Mall Zombies

Manila Trip Day 3
(June 6, Saturday)

Like any family on an expensive vacation, we are trying to squeeze in as many activities as we can without falling down in exhaustion. Still, we have a lazy and leisurely breakfast at the Sampaloc apartment's penthouse before heading out to Robinson's Place Malate a short drive away.

Atch, "the cooker"

Waiting for "the cooker"

Too impatient to wait

Before we leave, my sister Deedee, a BPO lawyer and staunch Manila denizen, drops by from her midnight shift laden with goodies, and we haul her with us into our uncle's Revo for the day's fun.

As Atch's geographical memory of Manila thoroughfares kicks in, he drives us through practically empty streets free of the horrendous start-of-weekend traffic the night before. The sun actually manages to hail a weak "how do" from her cloudy perch in the sky.

Even the mall is quiet, but the kids, armed with a short night's sleep and the natural hyperactivity of the very young, swarm all over the electronic toys exhibit, while we adults sprawl on lounging chairs at the Wi-Fi area. All too soon I am awoken by mall security

"Ma'am, bawal pong matulog dito" *

without my realizing that I have actually fallen asleep. Ah, the signs of progress...




To get me conscious, Atch drags me to one of the gadget stores where he makes a very brave purchase of a much-coveted iPod, while I try not to clap hands to my mouth in horror at the cost. Still, the extravagance sufficiently rouses me enough to respond much more efficiently to handling frisky kids during a very loud and messy lunch at one of the mall's Filipino-themed restaurants.

My first taste of the Ilocano bagnet: deep fried pork with a spicy vinegar-garlic-pepper dip. There go my cholesterol levels.....

____________________________________
* "Ma'am, you aren't allowed to sleep here."

Our Whirlwind In A Tempest

Manila Trip - Day 2
(June 5, Friday)

168

The kids are exhausted. The air of this teeming capital city doesn't quite agree with them, and they are lethargic the next morning. We leave them watching TV at the penthouse of my mom's family's apartment complex in Sampaloc with an equally lethargic Yaya Rose, hoping the idiot box would keep occupied them until we return.

The four of us: Atch, Inday, Sam, Nat, and I head off to 168 in Divisoria, part of our itinerary to acquire as many material possessions as possible without spending a great deal of money. Ah, the wonder of mass-produced China goods!


The sky continues to weep intermittently, like an aging widow remembering her dead. I haven't been here in nearly a decade, and I do some double takes at some of the transformations. The snot-inducing smog hasn't changed much however, and we breathe it all in courtesy of crowded public transportation. I despair that my hair will never be the same again.

We scatter like chaff in the wind at 168, greedy eyes and hands reaching for items sold at half-price. Embroidered throw pillow covers, 3 for 100pesos. School shoes, 200pesos. We haggle and acquire in a frenzy. We only have half a day, after all.

Atch and I get into a fight at one of the shoe stalls, and I head off in a huff, pushing into the thick crowd of bargain hunters, picking up socks, underwear and school supplies for the kids, while employing my sharp glances and even sharper elbows into the competitive fray. I am a more productive haggler when I'm mad, it seems.


Hunger reunites us at the top floor's food court, our earlier argument forgotten, and we lunch on fast food - typical gastronomic fare for the perpetually in-a-rush. By the time we leave the mall, the sky has let out its pent-up torrent of grief, and we make a run in the downpour, squelching ourselves into a near-to-bursting jeepney. In this city, the transportation doesn't wait around for you. Its a chase-or-be-cast-off world.

The First Time

Manila Trip - Day 1
(June 4, Thursday)

The First Time is always one of the most fascinating things to observe. The eyes light up with wonder, and the mouth drops down to gape. A gulp or two, maybe. And sometimes a moment of introspection (is this for real?)

I am so caught up in this observation that I plumb forget to take pictures of Woog and Yaya Rose as they spider-money up the windows of the taxi, craning their necks to behold the glorious skyscrapers of Makati.


Whoah! Says Woog.

Grabe, taas-taas ba!* Says Yaya Rose.

Atch is up front, chatting with the cab driver. Eli is fussing in my lap and longing for his siesta, wondrous city sights notwithstanding. The slight drizzle fogs up the windows, and the goggle-eyed duo on either side of me climb up the windows even more.

We are headed for Eric's family's condo unit at Prince Towers for a long-needed nap. In the taxi behind us is his wife Nat, plus Inday and Sam, who are trying to restrain an equally nap-deprived Ia from throwing a tantrum.

