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!

His Dumb Mother

Incident Number One

Sunday grocery shopping. Heap stuff on cart and leave Atch to pay for loot. Lead boys to pizza stand for snack. (Great job, mom. Ruin their appetite an hour before lunch)

Instruct Woog to hold table. Bring baby to kiosk and get the two-in-one special (cheap mommy, too).

Woog wolfs down share. Baby struggles, whines, keeps reaching for stool. (You can't sit by yourself, Eli, you'll fall off). Baby threatens mini-tantrum.

Exasperated. Plop baby down on floor to fend for himself (Fine, do whatever!) Baby grasps stool top and goes cruising down the way, shoving stool before him. Resembles miniature geriatric geezer - pushing futuristic walker. Woog laughs. Mom laughs. (Oh, so that's what you wanted, such a dumb mommy I am).

Atch returns laden with grocery bags in time to see baby plodding a hundred meters away, unsupervised, stool in the lead. Atch laughs. Until unsuspecting shopper nearly stumbles over baby. Atch totes us home, disgruntled.

Incident Number Two

Sunday afternoon. Watching Son of the Mask (dumb film, but there's super-toddler in it - boys are riveted). Woog gapes. Eli gapes. Mom....gapes.

Baby starts to whine, restless. Mom lifts shirt and absentmindedly shoves baby's face into chest. Baby is quiet. For a time.

Baby smiles, looks up from mom's empty flaps of skin. Utters words: 'Kee-'kee...

Mom looks down, smiles at baby, turns attention back to super-toddler flattening Loki's head with metal trash bins.

.....'Kee-'kee.... chlurp...chlurp...chlurp...

Yes, Eli, 'Wuv-wuv.

Chlurp...chlurp...chlurp...'Kee-'kee! (listen to me, ya dumb mom!)

Yes, Eli, 'Kee-'kee.

Baby starts to cry, 'Kee-'kee, 'kee-'kee!

Atch peeks in from kitchen. I think he wants his milky. His milky. The one in the bottle?

Oh? Oh. Ohhhh! 'Kee-'kee! His milky! (Where's ya brain, mom?)

Mom runs to fridge and gets bottle. Hands to starving baby.

'Kee-'kee, baby smiles around nipple ( I forgive ya, mom).

_________________________

Waiting for incident number three. They say dumb-dumb stops at that number.

We hope.

...And God created mothers

May 13, Sunday, is Mother's Day here in the Philippines. A salute to all the mothers who struggle to raise their brood the best way they can, utilizing the resources they have, and struggling against all the psychoses they harbor from their own childhoods.

A deep curtsy to the mothers who plod on despite sickness, exhaustion, sleep deprivation, poverty, abuse and absent partners. A round of applause to the mothers who do their damndest not to yell at their tantruming toddlers, slap their disrespectful tweens and disown their hung-over teenagers.

A bow to the mothers who fight to keep their children alive, despite the unavailability of medical care, the absense of technology, and the cold shoulder of society. Further, a pat on the back to the mothers who constantly live with the GUILT of not having done their best, thinking they could have done things differently, but not having known how.

A toast, a toast, to new mothers, middle-aged mothers, old mothers, and mothers in their grave! The hands that rocked countless cradles, the lips that kissed away mountains of hurt, the overworked bodies that labored, the smiles that brought out suns, the careworn arms that both spanked and shielded, the breasts that nourished the world. To us, who have taken on this non-paying, physically painful, emotionally rending, mostly thankless job - but what a most important job it is!

For my mother-in-law, who struggles against stubborness, self pity and her wheelchair, as she recovers from the debilitating stroke she had last August. For my late aunt, who once told me: "when they're young, they'll stomp on your toes. When they're older, they'll stomp on your heart." - how right she was! For my sister, a mother before her time, who misguidedly continues to make up for her lost youth in all the wrong places and with all the wrong people. For my mother, who raised us the best way she could in her own unconventional way, a chain-smoking and loud-mouthed motherhood that turned out four unconventional girls with fewer psychoses than the fingers of their hands. No candidates for a shrink's couch, we.

And finally, for myself. A Happy Mother's Day to me, a Happy Mother's Day to all.

Post Birth Pessimism

I am swimming in a sea of disorientation. Apart from the lack of sleep, I am in a constant state of hunger. I am striving to take care of an adamantly needy Woog, feed a voracious baby, and try to keep the room and bathroom reasonably clean.

Partly, I am in a state of disbelief that Eli turned out so dark and “Atchbund-y”. After four years of getting used to fair-skinned and comely Woog, I naturally expected the next one to be another Mommy-clone. Instead I am finding myself in very upclose and personal circumstances with a changeling (Atch forgive me). I am in denial. Oh the guilt this feeling spawns!

But he is so fat and juicy and deliciously bite-able. I can spew all that mush about my heart being so surprisingly accommodating. But I won't. I'm still so tired. And hungry. And sleepy.

Woog has suddenly become a giant. I hold this stoutly compact bundle that is Eli, and then I look at my older son, with his suddenly huge feet, his hard scabby knees, large awkward fingers, the flare of his booger-filled nostrils – and suddently I am overcome with a mild case of ... distaste? A mild case. But still. Oh the guilt!

Atch is still in full fix-it mode. He repairs the breastpump, assembles the crib, fixes the baby monitor. In between, he washes the car and supervises the fixing of nice gingery batches of hot shellfish soup to encourage my breastmilk. He even nails my broken bakya together. Yet I find myself outraged by his constant absence from my side. Like I want a vigil. And my every wish granted. Now. At this very moment. I am constantly cranky towards this lovely man who has done everthing within his means possible to make me comfortable.

Oh the guilt!

And I worry that I'll be a fit enough mother. One child, yes. But two? The feeling persists, inspired by the confluence of sleep deprivation, my bloated post-natal belly, and my stinging cracked nipples.

I hold Eli and I wonder if I should be feeling more ... maternal? Oh, but I am so tired, and hungry, and sleepy. And the room needs dusting, and there are baby clothes to launder, and the toilet bowl wants a good scrubbing, and Woog has homework to get done...

I have never felt so overwhelmed.

July 2006