrope

When a bullet enters the back of the head and exits the forehead opposite, all painfully drawn out in frame-by-frame slow motion, and with copious amounts of glutinous red fountaining out in a glittering liquid tiara, you'd expect to see some bits of bone and brain matter now, would you not?


I mean, if this is supposed to be a terribly graphically realistic moment, there should be some amount of a person's dura in pink, white and shiny grey globs adding a touch of contrast to the generous splash of scarlet, yes? And maybe a couple of shards of skull, correct? While the guy who gets the metal lobotomy has this mildly surprised expression (hey, who goosed me?) on his face.


But at the very end, Atch and I exchanged a glance that spoke volumes about how criminally double-crossed we'd been by the trailer and the all hype that preceded this spectacular craptavaganza of a movie, and why oh why did we throw away a hundred thirty pesos of good money to watch a non-story (and it was a non-story) masquerading as a serious blockbuster.


Such preparation I put into this, too. Yahoo movie critics rated it a B-minus. Not bad, I thought. But then again, there's no accounting for taste. I also consulted Nong Winston, one of my favorite movie gurus who deviously planned an office escape to watch the film, surreptitiously sneaking back with no one the wiser. And he gave a deep orgasmically ecstatic sigh, pure pleasure on his face. Just goes to show how bad I am at reading people's (you traitor, a pox on you!) expressions.


I had my hair especially ironed for this movie date, for crying out loud!


I mean, why would a person carve an intricate filigreed design on a bullet, anyway? And what kind of bubble-headed fraternity of assasins a thousand years old would consult the cotton weave fibers woven by a loom that masquerades as The Oracle to determine the next person to "lobotomize"?


And these miraculous cure-all baths that look like the wax of a million candles dribbled onto sewer water? Guaranteed to relieve you of knife wounds and broken bones and bullet holes in a matter of hours? May I pour this wonderful concoction down the conniving throats of the scriptwriters?


I won't fault the action sequences, though. I thought maybe Jumper, crossed with The Matrix, with a whole lot of Shoot 'Em Up thrown in? Yup. Umm-hmmm. Not to forget some smidgens of The Fast and Furious. And Wimbledon! Let's not forget Wimbledon. Where on earth did they conceive the idea that a bullet's trajectory can be curved just by whipping your gun around and firing in an impressive forehand lob ala Paul Bettany, or a mean backhand ala Kiki Dunst.


And I did get to view Angie's heavily tattoed backside. There is that.

Moral of the story: not all projects La Jolie lends her hard-core ephemeral presence to is guaranteed to be a hit. Not even with Morgan Freeman, who once essayed God, calmly walking around and enunciating in his deeply distinctive emotionless drawl to help elevate the movie's status. (and to think I had nothing but the greatest respect for you, sir).


Atch and I headed home afterwards, as flatly deflated as my hair. Some date night. It doesn't help matters any that he will officially cease to exist as husband and father on Sunday when the Pacquiao-Diaz fight at Mandalay Bay airs live. By then he'll have become an extension of the tv and the radio. And he will also have forgotten all traces of banker's dignity as he jumps, yells and throws shadow punches in the air as two half-naked men prance around slugging each other to the death (or at least until as far as the show's producers and official bookies see fit to have the fight fixed which way).

Such a depressing weekend I'm having. Looking forward to Hancock, though. One can always rely on superheroes to save the day.

In Tribute to Philip Pullman's Lantern Slides *

Woog, arguing hotly over the phone about why he isn't allowed to watch tv while eating his lunch. It is 2 PM and he has been home from school for over two hours. This is his mother's second check-up call and lunch does not seem to be on the radar of his consciousness. He is complaining about Yaya not giving in to his request for a piece of toasted bread smeared heavily in butter. For lunch. His mother tries not to lose her temper, instead suggests he wait...just wait...for his father to call. She hangs up the phone gently in the middle of his whining protests, and puts her head between her hands. In front of her, some puzzled clients spare her glances of pity and consternation.

Yaya Rose, returning from retirement, much to everyone's surprise. She has just turned 18. A year before, she quit her post as Woog and Eli's nanny, bowing to the dictates of her father. But poverty and her father's need for liquor found her seeking employment once more, and for a time she was nanny to Woog's cousin next door. For pretty much the same reasons, her father's whims sent her packing for home again. Now, she is pleading to be taken back, and she cannot meet anyone's eyes. How many children like her are forced, by poverty and feudalistic-minded parents, to come down from the hinterlands and seek work in the cities?

Dondi, reclining in bed. She is dead tired and her limbs are stiff. She asks for a backrub and her husband willingly complies. He gets behind her, and for a time, all is silent as he kneads at tight muscles. But he has other motives in mind, and he begins to grope and pinch where no groping and pinching are needed. Dondi is frustrated beyond all reason. To add to her sorrow, Eli demands her attention by jumping up on her aching thighs and doing an unsteady bruising cha-cha.

Eli, sitting on his father's lap. The overhead light glares at an ugly purple knot on his forehead. He has been pushing a footstool across the floor again, running to evade his Yaya's grasp. In his haste to escape, he has collided with the hardwood arm of the sectional sofa, and raised a bump the size of Mount Kanlaon. There is a scratch underneath his right eye where he has scrubbed furiously away at his tears. His mother tries to figure out why he ignores his toys, and prefers instead to forcefully upend chairs and shove them around by their upraised legs.

Dondi, late at night. She is slack-jawed in front of the computer and wondering how some people manage to post updates on more than one blog Every. Single. Day. This after clocking in more than 10 hours at their day job, or attending to a houseful of their tantruming snot-faced children. Perhaps they spend the whole day walking around in Compose Mode? She wonders if she will ever have an uninterrupted slice of time without the baby slamming his palms on the keyboard while clamoring to be carried (“Up! Up!”), or the older son needing help with his homework. She knows she can ill-afford to lose out on more sleep, lest her zombiefied self cause the menfolk to complain about being late for next day's school and work. She sits at the computer and stares, clueless. On the wall above her, the clock strikes midnight.


* Philip Pullman, ending each of His Dark Materials trilogy with vignettes of stories lurking behind stories: lantern slides. Dondi looks forward to reading his Lyra's Oxford and is eagerly awaiting the release of The Book of Dust. She speculates on whether Lyra and Will ever see each other again, and fervently hopes Pullman doesn't sue her for borrowing heavily from his literary style.

An Intruder in My Blog

I find myself with a surfeit of time on my hands and the first thing I get busy at is... no, not my children....no, not my husband.....no, not even the growing pile of bills, papers and documents tottering atop the set of plastic drawers begging begging (for the love of God...!) begging to be filed. No, the first thing I get my hands on is my blog.

My poor neglected unsightly collection of words housed in an unseemingly motley arrangement of geometric shapes and mismatched colors which haven't been on speaking terms with the feather duster, it seems, oh for half a century or so. My blog.

There is work to be done, my pitiful mangy little project, you. Your inception was conceived in the clearest light of day, with the boldest of assumptions and the most gallant of intentions. But I have been busy with life, and now you lie here wasted and ignored, a shadow of what your parent intended you to be. Verily, there is work to be done.

And so I rummage around tools and layouts and settings and templates, eager to unleash what little technological knowledge I have of weblog refurbishment. I riffle through words of writings' past and search through long-lost links to some of my favorite writers, only to discover...

...horrors!

Who is this scary stranger who writes the story of my life, and why is she so much better than me? She uses my words and my thoughts, rubs hers sinuous self against my husband, ursurps the affectionate devotion of my sons...

She has invaded my blog!

I am violated and outraged. How dare her!

I steal a peek at the sentences she has strung together and marvel at the workings of her right brain. Would I have thought of doing the same thing the exact same way? Clearly I am the inferior being here. The very thought incites me to a jealous murdering frenzy.

