Atch Does 41

Atch celebrated his 41^st birthday yesterday running after his rambunctious sons at the mall. And then he dragged half a burlap sack of garden soil home so I could experiment with the heretofore unexplored regions of my dubious green thumb.

I got him a litre of Carlos Primero, and a litre of Johnny Walker Black, plus a bottle of Carlo Rossi Muscat for the both of us. He scolded. He frowned. He complained. He flexed his well-defined skinflint muscles. So expensive, he said. Three bottles! Too much.

He finally shut up when he opened the Johnny Walker box and discovered it came with two personalized whiskey tumblers.

Say thank you, I urged.

Thank you, he finally said, giving me a smooch and an unsuccessfully disguised pleased smile.

Earlier, the bank's HRD department had ordered him to take a vacation leave. They complained that he was present everyday, in all sorts of weather, eschewing his leave credits to loom over his stressed employees with his dark frown and watchful slits.

In typical Atchbund fashion, he choose his birthday week to take off so he wouldn't have to treat his co-workers to a birthday snack. My husband, the cheapskate.

Still, he channelled his bank manager personality over the household, harassing Woog as the boy lingered over his meals, growling at Eli for being so stubborn, and telling me off for being late for work.

Relax, L'Atchy-poo, I told him, you're on vacation. He glared at me, glancing meaningfully at the clock. It seems the only time he has ever relaxed is when he snores in deep sleep, or right after spilling his seed. When I come to think of it, one is synonymous with the other.

Today, the three bottles remain untouched, still in their boxes. I've texted him to chill the Carlo Rossi, and to pick me up for work so I could treat his thick unglamorous toes to a much-needed pedicure.

He is going to complain about the expense again, I know, all the while trying to keep his mouth from lifting at the corners – my very own “Oscar the Grouch”.

Happy birthday, L'Atchy.

Edited to add:

Grrrrr....

He picked me up after work and had to reverse a couple of times to avoid hitting the curb, drunk out of his mind.

He had taken it upon himself that morning to visit one of his old drinking and pot-smoking buddies a couple of cities away (I'm on vacation, Aifee!). That answered my question about why Woog called me at work earlier, looking for his Tatay:

Maybe he's in Greensville at Auntie Inday's house, Mom. Do you have the number?

Go check, Woog. Take this down. 708_ _ _ _

Maybe he's at Bata with Manong Kylot?

Try and call Bata, Woog.

Ok, Mom. Dubby!

But no. The dearly beloved birthday celebrant had gotten himself good and sloshed, celebrating his birthday with friends at a corner sari-sari store, even before celebrating with his family. I practically had to steer his feet in a relatively straight course to the salon to have his toe nails done, where he plunked himself down into the lounging chair and went straight to sleep.

Mouth ajar. Leaking alcoholic ectoplasm, and loudly vibrating with drunken apnea.

The girl who did his nails did try mightily hard to stifle her giggles (he sounds like an outboard motor, no?)

And of course there was no chilled bottle of Muscat when we got home. No intimate and mildly inebriated conversation over sisig. He went straight to bed, leaving his Aifee fuming, fuming, fuming....

Scaregiver

My sons are young and strong and resilient. They'll have to be. The world is a harsh, scary and unpredictable place, and the sooner they find out, the better it will be for them. What won't kill them will only make them stronger.

Not.

Not by a long shot, dammit!

I feel so helpless about having failed to protect and shield my babies from real life monsters. Especially if those monsters hide behind the mask of a caregiver.

Woog finally snapped and rang my office from the apartment next door. Yaya Merly had locked him out. Hot and sweaty in the noonday sun, he knocked and hollered while she ignored his pleas. In desperation, he ran to Door 4 and dialled my number. Oh bless little 6-year-old boys who have just recently learned to use the telephone!

I was speechless at her temerity. How dare her! I called her straight-away and she whined about how noisy Woog was, and how disobedient. Then she hung up on me.

We sent her away without preamble, trembling with rage at her haughty assumption that she was indispensable.

Did she hurt you, Woog? We asked. He didn't let out a single tearful word until she had packed her bags and exited the door.

Sometimes. Because I'm so misbehaved.

That he would think that of himself, my wonderfully precocious, hyperactive and insatiably curious little boy. That she had stomped down on his delicate self-esteem, stooping to the level my children, the bitch! Were she in front of me I would have punched her square on her insufferable smirk.

But she was gone, and good riddance to bad rubbish.

I blamed myself for each time I pooh-pooh'd reports from next door of how Woog and Yaya Merly held regular shouting matches: oh, he's always that noisy, I'd say. And whenever poor Eli cried while she gave him a bath, I put it down to his being skittish about water. I didn't give a single thought to why my normally sweet children were standoffish around her.

Even my own mother was vocal about how the nanny would continuously be texting on her cellphone while the baby made his own unsupervised way about the living room. She makes my blood heavy, my intuitive mother often said.

And now it comes to this. Because I didn't listen. Because I didn't take time to sit down with my babies and feel their inner temperature.

Despite the horrible guilt I harbor, I take heart that my sons are tenacious. In time, they will forget, I try to reassure myself, strengthening my resolve to be more involved and more vigilant about these two priceless jewels that I need to protect with my life.