We reach the condo in due course, despite the heavy traffic, and the kids fling themselves into the beds, Yaya Rose included. It seems riding an elevator to vertigo-inducing heights, and viewing the whole city from the umpteenth floor

Whoah! Says Woog.

Grabe, taas-taas ba!* Says Yaya Rose.

is worthy of a whole body bed slam.

________________________________

* Wow! So tall!


Atch is impatient to scratch an itch. The years of his fast-paced Makati life are hopping lively back into his head, and he is pulling me off one of the beds. C'mon, he urges the heavy-lidded Inday and Sam, let's go and take a walk.

Translation: I want to relive my glory days. Now, now!

We leave pregnant Nat in charge of the napping kids and head off to the heart of Manila's business district, Atch marching in the lead of three lethargic and siesta-deprived adults.

A few leg-achey hours later, we all meet up at Glorietta 1 where their Auntie Nat has taken the kids for a romp in the rubber-floored central playground. Woog is hanging upside-down from the monkey bars, in animated "conversation" with another boy, despite the dialect-gap. Eli is running up a slide, the wrong way. And Ia it seems, is teleporting herself everywhere.


We have poured five bottles of overpriced mineral water down their throats to prevent dehydration when the inevitable happens: Woog's head connects with some little girl's front teeth. Both youngsters run off to their respective parents in barely suppressed tears, holding on to their offended body parts.

Fiasco over, we herd the kids to the Landmark basement food court for dinner, where Eli gleefully practices his new-found artistic talent onto the floor with pieces of squashed burger steak and a good deal of gravy.

This Day...

Celebrate mommy-hood, all ye who have... nursed, spent sleepless nights with newborns and feverish children, changed thousands of diapers, shaken millions of bottles of formula, gotten peed and poo'd on, rubbed salve on diaper rash, kissed boo-boos, gotten spit on, screamed at, vomited upon, attended countless tedious PTA meetings, done homework with disinterested tantrumy kids, and generally spent so much time as uncelebrated maternal slaves.... HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!

The payback? Priceless!

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”?

Twists and Turns

I've been getting such wonderful surprises lately. For the past week, instead of having my heart and throat bruised each time I call home from work, it seems Woog is bent on proving he is Mommy's sweetest little boy after all.


Yes, Yaya says, disbelief apparent in her voice, he is upstairs ready to take his siesta. Yes, he has put away his clothes and taken a bath. Yes, he has finished his lunch. And five chocolate-coated cookies besides.


All this before the clock has even struck two.

Hello, Mom! Woog suddenly chimes into the receiver. I tell him I love him and I miss him, not wanting to start nagging and destroy this perfectly wonderful series of days.


I wuv you too, Mom! He exclaims, and launches into a description of the latest Battle B-daman model to hit the market, not without a hint of avarice in his high piping voice. I let his enthusiasm wash over me for a couple of moments more before asking him how class went and what Lao Shr has taught him today.


Maybe it's the new school, with its central rubber-floor indoor playground and air-conditioning, not to mention the Chinese half of the curriculum that may have inspired my older son to make this sudden a turn-around. Lao Shr is his Chinese teacher, an affable young man who hails straight from the People's Republic and is himself struggling to perfect his English.


Lau Shr has taught Woog how to say Wo Ay Ni, and Woog is pronouncing it to me now, very carefully trying to get the accent right. I throw the phrase back at him, insanely proud of how hard he is trying to please me.


When I wake up, I'll eat more cookies, okay, Mom?


Okay, Woog. I wuv you!


I wuv you too, Mom.

Before we ring off I ask to speak with Eli, and suddenly Woog is shouting in the background


Talk to Eli! Special delivery!


even before I finish the sentence.


Then the baby is on the line with his signature Mmmmm?


How are, 'pet? I ask him. Have you eaten?


Mmmmm.


Are you watching tv?


Mmmmm.


Where's my kich?


*smooch*


Where's my hug?


'Ug!


At this point he suddenly remembers he misses his mother, and demands Up!


But I can't carry you, 'pet, I'm at the office.


Up! He insists more vehemently.


I'll carry you when I get home later, ok?


And then Yaya's voice is there, telling me my toddler has just, all of a sudden, handed her the phone. Seeing as how I couldn't lift him up right that very moment (you useless Mommy, you), he has lost all interest in conversation, such as it is.


