Oh My Ghost!

Do you believe in ghosts? I've been asking myself that question for the past two months. It just seemed like such mundane coincidental occurrences that I didn't give it much thought. But it appeared to be happening with the most unnerving frequency at the exact same time of the day.

What am I talking about?

Eli. That's what.

No, no, no... my infant son hasn't turned into a ghost (although it looks like this is where this narrative is heading. Goodness gracious me). However, I think Eli's been seeing a ghost. Or ghosts. Or spirits. Or whatever it is he laughs and chortles at, looking at the exact same spot at 5:30 in the morning. For the last two months.

I kid you not.

The reason I never gave it any thought at the time was, at four weeks old, developmentally speaking, Eli couldn't see clearly yet. The parenting website I've been reading proclaimed most confidently that babies that age can see vague shapes, bright lights, shadows. And perhaps mommy's face if she's holding it two inches from baby's own.

To get to the point. At exactly 5:30 every morning, give or take a few seconds, Eli would pause from his frenzied early morning nurse, take his mouth off my nipple, look at a beam on the opposite wall, and smile. Huge, wide-mouthed, gum-glaring grins. Most times, he'd give a hiccupping giggle. This would go on for about a minute or so. Then, like nothing happened, my voracious son would go back to mashing my breast with his fist and vacuuming milk into his mouth.

At first, puzzled, I would glance at where he was looking. I just saw a beam, painted the same institutional pine green as the rest of the apartment, nestled in between Atch's cabinet and Eli's own. It was a blank beam, no painting, no wall hanging, nothing.

The first month, I put the blame on Eli's unfocused vision. He's smiling at me, of course, I'd think smugly, as well he should, after these long sleepless nights of jumping up at every one of HRH's hungry cries. And I'd crest the wave of maternal pride at having a baby who understood the meaning of “appreciating Mommy's sacrifices” really early.

This second month, I began to get skeptical. I knew for a fact that Eli could see clearly by this time. He'd often zero in on me from across the room five feet away and gum me a smile while waving his limbs energetically. So why was he still communing with that beam? At 5:30 am each day?

Curious, I began to gather random facts in my head. This apartment complex was over thirty years old. There were six doors, and Door Number Five, the door we were in, was in the oldest portion of the compound, having once been connected to the main house. The previous occupant was an aged widowed lady with a serious mahjong habit. She lived alone and sometimes had her equally ancient lady friends over for mahjong sessions which lasted well into the wee hours. Then she died.

Then she died.

Well, of course, she didn't die in the apartment. She died in the hospital, from complications of old age. She was nearly ninety, I remember. She liked kids, too. She used to hold lengthy conversations with a toddling Woog. And then she died. And now we have her apartment. Her very room.

By nature and as per cultural upbringing, I am a superstitious person. But I've never seen a ghost, or a spirit, not even a mythological aswang. This might very well be my one chance to do so. So, apprehensive, I braced myself for the proverbial windless chill and flurry of goosebumps that accompanies the presence of the paranormal. At 5:30 in the morning. In the first light of dawn.

On the dot of the clock, Eli began his ritual. Chlurp, chlurp, chlurp. Long pause. Lengthy look at the beam. Huge grin. Still grinning. “Eh-heh-heh”. Long pause. Back to breast. Chlurp, chlurp, chlurp.

All this while, I threw my senses wide open. Eyes, ears, nose, skin. Pysche. