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.

An Uneventful Sunday

When I regaled Atch about the ongoing brouhaha that was the SM craze, he shuddered and promptly shelved our much-awaited plan to bring the boys on a tour of the place after Mass on Sunday.

"Let's wait two more months," he announced, "maybe by May or June, people will get tired of crowding into SM."

Woog did his pouting stomping routine. He was so looking forward to spending some serious quality time on the kiddie train that plied the commuter route from one end of the mall's north wing to the other. After such a build-up of anticipation, this unexpected downturn of events was too much for his four-year-old self to take.

Eli merely goggled at his brother's spectacle and grinned.

But Mass ended early after a relatively short sermon by a relatively sloshed Father A. Apparently the allure of communion wine was harder to resist this Sunday. So Atch had a change of heart (a very rare occurrence) and hauled us posthaste to the city's destination of choice.

The mall opened at 10 am, and there we parked with the motor idling, the blast of car air-conditioning shielding us from the summer glare, while a humongous slice of the populace accumulated in front of each of the yet-to-be-opened doors of the mall.

"Oh God, Mommy, you were right." Woog exclaimed in horrified outrage, and Atch and I exchanged a horrified-mirthful glance of our own. Should we give in to laughter at the seemingly blase observation from the lips of our little ingenue, or should we chastise him for using such blasphemy on such a holy day?

In the end, laughter won (blast our souls to Sheoul), and to my great surprise, Atch changed his mind twice in one morning, deciding to drive to the opposite end of the city to visit the other mall. I wanted to say: 'Observe my kiddies, and take note, for this is a rare day indeed, one not to be repeated in another millenium'. But Woog had gone back to sulking, and Eli had fallen fast asleep in the backpack. Oh well.

As soon as we got out at the nearly deserted grounds of SM's rival, we made a quick stop for some groceries, then brought the kids to the resident Toys 'R' Us. Woog perked up immediately and Eli awoke from his stupor to behold the colorfully furry world of plushies.

I took out my camera phone and squeezed in a couple of shots



before store security came and warned me that it was prohibited to take pictures of the merchandise.

Eh? What merchandise? I was preserving my kids faces for posterity. What did he think we were? Secret agents from the rival store, out to take inventory their stock? But the security guy shook his head adamantly: cease and desist. Fine. Whatever does you. I stuck my tongue out at his retreating back and I felt much much better.

Woog spent some time at the Megablocks station, but as soon as Eli started yawning again, we headed for home.

And such was our uneventful Sunday.

Woog eventually did get to ride the SM train, at near closing time when the crowds were thin and the train had ceased the day's run. He was beyond ecstatic. And it humbled us to never discount the simple pleasure that kids derive from such pittances. It makes their memories of childhood all the more sweet.


Would that we could have given him more.

Marbles

Woog had been wanting to own a bag of marbles for such a long long time now. But being the parent that I am, I had horrible visions of him accidentally swallowing one. Or of offering to share them with his one-year-old cousin, Ia, and her swallowing a couple of them, as well.

Then with my imagination on overdrive and I would picture the whole household speeding posthaste to the hospital, where amid the ruckus of pumping out the children's tummies, my husband, my sister-in-law and her husband would be glaring at me, the guilty perpetrator of it all.

Still, in my heart of hearts, I couldn't resist this simple need of a little boy to acquire such treasure. After all, didn't I have a bag of my own marbles at his age? And I don't ever recall swallowing one either (even if I did, I'm still here, aren't I? Healthy gastrointestinal track and all).

His quest for marbles wasn't an insistent one. He would talk about them, wish he had some. Sigh a bit. Then perhaps, if it occurred to him, to wonder out loud most politely if we would buy him just one. Or maybe even a couple. And being the parent with the over-active imagination, I would hedge and say something like, “maybe...if you're behaved, and maybe...if we had the money. (like, sheesh, how much would a bag of marbles cost?)”

So yesterday, as I was aimlessly wandering the aisles of a china-goods shop (walking, walking, walking to get the baby down to birthing position), wouldn't I just happen upon the most deliciously colored translucent glass marbles in plastic fishnet bags? Fifteen pesos a bag, barely half of what I usually spend for a mid-morning snack.

And wouldn't you just know? I bought them.

This morning, I came in from the bathroom to find Atch hugging a yawning Woog. It being a Saturday, we allowed him to wake at his own leisure. We were about to leave for work when I suddenly remembered.

“Hey Woogie, guess what I got you.” And some interest sparked in his sleep-chinky eyes.

I pulled out a plastic bag from my purse and the clinkety-clink of glass balls sent him off his bed, all thoughts of lying-in forgotten.

“Mommy! Marbles! Thank you!” His voice was squeaky.

Atch and I took in his excitement and we exchanged a glance moist with full-hearted wonder. How simple it is to make our child happy, we should do it more often, Atch's glance seemed to tell me. I blinked back my affirmation.

We left Woog with hugs, kisses, and warnings about putting them in his mouth. Last we looked, he was sprawled on the bed in his pajamas, flicking one colorful glass sphere against another.

And hey, if he does swallow one, he can always poop them out, can't he?

07/01/06