I sigh and ring off.


Oh well, I think to myself, its not like I can have everything all at once. But what I do have is beyond wonderful, and I am absurdly blessed.

The Christmas Box

When I was a little girl, I remember precariously bending over the canal that ran under the driveway outside our gate. In those days, it was a muddy mossy sometimes garbage-clogged culvert that flooded over at each heavy rainfall. But it was also a wonderful magical waterway filled with mysterious aquatic plantlife and otherworldly organisms. Best of all, it was one of the prime tadpole-fishing grounds in the neighborhood.

When the current ran swift and the wind was right, the canal would be surrounded by a perimeter of kids, shouting encouragement at a variety of roughly-hewn makeshift paper and styrofoam boats racing along its murky waters. And I would be in the thick of it all.

“Get out of there! You'll fall in!” My mother would yell.

“Look, you've got lots of toys here inside,” she would cajole.

“You naughty impossible girl! You'll get elephantiasis!” Even then, “sugar 'n' spice 'n' everything nice” was never my thing.

Sometimes, these episodes from my past come come back and nudge me whenever I am faced with puzzling behavior from my own two boys. Like last Christmas, for instance, that marvelous time of the year every child looks forward to.

“Woog needs some school socks,” I hinted loudly to no one in particular a week before the big day, “you know, the white ones.”

“And Eli could use some new p'jamies,” I confided even louder, “everything he has is knee-length on him.”

The replies I got ranged from a scathing “That's your job.” to a scandalized “But its Christmas!”

So Woog and Eli, the lucky little rascals, were recipients of a mountain of toys from their benevelent grandparents, uncle and aunts. We got home from the noche buena feast laden with a huge box of toys for the boys. Frankly, I was a bit jealous. All Atch and I got were bath towels, a couple of shirts, a dirty-white tote in fake crocodile skin, and a new set of throw pillow covers.

The next morning, the boys literally tore their way downstairs to get to the goodies. One by one they reverently/roughly took each item out, and tested them briefly, only to catch interest in another...and another...and another...until they reached the bottom of the...

Hello-o Box!

It was a simple cardboard thing my brother picked up at a local supermarket to lug all the gifts he had brought home, but to my kids, it was a cube of infinite possibilities....it was a car....a plane...a spaceship....it was the whole goshdarn Hongkong Disneyland!

They knocked elbows, knees and heads in their rush to be the first to get in.

There are times it seems I am too far gone from my own childhood to realize what my kids are on about, and why they do what they do. Until I am reminded of that little girl who was a few murky drops away from catching elephantiasis. And so I hold my waspish adult tongue and allow them to disregard, like so much used-up confetti, the Hot Wheels, and the Legos, and the off-roader jeeps, and the Pokemon action figures, and the pirate ship replicas, and a huge fluffy Eli-sized Elmo doll that I wish someone had given me as a child...

All for this box which they spent not only the whole Christmas morning in, but the whole week after that, until it disintegrated from all their loving attention. Atch took pity on them and tied a cord to it, and we took turns pulling our “boys in the box” across the living room floor. Much shrieking and laughing. Something I wouldn't trade all the toys, or white school socks, or longer p'jamies in the world for.

I'm Ok, You're Ok...We're Ok!

Selecting a subject matter for this post is getting me into a tizzy.

I could write about how Woog startled me off my seat the other night by reading three-letter words. All. By. Himself.

I know, I know. At his age, it's not that big a deal. I mean, he is five years old. And it is about time he's hurdled this milestone. After all, the rest of his class started reading a year ago, and I've let up on pressuring him about this. Woog does not respond well to stress, no sir. He flutters about in a panic like a chicken without a head. Not a pretty sight.

ADHD. Dyslexia. They came floating over our heads during homework nights when even tried-and-tested Mr. Phonics gave up on us. I despaired at his despair over my despair. Going round and round in a vicious circle. And then finally, out of the blue, while studying short letter e, he went and read four columns worth of words. Some hesitation, yes. But he got them all! And he beamed this wide wonderful smile that speared me right through the center. He reads! He reads!

(background sound: "...and the crowd goes wild!" Roaaarrrrr!)

And although I continue to float in the euphoria of that moment, I don't think I want to write about it just now. Too new and too precious, that.