*Kill! Kill!*

But how does one commit murder on oneself?

Slowly, I deflate.

I puzzle over this conundrum, and wonder how a bright and luminous being like herself could have channeled her thoughts so clearly into my typing fingertips. Surely, she is destined for greater things. And yet she has found reason to hover around the mediocre musings of a plain undecorated working mother.

I read on and I am amazed, because I can never, not in several millenia, duplicate what she has done here. But she is gone now, and I am left groping for words, and snatching futilely at ideas flitting frustratingly just out of my reach.

I wonder if she and I will cross paths again, or if traces of her have been completely blown away by whirlwinds of change and displaced by mountainous upheavals.

Again, my unfortunate collection of words and I stare at each other. I have completely forgotten what it is I have tasked myself to do. I feel a strange affinity with her, a sudden surge of maternal pride, but sadly...

It may already be too late.

Frank

The power died on a Saturday at 3 in the morning. Fortunately, it was cold and raining, and Atch and I didn't have to stay up and fan the heat off the boys' foreheads.

When we woke, the wind still howled, the rain still poured, and Woog had wet the bed. We huddled under the covers and wondered whether it was a storm. There had been no warning from the weather bureau, after all.

I fretted about the package I had to send to head office, and Atch worried about a time deposit placement due that very same day.

There was no sun with which to dry Woog's soaked mattress, and no light to brighten the cold damp gloom, so we made our way down with candles, and discovered that (horrors!) no water flowed from any of the taps, not a drop. We had to bring buckets in from the huge storage pail we had out back. No electricity and no water meant I couldn't do the laundry. And even if I did four loads manually with the abundant rainwater, it still wouldn't dry. What a spot to find ourselves in!

After breakfast, Atch carted his whole family to the bank where he worked, because storm or no storm, that time deposit placement was going to be made. The boys gazed wide-eyed from the windows at the trees that had fallen while they were asleep, and at the flooded roads where brave denizens waded in waist-deep water, bombarded by the steadily falling rain and wildly blowing wind. This scene of destructon beat Cartoon Network and Nickolodeon any day.

The car radio was calling out locations of various evacuation centers and reporting that this, ladies and gentlemen, was Frank, and his itinerary had changed. We were now on the path of a full-blown typhoon.

At Atch's bank, I texted my officemates, and all reported being shut in by the storm. I frantically called the Banco de Oro branch where I was scheduled to deposit my previous day's collection. It had been declared closed due to the weather conditions.

Woog and Eli were oblivious to the maelstrom outside, running about, tapping on typewriter keys, and chatting with the raincoat-clad security guards. How I envied their excitement, whilst we adults went around with creases of worry dotting our leathery foreheads.

Back home, we called my parents and my father reported that a tree had fallen on his car, snapping his sideview mirror off. Our storage pail finally depleted, Atch put several buckets in succession under the generous downspout for water to wash the dishes with. “But the cats do their business on the roof,” I protested, “this might very well be contaminated water!”

“Aif,” he explained patiently, “whatever business the cats left has already been washed away by this rain ages ago.”

The germaphobe in me cringed anyway and I wished I could add disinfectant to the dishwater. And as I couldn't do the laundry, I waxed the floors and dusted the upstairs bedrooms instead. I didn't even raise a sweat. One good thing about having cold rainy weather is doing heavy housework without getting all hot and sweaty.

The power finally came on, low in voltage. But still no water. On Sunday, my father arrived with their now thoroughly thawed chicken and fish, which we then proceeded to stuff in our freezer. He also came bearing plastic jugs of water (they have water!), and our unwashed bodies danced a celebratory jig of thanks.

Alas. In his haste to get all our imported water into the storage pail, a heavy jug slipped from Atch's grasp, fell to the bottom, and tore a hole the size of Eli's head. All our precious water drained out. Atch looked like he wanted to wail. Around him, the storm raged on.

