Woogie Does Hawaii

Woog was a nervous bundle of anxiety the morning we left for Robinson's for his school's annual field trip. On this one, the kids would be paying a visit to Greenwich to learn to assemble their own pizzas.

"I don't know how to make pizza, Mom," Woog worried for the umpteenth time. And in turn, I worried about him. My normally confident and excitable four-year-old has for some reason, recently developed a case of the nerves. He obsesses about the most inconsequential of matters and frets about everything, and nothing: the night's potential bad dreams, the size of his toast, that he might miss a certain children's party, the exact placement of the food on his plate (eggs on the left, fries at 10 o'clock, ketchup dead center). He even broods about events far off into the future.

All this feverish uncertainty in one so young has me frantically nitpicking through our methods of raising him. Are we too stingy with praise? Do we not acknowledge his efforts often enough? Are we remiss in building his self-esteem? Too tough about tough love?

The list is endless, and it piles up into the huge mountain of guilt that all mothers hoist about their shoulders, like Atlas bowed underneath the burden of the world. Don't we all just wish we could do more for our children, but somehow fall short of our own expectations in doing so? I continually bash my figurative head in for failing to be more patient, more loving, and more there (as opposed to thinking about the next thing on my to-do list while Woog tells me about the events in his day).

And so there we were, the worried pair of mother and son, standing before a packed throng of kids and parents grouped around a Greenwich outlet. "Don't worry, Woog, they'll show you how to do it." I assured him with a hug. But he looked at me with clear uncertainty and even managed a faint moan of distress before his teacher roped him over with an apron and stuck him with his name tag, "Owen".

I sighed with resignation and seated myself as near him as I could get, wondering if his agitation were a result of being a year younger and a good head shorter than most of the kids in his class.

More than 50 kids from the pre-school's morning classes were seated around wooden trestle tables and cordoned off from twice the number of parents who were either seated or standing and proudly directing all manner of digicams, videocams and phonecams (yours truly included) at their prodigy.

Woog exhibiting performance anxiety

The moderator was the store's young manager, Tito Al, who carried on with all the good-natured vim and vigor of a clown hosting a children's party. The kids held their own the best they could, up until Tito Al started on an enthusiastic if long-winded narration of Greenwich's history, it's sister stores and various other pizza-pasta statistics. Truly I marveled at their staying power, this huge group of four and five-year-olds, and alas, it was soon obvious that Tito Al had no kids of his own. At least none who were pre-schoolers itching to wiggle off their seats and create chaos. Which, with much aplomb, they soon did.

Woog leading the pack into chaos

The teachers herded their charges back into their seats, only to herd them off moments later, for it was time to make their way into the kitchens.

"Do not touch the hot ovens!" Tito Al bellowed into his headset mic, and most of the parents present exchanged amused glances at the edge of desperation in his voice.

A pizza-making demonstration soon followed (much craning of kiddie necks), and after washing dozens of kiddie hands, the Greenwich staff made their rounds handing out the pizza-making ensemble for Solo Hawaiian Pizza. Through all this, Tito Al pleaded with the kids not to touch their hair/pick their noses/suck their thumbs. He was, as expected, thoroughly ignored.

Spread evenly

The general babble died down as the kids enthusiastically set to work on their respective crusts. Spoons were dropped and liquid was splattered in globulous quantities, but they gamely plodded on.

"Do not lick the pizza sauce!" Clearly, Tito Al was losing it. Woog spared me hardly a glance.

Sprinkle all around

Tito Al's frantic exhortations not to gobble up all the cheese went mostly unheeded, and more cheese had to be brought. Indulgent parents called out encouragement to their preoccupied children, also unheeded.

A million years and some thirty minutes later, the finished products were carried off on trays to be baked. Woog shot me a glance of triumph and exhilaration, and a bright ray of relief banished the cobwebs of worry in my heart. Nothing to it, Woog, I silently mouthed at him, I knew you could do it. My son glowed.

Beside me, a group of concerned mothers debated on stepping in to assist the teachers and poor Tito Al as he personally supervised one parlour game after another in an attempt to keep the kids occupied while their pizzas cooked. The earlier vim and vigor had dissipated all too soon and the poor man was at pains to keep the smile pasted on his put-upon face. Clearly this one would think it over a gazillion times before even considering the giving up of sperm in the spirit of procreation.

An excited hum arose as the smell of oven-baked spiced ham and cheese wafted over to the famished younglings. Soon, the much-awaited Hawaiian Solo pizza and softdrinks were served, and the whir of cameras proceeded, thus:

"Owwie, hot, hot!"