Let's see. I could write about the dengue scare Eli gave us last week. He woke up with a fever and a half-dozen red spots on his dusky skin. Hasn't he been vaccinated against the measles? Checked his baby book. Yes he has. Gave him paracetamol drops and went to work.

But horrors! A client came by to transfer his memorial plan to his four-year-old daughter who succumbed to dengue the night before. The poor child! It was too late for transfusions. And the symptoms he described sounded terrifyingly familiar. I rushed to the phone forthwith. Shaken, Atch agreed for us to bring Eli to the hospital for blood tests over lunch. Oh please let his platelets be ok, please let his platelets be ok.

The epochal wait at the hospital frayed our nerves and pummeled at our growling tummies. Eli didn't help matters any by screaming his head off each time someone tried to take his temperature, or listen to his heartbeat. By that time, he was totally covered in small dull red dots. My poor spotted son!

Atch and I were nervous and irritable, mostly at each other. Not a good sign in a marriage trying to hurdle a frightening crisis (but that's another story). Finally, a hugely obese guy in a scrub suit approached with a syringe. The blood test. At the sight of him, Eli let out his horrendously grating wail, not letting up until Jabba-the-medical-technician actually left his field of vision. I doubt my anxious son even noticed he was pricked.

Two hours later I was on the phone again, begging the hospital for lab results (oh please let his platelets be ok, please let his platelets be ok.). And allelujah! It was a viral thing. Fever rashes, not dengue. Thank you, Papa God!

We're still recovering from our scare. Don't want to write about this, either.

Hmmm. What about Atch's improved response time at night whenever Eli cries out in his sleep. No more grumbling, no more whupping, no more "Eli, #$%&^ shut up!" These days, he sometimes manages to shove a bottle into his son's mouth. Viola. Instant silence. One time, he even got up and changed a leaky diaper. (Atch, is that you?)

Early morning mining expedition

But that isn't the point at all. Right this moment my family is doing great, and I don't know where to even begin. I could wax eloquent. Or I could just put up a smiley @:). Neither can describe my utmost gratefulness.

I know, I know. This can all change in an instant. But that doesn't alter the reality that right here, right now, we are truly blessed. And for this, I give thanks.

Conversations With My Son

Woog (lounging at dinner table): Mom, where's the shooter of Rodimus? I can't find it.

Mom (busy rummaging in pantry): I don't know Woog...mutter...mutter....you were the one playing with it.

Woog: (whining): But I shot the shooter and it fell near you, and now I can't find it!

Mom: Woog, I'm busy. Why don't you use your eyes instead of your mouth and come look for it here.

Woog: But I can't find it!

Mom: Woog, I can't do everything all at once!

Woog: But you're my Mommy!

*****

Eli (tries to grab Woog's toy machine gun) Aaaaaaah! Waaaa-aaaaah!

Mom (busy making bed): Woog, lend Eli your toy, please.

Woog: It's too big for him, Mom.

Mom: He'll get tired of it in a while, just please lend it to him. Set a good example. Don't be greedy.

Woog: I'll give him the small gun. Here Eli, you can have this. (hands over small plastic handgun)

Eli (still crushing on big machine gun): WAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Mom: Woog, just please lend that big gun to Eli, ok? Please?

Woog (sternly): This is not for you, Eli. Guns are violent. Don't play with guns. (*rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat!*)

*****

(In car, on the way to school)

Mom: Woog, copy your assignment properly, ok?

Woog: Yes.

Mom: Listen to the teacher and be a good boy, ok?

Woog: Yes.

Mom: Are you going to finish your lunch and sleep this afternoon?

Woog: Yes.

Mom: Are you going to lock all the doors again like you did yesterday?

Woog: Yes.

Mom: !!!

Mom: Woog are you listening to Mom?

Woog: Okay...okay...what did you say, Mom?

Fast Forward

They say you can tell you're getting old when you glance at the calendar and realize a couple of months have gone by and you haven't even noticed. That and the new set of wrinkles which have apparently appeared overnight at the corners of your eyebags (your eyebags!), and aren't those liver spots dotting the back of your hands? There...right there, over where a new strand of milky-blue veins has sprouted on the crinkly paper-thin skin.

And some days, you're grateful for the accumulated wisdom of the ages, but other days you wish you had a horse on hand, or some other herbivorous quadruped with hard hooves to kick the ache out of your back (and maybe, hopefully, carve out a new one).