All this reminded me of my freshman year in college when a typhoon blew the roof off the neighboring administration building, sending reams of documents flitting all over the rain-soaked campus. The roof of our dorm started grinning up at the storm as well, so us girls bundled our belongings in bedsheets and fled downstairs to the boys' quarters were we prayed decades of the rosary and cried (laughed-cried-laughed) hysterically until the worse was over. There was no water for weeks afterward, and large groups of us took fully-clothed baths at the artesian well outside, waving to other students coming off the schoolbus who were gaping at our sudsy selves.

If we laughed then, I suppose we should try and laugh now. The boys seemed to be taking it pretty well, so we bundled them over to my parents house where there was water (but no power), and left them amusing themselves with shadow animals, while Atch and I took a breather and watched the second Incredible Hulk. No contest there. Edward Norton remains a million miles better than Eric Bana, scrawny limbs notwithstanding.

We bought sweet ripe mangoes and roasted chicken, splurged on a new water storage pail and a couple of cd's. It seemed almost like a holiday for us.

In the midst of this, we got text messages from my sister, the medical student in Iloilo, who thankfully lived on the third floor but had to swim to the neighborhood store just to buy drinking water and rice. The flood was waist deep where she was. In other parts of the country, it was a lot worse. We later learned a boat sank, 700 passengers were missing, people and their kids drowned, and landslides were plentiful. Many more went missing in the storm. We sent up a prayer of thanks that all of our family was unharmed. Inconvenienced and water-logged, but unharmed.

We spent the rest of Sunday at my parents' as Frank blew his last flurries of wind and rain. We played the new cd's full blast on the car stereo, bonding together and drawing warmth in the face of all the cold.

The Day of the Giant Red Bee (a photoblog)

Woog had his first birthday party at age two. It took his mother nearly a year to prepare: drawing up a concept, filling out the guest list, planning the food, games and decorations, scouring wholesale shops for novelty items to hang from the pabitins and fill the piñatas with. It was a payday to payday struggle, with a then employment-challenged Atch dutifully chauffering me around on the weekends and patiently carting my purchases, but we made it. And Woog had a memorable birthday blast that was talked about in the months that followed.

By contrast, the joint birthday party we held for the boys (Woog 11 days into his sixth year, Eli 22 days short of his second) took me less than three weeks to arrange. Funny what slightly more money, slightly more children, and considerably less free time will do to your planning stage. Still, the kids had fun, and Eli was especially ecstatic. The cheapest clown I could find (“that's hilarious,” Atch guffawed, “the cheapest clown! Imagine someone callling you cheap, and you're a clown!”) was fortunately un-cheesy, the food overflowed, the games were loudly energetic (even the grown-ups got to play), and the giant red bee was a hit:

The invite

The tarp. Took nearly half a blasted day to assemble
their favorite characters and do the lay-out concept.

The cake

The cheapest clown. Meet Anderson and his balloons animals.
One of the gamest clowns ever, despite Woog clobbering his
brightly-colored loins with a rubber mallet. Ow.

Anderson in action

Eli and Mom

Fine dining manners

Piglets at the trough

The Bee! It's the Bee!

Where you been all my life?

Eli's first love is not his mother.

Say what, grampa?

The geriatric and the pediatric

Don't worry, Eli, I'll blow the candles, you go ahead and hug the Bee.

The boys and the Bee

Pabitin frenzy

Grown ups in a frenzy. Tore all the crepe to shreds, too. Tsk.

Mom, look what I got!

Bee, look what I got!

The Bee stings the piñata

It's a Battle B-Daman! Yehey!

Bee photo op

Eli, Bee, and the grandparents

Buzzing with the bee

It rained a bit which meant that less than half of the guest list turned out. Either that, or we unwisely scheduled the party for Father's Day. In any case, we had a ton of food left over and Atch grouched about the waste. When we got home, we gave plates of spaghetti, barbecue and sandwiches to the neighbors, and carted the rest over to Atch's hometown of Valladolid, 31 kilometers away away. We'd learned that very same day of the passing of Tatay Ponyong, his late aunt's husband, and knowing how hard-up that branch of the family was, the food certainly came in handy at the wake. Not a waste, Atch, never a waste. It was meant to be.

On the rainy drive back home, the kids slept, still fully dressed in their birthday outfits. Atch and I exchanged an ancient weary glance. We'd forgotten how tiring and back-achy hosting a children's party was, even more so now we were older and had less energy than the usual. “This is the second to the last party,” Atch declared, “the boys can have another one when Eli turns four or so, but that's it.”

Mmmm-hmmm, I think I might have yawned. That'd be about it. I felt a sense of accomplishment, like a dutiful tick mark made on a checklist of things-to-do. And while my excitement didn't reach the level of the last one, this party was made more meaningful by the happy smiles on the faces of my boys, and the relief it brought to those who needed it.

But thank Lordy it'll be a while until I have to conjure up the next party. It'll take just about that long for me to recover.

Misguided

Sometimes parents think not spanking is best. Sometimes they think words are better. Words that strike at the heart. Words that make a child feel unwanted. Words that are unwarranted by any behavior, except that of a child acting like a child.


Sometimes parents are bullies who gang up on their helpless offspring. By some unspoken invisible signal, they harangue and they oppress. And they tell the child to find someplace else to live because they are utterly disgusted by his behavior. All because he is a child behaving like a child.


Sometimes parents do not see the panic and abject misery in the child's eyes. They think they are not spanking, and that is alright. Because spanking causes pain, and is frowned upon, and will bring social services down on their heads. Instead they throw hateful words that bring tears to the eyes of someone who looks up to them for guidance, for nurturing, for sustenance. For love.


Sometimes parents think they are doing the right thing. But it is no excuse for the abominable behavior that they never let their friends see, that they never show a trace of to their colleagues or bosses or neighbors. But which they feel will be quite alright to show their own child. Someone who is helpless and vulnerable, and now feeling alone. Unwanted. Unnecessary.


Sometime parents think it is okay to order their child to pack his clothes and get out. Or to pull the car over and tell him to hop off to the side of the road, bye-bye. Or to give him a steely eye in the face of his pleas. Because they are not spanking, no. And spanking is the very evil of discipline.


Instead they wound his soul. And they think that is alright.


Sometimes parents are fit to be hanged. Because they do spare the rod, but cause that dancing happiness, that bright spark of spirit to be wiped out completely. Until the child is a wary husk of himself.


And when they see that they are wrong, that perhaps other words could have been used - uplifting words, cajoling words, loving words - they may feel it beneath them to apologize. Because they are adults. And they are parents. And the child depends on them, so why should he complain? He should take what he can get and be grateful for it.


Except that, this child is an extension of them. And sooner or later, his pain will show. His pain will emerge when he is grown. When he will stomp on his parents hearts unknowingly. Because he is now a husk that does not know compassion or forgiveness. When he hurts his own child with his words. Because his parents have raised him that way, and he knows of nothing else.


Sometimes parents will need to look back at the day and think which part of it did they spend letting the child know that he is loved. Despite what he has done. Despite what he is. And they will need to hug that broken spirit lying sleeping in the unhappy dreams that they have caused. And they will need to ruffle his hair, and kiss his forehead, and whisper their regrets.


Sometimes parents will lie in bed awake. Eaten by guilt. And they will look at each other, and then look away. Because they are co-conspirators to the crime of killing their child, this child of their loins, little by little, by their cruel words and cold unfeeling acts. Because they are not fit to be parents of this child, whom they claim to love, but with whom they treat with hate.


And sometimes parents will find that there is no salvation in sleep. No, none at all.

Woog, Eli and Child Labor

Nighttime. Woog meanders through meal. Evening chore is wiping post-dinner debris off table and sweeping kitchen floor. Woog dawdles. Attempts to prolong inevitable.


