Once-Upon-A-Holiday (or a story of how one family attempts some quality time together)

The recent spate of holidays found us with nothing to do on a Sunday night. No homework, no chores, no cars to clean, no dishes to wash. Nothing but the baby's dirty diaper to worry about. Dullesville.

What do four people with less than two hundred pesos between them do on a warm balmy night? Why, go to the Lagoon, of course.

In the middle of a bustling city, sits the "people's park". Wide and tree-lined, it has the requisite pond, jogging paths, stone benches, ancient naked statuaries, rusty playground equipment.... and most importantly - it's free.

In the early mornings, the Lagoon is a gathering place for power walkers, joggers and tai'chi-ers. A donation-run aerobics class. The occasional aged stroke victim and pregnant lady. All moving to their own version of rhythm to the piped-in music.

In the late afternoons, children run amok among the playground leaves, their parents resting weary bones while keeping a wary eye. In the evenings, the Lagoon teems with couples: flocks of young giggly tweens on the pretext of study group. New couples. Old couples. Seriously intense couples in want of a room. At the periphery, itinerant vagrants wait to occupy their favorite sleeping benches.


In this setting, we parked the car a stone's throw away from the very tree where Atch & I used to make out, several young and carefree centuries ago. Woog yammered excitedly. He had spent a lot of fun and memorable moments here. Eli clutched at me in anxiety. This was after all, his first time.

Carrying a packet of stale crackers for the tilapia, we made our way down to the fish pond. Woog ran ahead, narrowly missing a trio of septuagenarians out on an after-dinner stroll.

The fish were ecstatically grateful. The surface of the water in front of us violently churned with silver tilapia bodies as Atch, Woog & I scattered bits and pieces of crackers. "Ssshhhh!" Eli lipsed, laughing, holding fast to the metal railings "sssssshhhhhhh!"

It looked like the start of a wonderfully relaxing family evening.

Not.

The moment the crackers were gone, Woog ran off into the grass quadrant, intent on checking out some young show-offs having a somersault showdown.

"Come on, El," I called, beckoning to the wild-eyed toddler who was still super glued to the metal railings, his eyes darting around in ferocious anxiety.
Atch walked a short way off and lit one of his poison sticks, while his older son meandered on the rain-damp grass a few meters away, thinking to attempt a tumble of his own.

"Nwaaaa-aha-aha-ahaaaaaah'! Eli wailed, plunking his butt down on the concrete. The pond, the fish, the grass, the passersby and the wide open night sky had overwhelmed my poor housebound boy.

Sighing in resignation, I picked him up and gagged at his sudden convulsive choke hold. From that moment on, he refused to be put down, whimpering intermittently every time a stranger passed. For the umpteenth time, not without a trace of maternal pride, I halfheartedly wished he didn't weigh a ton.

"Mom!" Woog yelled, ankle deep in wet muddy grass, "I lost my slipper, Mom! Mo-OOOO-om!

Atch tossed his cigarette into the nearest bin, and went to rescue his panicking son.

The recent rains had turned a portion of the grassy quadrant into a swampy quagmire of mud and moss. And Woog, in a typical encounter with prime splashing opportunity, made the most of the situation.

Standing on one slipper-clad foot, mud splattered from the knees down, Woog was a study in comic relief, occasionally bending down to feel around in the ankle-deep grass and muddying his arms as well. "I can't find my other slipper," he whined.


"Well, where'd you last put it?"


"I don't know."


A grandfather figure was creeping alongside him, feeling his way into the grassy marsh. His teary-eyed granddaughter stood a few meters away on the dry sidewalk, barefoot. Apparently, she had lost her slippers, too.


"Is this it?" He wearily asked, holding up a pair of muddy pink maryjanes. The granddaughter shook her head and commenced her silent weep.


Atch & I exchanged a disbelieving glance. Welcome to the bayou of lost footwear.


"Oh, throw your other slipper back in, Woog," Atch advised his frantically searching son, "maybe tomorrow, some poor little boy will find both of them, and you'll make him very happy. You'll be like Rizal." In reference to Woog's pre-school reader book where the young national hero had tossed his remaining slipper into the water for some poor fisherman's son to find.


Woog grumped all the way to a faucet where I washed off most of the mud as best I could. He stepped gingerly all the way to the car, urging us to please hurry let's go home already. Eli continued to whimper in Atch's arms, a scared and timid version of his normally cheerfully brusque self.


Sitting in the car for a breather, trying to console a cranky Woog and a weepy Eli, Atch & I exchanged long-suffering glances. "How's your sense of humor, Atch?"


Atch rolled his eyes heavenward.

*****

The next morning, we gave the Lagoon another chance. Eli giggled merrily at the fish, and shrieked with terror when we tried to urge him to explore.


We searched for Woog's missing slipper in the bright morning sunlight. It was gone of course, just like Atch said. Some poor little boy was somewhere happily sporting a pair of size 4 lime green flip-flops.


The next few moments were spent watching Woog & his Tatay race the remote control Ferrari down a sidewalk, soaking in our requisite Vitamin D, and letting the morning breeze fondle the stray strands off our foreheads.

A Walk to Remember

The gluttonously satisfying meal of tender pig knuckles in a thick spicy stew of red beans and slices of young jackfruit has Atch and I waddling away from the table, our distended tummies in the lead.

The night is young and the stars beckon to us from their berths in the sky, so we grab our caps and make for a walk, belatedly hoping to counter the effects of the cholesterol carnage that was our dinner. Perhaps the evening breeze would dispel our fragrant expulsions of air, as well.

A shriek. Woog is right behind us, homework-free and begging for attention. So we plunk his cap on him and hand in hand in hand, we make our way out to the courtyard. We pass Inday kneeling over her euphorbia, puzzling over why they aren't growing as abundantly as the neighbors' (look to the dogs, Inday, they have daily pee parties in your garden).

Woog excitedly shrills high-pitched wordless exclamations, jumping up and down and nearly pulling our arms from their sockets. Be quiet, Woog, you're so noisy, his Tatay scolds, stop moving so much.

Let him be himself, I say, dreamily sated, he's a child. In a couple of years, he's going to lose all the vocals and become as silent as a tomb. Now, that is going to be scary.

Atch grunts around his cigarette, holding on to his hyperactive son as we make our way out of the compound. At the corner store, the usual group of bare-chested taffys toughies brag loudly over a bottle of local rum, swigged sparingly while making occasional eye-contact with the drama series unfolding on the store's tv. Hi, Woog, they call out. Woog continues bouncing between us, oblivious to his fans.


Look at him, he's beside himself, I point out to Atch, he loves being with us. When he's older he's going to lock his door, and we won't know what's going on. And I'd go, 'break it down Atch, he might be jacking off!'

Atch laughs, ruffling his happy son's hair.

Or, I continue, he might be in his room dripping hot candle wax on himself.

*snort*

Or...slicing himself and dripping candle wax on the cuts. With his door locked.

Atch is disgusted. Aif, you're sick, his sharp glance says.

Well, you never know. We're getting too old to understand teenagers these days, imagine what it'll be like during Woog's time.

Woog is blissfully unaware of my speculations on his future behavior. He is skipping along and yammering about the super powers of his imaginary pet spider. I am glad he is getting this off his chest, he is, after all, deathly afraid of the lowly arachnid.

Woog, do you remember when all three of us used to walk together after dinner, just like this, when Eli was still in my tummy? I ask him fondly.

Mom, look! A squashed frog! A squashed frog! And our budding coroner rushes off to check out the gore.

Totally out of it, Atch shakes his head.

He won't be for long. I wonder what I'd feel cleaning his room and discovering girlie magazines under his bed...

Atch expels some manly approving laughter.

Or guy-guy magazines!

Atch nearly chokes on his mirth.

We round the corner to the main road, hand in hand in hand. Woog trustingly leans forward and back, sometimes swinging from our clasped hands like a monkey on a vine.

I continue to needle Atch. What if he locks his door, we break it down, and we find him with a girl... and they're both 12!

Or, I am on a roll here, he's with a girl... and a boy...

A threesome, Atch chuckles.

... and a goat!

Woog looks up at the both of us, wondering why his parents are shaking and holding on to their aching guts in laughter.

... and they're filming the whole thing, and the next day it's all over youtube! We're done for! I slap my forehead in mock anguish.

Atch is wordless. Between his teeth, the lighted end of his cigarette is in danger of a dousing from flying spittle and gusts of chortling air. Between us, our son skips merrily along, glad of a chance to be alone with the people he loves most in the world.

We do an about face when we reach the highway - a man, his wife and their little boy - smiles on our faces, the sweat on our brows dried by the night air. And we head back home feeling better about ourselves for a number of different reasons, but mostly because of our lovely Woog, and the child he has awakened in the both of us.