Another year of life. Another year that didn't bother to approach stealthily, to gently surprise you like a rainbow forming over the wide blue yonder, but a year that chose to jump violently in front of you wearing a colorfully feathered dragon mask and yelling "Ooogah-boogah!" whilst shaking a wooden coconut rattle in your face. Oh, is it that month already? So soon?

And the time warp that just occurred? (or perhaps an early visitation of Alzheimer's, take your pick) It seems to have carried both your children in it's wake: suddenly they seem twice the size they once were. And you shake your head and wonder how it's possible that Woog's pajamas, all of his pajamas, that once covered the length of his shins, now rest on the balls of his knees. Or how Eli's extra long, extra roomy t-shirts have bunched up above his burgeoning belly, making him look like Buddha in a shrunken vest.


And wait. How is it that Woog can now reach the kitchen sink? Wasn't it only a couple of months ago he was on his tippy-toes, hard put to deliver his empty dinner plate for washing? And Eli? He's walking!

Well...ok...he isn't really walking. At least not yet. But didn't you vaguely remember introducing him to Woog's old walker at the age of six months? He sat there for a while looking puzzled, fiddling with the musical buttons, and when he involuntarily kicked out with his feet, the sudden momentum that carried him a few feet backwards startled him so badly he loudly burst into tears. These days, you're hard pressed to keep up with his meanderings. "Uhm-buh!" He explodes, propelling his eight-month-old self in the general direction of the whirring electric fan, his curly topknot of curls bobbing like oft-jumped upon mattress springs, Yaya hot on his heels.



You feel joyous yet somehow despondent, and you sigh the bittersweet sigh of parents whose children are growing up too fast for you to keep up with, leaping through milestones at the speed of light. Don't grow up yet, you want to wail, hoping to hold on to their baby-hood and childhood selves as long as possible. Even as Woog reminds you, all adult-like, to wash behind your knees. Even as Eli reaches out from his high-chair and crams a couple of biscuits into his two-tooth maw, without even breaking into a sweat.

And you exchange a glance with your dearly beloved and equally aged husband, who is rubbing his lower back and wishing for some equine assistance of his own, both of you wanting years upon years upon years with which to enjoy life with the children, without the bothersome occurrence of time warps (or Alzheimer's, take your pick) to distract you from them.

But you finally settle unto yourselves with the realization that, indeed, another year has come upon you, and you are powerless to stop the inevitable progression of seasons. That the only thing left would be to devote unfailing attention to each passing day, to never miss a second of the beauty of your children unfolding.

Mine, Mine, All Mine! (Or the story of an anal-retentive family)

I remember all those eons ago when Atch and I were dating, he used to scold me for resting my bare feet on the dashboard of his car (“you’ll leave footprints!”). Heaven forbid I’d even lay my wide butt on its hood. When our marriage was new, I’d often catch him in mid-cringe whenever I popped cd’s into his beloved stereo. And the first time I cleaned his venetian blinds, he stood at my elbow issuing anxious directions, fearful I might bend them.

Obsessive-possessive, my Atch is. Particularly when it comes to what’s his. And in this respect, the boys take after their father.

Woog has just started along the road of the agonizingly difficult but ultimately rewarding sacrifice known as sharing. It took the longest time and the most adamant of urgings before we saw him hesitantly offering a plaything to his cousin Ia. Never mind it was one of his cast-offs. It was a good start. Now if only I can convince him to share his food.

Woog: My brother, mine! Mine!

Eli's not far away from the beaten path: this path of single-minded obesssion...este…devotion. This is one baby who will not be distracted from his plaything. Be it the thrice passed-down rattle he shakes furiously (inadvertently banging his nose and forehead) or a dog-eared flyer from the phone company he might have managed to snag in passing.

Attempt to pry it away from him and he’ll scream bloody murder. He'd have a death grip on the thing during mealtime, bathtime or bedtime, whichever time of the day it might happen to be. He refuses to be distracted, too. No matter how colorfully attractive said distraction is. Even if you wave it about his face. Nooo-ooo, not this boy.

The current object of fixation (as of one week, and counting) is a small green and yellow box the tube his xylitol teething gel came in. Could it be the reminder of blessed numbness the chilled gel gives his poor itchy-ouch gums, or even perhaps the fetching picture of a smiling girl-toddler in front, no one can say. He clutches tightly at his little box during diaper changes and at breakfast. And I have, in actual fact, seen it in dangling in his fat little fist as Yaya once lifted his sleeping form from stroller to crib. She tried to extract it from him, but the little guy held on steadfast and wouldn’t give, even uttered a little whimper of protest.

“Eli has a girlfriend….Eli has a girlfriend!” Woog chants in a teasing sing-song.

“…and her name is Xylogel-a!” Atch joins, second-voice.

Eli slices them a sharp sidelong glance that is eerily a twin of his father’s own. Still, he continues to clutch at that dilapidated box, occasionally crooning to it in low uni-syllables. Sometimes it finds its way into his mouth. Ah…the pride of ownership.

I shudder to think what these boys will be like when they reach the age of girlfriends. Will they make like superglue? Or will they be spraying their figurative pee to mark their territory? On second thought, perhaps it'll turn out to be the boys' dear old mother laying claim to “ownership” of her own when that time comes.

Will I be willing to let go? Time will tell. (and may it be a long time still, so help me...)

Off Our Rockers

Today is such an off day for us. Well, perhaps not for Atch, who usually runs perfectly well on autopilot. We slept late, we woke up late, and we had to leave a dawdling Woog who was clearly not in sync with the day's schedule.

Poor Woog was designated to take a jeep to school. When I left him to say goodbye, he was querulously allowing his yaya to give him a quick bath and complaining he had soap in his eyes.

What slaves we are to the schedules we've set for ourselves. What makes it even worse is that we're practically forcing our children to conform to the program.

So what if our son wakes up needing a hug and some cuddle time for a nightmare he must have had. We're off schedule. So what if he whines for some attention while half awake, he struggles with his clothes. We're running late. So what, if near tears, he rushes down to the breakfast table trying to keep up with us. So sorry son, we're off, you go and take public transport to school. Serves you right for being such a slowpoke.

I was quiet on the drive to the office. It was head-bashing-against-the-dashboard time. Couldn't we have at least given him some time to wake up, hugged him and said his morning prayers with him? Nooooo, we had to rush, work was waiting. Onwards to those great hallowed edifices of steel and stone - the great dictating force in our lives.

Couldn't one of us have listened about his nightmare and commiserated with the pounding in his heart and the ringing in his ears? What a time-waster. Instead, we had left him raw and vulnerable to face the day without the armor of our loving support to draw around himself.

At some point, a clueless Atch commented on Woog being such a whiner. Already heavy-hearted from guilt, I lit on him, all hellfire and brimstone.

We're there, but we're not there, I bitched. We spend less than three hours a day with him, and instead of really sitting down and listening to him, we rush him through homework and bath time and bed time. We make a pretense of communicating with him, but what we actually do is lecture him on what he must do and what he must not do. No wonder he craves our attention.

But then, I argued, contradicting myself, if we take all this time to be there for him, we'd go off schedule. That's the thing, see, Atch? We have to strike a balance somehow.

We need to take the time to celebrate him, his being a kid, his being unique: warts and scabs and all. What we don't need is to leave him feeling rushed and somehow incomplete, without building his self-esteem, or letting him know that he is a priority for us and that we truly love to be with him.

I was near tears and near the office when I finally finished my diatribe. Atch was quiet, thoughtful. Commendable of him, quipped my peevish inner dialogue. Even if his silence merely meant he was trying to avoid a fight with me so early in the working day. What valor is there in arguing with a very pregnant and very emotionally distraught woman, after all.

Later, I am going to sit down with Atch and lay down a concrete plan. We need to save us from ourselves and this harried lifestyle we have imposed on our son. We need to allow him to be himself and to let him know that he's wonderful, brilliant, creative, compassionate and marvelous.

We have to. It's imperative. After all, we hold his heart in our hands.

06/30/06

Shedding

Almost every night, Woog and I take our bath together. It's part of our bonding process. And well, truth be told, it saves both time, water, and ergo - money. (What cheapskates the members of this family are).

One might ask, where is Atch in all of this? One may find the man of the house taking his own sweet time in the downstairs bathroom – his one concession to luxury – where he may fill the sweet air with the acrid smoke of his Winstons as he sits on his “throne” and contemplates his day. Later, all fresh and moist, we come upon each other at the junction of the stairs, whence we proceed to retire to our room for some quality family time.