Eli is done with meal. Bored out of skull. Gets hold of Mom's old eyeglass case. Starts to pick at rubber lining. Pick. Pick. Pick. Million pieces of soft green snow rain down on floor. Busy hands. Happy baby.


At table, Woog shrieks. Mind's eye sees floor sweep-a-thon til midnight. And Pokemon starts in half-hour.


Woog (near to apoplexy): Eli! Stop! Stop!


Eli (grins at brother): Mmmmm.


Woog (approaching indigestion): Stop! Stop scattering everything!


Eli (basks in attention, picks harder): Mmmmm!


Woog (turns to Mom for help): Mom! Eli's messing the floor!Tell him to stop!


Mom is doing dishes. Tired of waiting for empty plate of slowpoke son. Shrugs. Waits for Woog to solve predicament by self.


Woog wolfs down meal. The sooner to stop brother's particle shower, the better. Speeds through wiping of table. Rushes next door with bowl of leftovers for auntie's dogs. Descends on confetti-happy toddler like avenging angel.


Woog (aflame in artery-popping ire): Eli! You think you're smart?!


Mom winces. Woog uses words with long history. Passed down from grandfather to mother. From mother to son. From son to baby brother. Mom resolves to abolish words from family lexicon.


Eli looks down at handiwork. Red-brown floor is abloom with sprays of soft green. Pretty. Eli chuckles. Beside him, Woog is Rumplestiltskin dancing with rage. Close to tearing hair off. Close to tearing little brother's hair off.


Eli marches to cleaning supplies closet. Takes out broom and dustpan. Commences to do Woog's job.


Woog (near to tears): Eli, stop! You're making it worse!


Woog is right. Felt pieces are tossed about in whirlwind of Eli's passage. Mom collapses in laughter. Nearly drops plate.


Mom (in conciliatory tone): It's okay, Woog. At least he's trying.


Woog harrumphs to living room. Bereft of job. Bereft of speech. Snaps on Cartoon Network and settles down with episode of Pokemon. Mom thinks certain people are secretly relieved to be let off chores.


Meanwhile, Eli commences wrecking havoc with broom and dustpan. Look of intense concentration on face.

Starting them early.
This is why we are a nation (in)famous for export manpower.

The Evolution of A Boy

He was quiet when he woke up this morning, barely saying two words to anyone. He was pensive at the breakfast table, as well, seemingly deep in thought.


Maybe having a birthday does that to you. You feel like something should be happening at such a momentous occasion. Maybe the sound of your bones growing, or the skin of your face taking a different shape, or maybe even the sudden blossoming of wondrous insights inside your skull at the stroke of your birth hour.


But he had just turned 6, after all. And the changes he might have been expecting were still a long way off into the future. Far far away. In forty or so years, his growing paunch will tell him. And so will his aching back, his cynical thoughts, and thousands of strands of no-hair.


But for now, he is just a little boy who has just turned 6. And 6 is the exact same age to ask his mother at the breakfast table, "when are you going to evolve into an old woman, Mom?"


In the olden days, if I asked such a question, my father would have delivered a brisk clip to the side of my head and commanded me to stop spouting such nonsense. But I recognized the little girl that I used to be in his odd query. Perhaps he was wondering how long it took to become an adult. And I fancied his maturing mind was trying to grasp the concept of age.


Suddenly, he said, "Pokemon can evolve."


I was flummoxed. Is the generation gap too wide a chasm for me to cross? It seems I have lost my son in translation.


I was quiet for a bit more while I tried to analyze his question from every angle. But Woog's mouth won battle of supremacy against silence and emerged victorious. Suddenly, words burst out of his mouth at a mile per minute, shattering the morning calm with the enumeration of various Pokemon monsters he has observed to have, at one time or another, evolved on national television.


I laughed with him, relieved that he'd found himself again. Stay yourself a while longer, I said to him in my head, you have years and years and years and years.