Hawaiian Solo ala Woog

Forget the sugar content, I'm glad you have your confidence back

The morning's end saw us waving a fond adieu to an exhausted Tito Al and the Greenwich staff, the former I'm sure entertaining second thoughts about having the pre-school's afternoon classes over for a repeat performance. Too late, man, sorry. You're booked solid for the day. I feel for you, I really do.

And I followed in the wake of my happy son as he led the rest of the gang upstairs to invade the resident Toys R Us, where the pizza-stuffed and sugar-fueled kids commenced to wreck havoc with the Mega-blocks and the Chikko jungle gyms.

No matter. All's well that ends well. Until the next anxiety attack anyway.

So We Moved

I am not even about to harass myself with a retelling of this most prodigious and supremely stressful event. Suffice it to say, the apartment next door was up for grabs, and grab it we did. Door number Four was getting too crowded, what with the in-laws and all. So we moved. To door number Five.

So we moved. Why does that sound so blessedly simple? Foremost in my memory is leaving my three-week-old son in the old living room while Yaya and I negotiated the bulky dresser downstairs, across the courtyard, then upstairs again to the new bedroom.

Atch covered in sawdust and sweat as he drilled holes and stapled electrical cables.

Woog running wildly back and forth from one apartment to the next, unsupervised.

My milkjugs knocking painfully against my chest as I waxed the new floor.

Nursing Eli while helplessly listening to Atch's poor back creaking from the strain of carrying three sets of cabinets, one disassembled queen-sized bed, an aircon unit, a tv, and various other odds and ends.

Combing the city to find the least expensive possible dining table...and wincing anyway while shelling out the money for one.

Going back and forth for the gazillionth time carrying clothes and shoes and pillows and sheets...how can three people accumulate so much stuff in five years?

Trying to appease Woog who shied in terror from his new bedroom, and his first ever prospect of sleeping alone.

Vacuuming. Wiping and disenfecting. Again and again. And yet again.

In the end, when we finally settled down to enjoy our first breakfast in the new apartment, it started to feel like home. We were practically sleepwalking in exhaustion, but we were home.

August 2006

Tired and Terrified

Atch winced mightily as his wedding ring cut across his clenched fingers. The pressure was growing intense, but he silently endured the pain just as his wife bore down unceasingly on his hand. This was his role, after all, and he dutifully soaked everything up like a sponge.

This is not a scene from the delivery room. Or even the labor room. This incident is set around a routine check-up of a full-term pregnancy. The OB-Gyn withdraws her latex-gloved fingertips from the violated orifice of this red-faced algophobe. Freed at last, said algophobe's husband shakes his poor mangled hand gingerly, perhaps hoping to get some of the circulation back.

The OB-Gyn is shaking her head. The mucus plug is still too thick, the uterus still too high up. For a second pregnancy 38 weeks old, this is a bit unusual. And I've been 3 centimeters dilated for the past week.

Atch starts getting a determined look on his face, and I could almost imagine him hectoring me through a regular exercise regiment of power walking, squats and lunges. Anything to get my uterus contracting and the baby descending. Anything to avoid a costly cesarean section. As one, we blink away the image of hundreds of peso bills flying out the window. This is probably one of the reasons we fell in love – the irresistible primal call of one skinflint to another. *Sigh*

On the way down, we take the stairs. I am so tired. I can feel the clenched muscles in my aching lower back and Eli's weight pressing sharply down on my bladder, incessantly grinding against my pelvic bones. My thighs are trembling from exertion. I am snorting like a fire dragon out of steam.

Stoically, I have borne this for the last few bloated months.

I am so tired. And so terrified.

Four years ago, I nearly became a permanent occupant of the labor room. I lay for three agonizing days in induced labor before some sympathetic senior resident burst my amniotic sac with a wicked-looking plastic probe. After that, I lost all remaining shreds of dignity as I clawed my way through my husband's shirt and the drenched sheets. I fancy if I had any more strength left, I would have bent my IV stand in half. As it is, Atch tells me he has heard carabaos with a more mellifluous bellow.

Four years after pushing out a 7.11-pound Woog, I am back at square one.

I am so tired. And so terrified.

And so, undoubtedly, Atch and I will be pounding the pavement, son and dogs in tow. Muttering our prayers, shoring up a courageous front, and hoping to raise a low pain threshold.

We'll see...

27 June 2006