Last night, as we were toweling off in the bathroom, I found the urge to have one last pee. Wiping myself off as Woog was doing his running commentary on all and sundry (he sure does talk, that kid), I pulled away a long sticky brownish clump of mucus plug with the toilet paper. Woog stopped in mid-sentence and gaped. I have been shedding these things for about a week now, and although Woog has seen this phenomenon before (and been duly informed of the facts), it was the first time he witnessed such specimen in such globulous quantity so up close and personal.

I took one look at Woog's face and tried not to laugh. His eyes were gleaming with a kind of horrified fascination normally reserved for say, freshly squashed roadkill frog, or his Wawa (grandmother) taking off her dentures. His upper lip was curving upwards, and whether it was the start of a gag reflex or the beginnings of an “oh ewwwie, Mom!”, I couldn't quite say.

Again I explained to him that I was shedding my mucus plug, that thick gel-like substance that blocks the cervix and protects the fetus inside. Once a mommy is nearing labor, her cervix thins out and releases the mucus plug. This is a sure sign the baby would be coming soon.

After a very long thoughtful pause, Firstborn declared, “I'm not going with you to the hospital, Mom.”

“Why not?”

“I'm afraid of the mucus plug.” (and at this, I mentally waved a sad little adieu to the subtle brainwashing tactics of his two doctor aunts who have been enthusiastically, albeit prematurely, grooming him for the medical profession).

“You can stay in the hospital room with Tatay,” I ventured hopefully.

“Can I stay home with Yaya instead?”

*Sigh*

“Mom,” Woog said, exiting the bathroom with a pat on my belly, “don't give birth to Eli until my birthday, ha...?”

And since Woog just turned four earlier this month, the thought of carrying this prodigious, malingering fetus for another year almost sent me to my knees in laughter – and tears.

29 June 2006

War and Peace

I came upon Woog stomping up and down the stairs in his school uniform, hyperventilating. It looked like he was going through the full range of Lamaze breathing exercises.

“What's up with you, hey.”

“I'm blowing my mad out.” He retorted (huff-huff-huff), still noisily wearing out the soles of his shoes.

“Who're you mad at?”

Tatay! (huff-huff-huff)”

Oh dear. I was afraid of that. I hauled my heavily pregnant self into the bedroom to find Atch doing his adult version of letting off steam. He was violently flinging himself into his work clothes, and I winced, anticipating the sound of rending cloth.

Turns out father and son had another of their many arguments involving the former's predilection for speed, and the latter's tendency to dawdle. Atch is the type who wants everything done yesterday. Woog takes time to pause and ponder out loud on the number of horns a Styracosaur has, among other things. This morning, the object of dispute was Woog's poor abused shoes. Or rather, how slow those shoes took getting into their owner's feet.

I imagine Woog daydreaming about the line of ants traversing the bathroom tiles whilst slipping his right foot into his left shoe. Meanwhile his impatient father fumes. Father then growls out something with gritted teeth, and son, rudely startled from his random thoughts, immediately launches into a thundercloud of temper. All hell breaks loose, and both parties harrumph away from each other in testosterone-filled indignation.

“After all, he is only four years old.” I try to soothe Atch. And I get a glance which spoke volumes about the household chores he was obliged to do at such and such a speed, all at the tender age of four. I have long since discovered that going head-on against my husband's dagger looks will only leave me with a slashed and tattered psyche. I instead attempted some good-natured parrying and doing the wifely duty of smoothening out his collar and ego. As soon as I assured myself no clothes were getting ripped that morning, I went down to soothe the other man in my life.

Turns out Woog didnt need my ministrations. I found him fiddling with the dog's collar and regaling his grandfather about how said dog sent him sprawling off his bike earlier that morning. His enthusiasm was catching, grandfather was chuckling.

How wonderful that children recover so quickly, unlike us adults who jealously hoard hurts and misgivings in all our Scrooge-like splendour. The distress of a moment before already forgotten, my son was regenerating as only the young can. His heart was intact, and I sent up a brief prayer of thanks. I am hoping against hope it will always be so.

As Atch came down in a rush, all pressed and dressed for another working day, Woog spun around with a start, eyes wide. He haltingly reached out, and blurted out a tentative “I'm sorry, Tatay...”

My husband paused, scooped our son up into his arms, buried his nose into a fragrant neck and made snorting noises (his version of an apology, I'd wager). Woog burst into his signature high-pitched giggle. All was well. In that moment, the apartment was filled with sounds fit to make a mother's heart swell. And for a time, I blinked up at the ceiling for some imaginary cobwebs that might need dusting.

19 June 2006