After breakfast, we granted his birthday wish to spend the day at my parents' house. Later, when we picked him up, we learned he had helped his aunts set up an impromptu garage sale in the front yard and earned himself some money for convincing an old lady to buy a beat-up toy car.


The lady had asked him what on earth he was planning to do with ten pesos, and Woog, who has never had an allowance in his life, told her he was going to buy bubblegum. "Pleeeeeeease," he begged. She relented and haggled him down to five.


And so he has five pesos for birthday money. I can almost see the wheels turning in his head. Our spawn might turn out to be the world's greatest salesman. Fancy that kind of evolution. I just hope he doesn't sell us out of house and home.

Happy birthday, Woogie!

Slices of Sunday II

Woog is fidgeting before me with a hopeful expression on his face, first on one leg, then on the other. It is mid-afternoon and we are leaving in a while to attend a children's party. Eli is prepped and ready, squealing with excitement at this rare chance to explore the world.

Woog is not. Woog wants to stay here at my parents' house and play with his cousin, Kylot. I look at Atch helplessly. He shrugs and pockets the car keys. It is my call, apparently.

I sigh despondently. Spending family time together with my little foursome only three-fourths complete does not sit well with me. It evokes feelings of panic and foreboding and a deeply-rooted loneliness.

But my first-born is growing up and outwards, and pretty soon I am going to have to let him go and make his own way. If he wants to do a sleep-over, there are worse things than allowing him to stay at my parents' house.

I hug him and kiss him and remind him to behave, knowing deep in my bones he is going to do the opposite.

Later, back at home, I refrain from calling him half-a-dozen times like I did the first night he slept away from me. I only called once, and he promised that he had eaten and brushed his teeth and scrubbed behind his knees. And also that he loved me, and bye-bye, Mom, Manong Kylot and I are playing at the computer.

The family bed seems empty with only the three of us in it, and the night-sounds ring sadly hollow. Even when Eli cries and thrashes in his sleep, dreaming of fragments from his busy day.

In the morning I'll feel better, I try to assure myself. I wait for the daylight, but it is a long long time in coming.

Slices of Sunday I

It is another of those power-interrupted days when the city's electric cooperative has magnanimously decided to do maintenance work on our neighborhood's power lines during these last few scorching days of summer. And so Sunday finds us at my parents' house for lunch and siesta.

Woog is asleep. Atch is asleep. Eli is giggling with my father in a generations-old kick-ass tickling game called Pong-Pong-Piyadong. I am in my mom's storage shed out back, looking through dusty cobwebby memories of my childhood.

Eli screams. Long, loud and piercingly.

I run back inside, ready to hurl frightened angry accusatory words at my father, but he is cradling my sobbing son in his arms, and those words die a guilty death at my throat. Eli has made mushi.

I lay him down on the couch and change his diaper, wincing at the sight of his marble-hard turds. In his easy chair, my Tatay wrinkles his nose over a cup of coffee.

Eli whimpers. I thrust Optimus Prime at him and he is instantly engrossed, silent. My poor baby son is the unfortunate recipient of the hard-bowel malady that has plagued countless ancestors from both sides of his family. It is an ailment that has so far eluded capture, through countless formula and diet changes, and futile attempts at toilet training.

It is excruciating to watch, this process of voiding his bowels. He finds a nice quiet corner and squats on one fat haunch, lifting the other cheek into the air to create a pocket of space. And then the pushing comes. His face turns red, he sweats rivers, and his legs tremble with the effort. He grunts and groans and gives birth to dark awesome monstrosities while the air is filled with his ululating cries.

Sometimes we ply him with prune juice. Other times, his poor abused behind is speaklessly violated with a suppository. Always, it is an agonizing time for him. Except during his good days, when from out of nowhere, he tugs at my leg, pats his heavily sagging diapered bottom, and proudly announces, “Done.”

Today is not one of his good days. And together, we feel his pain.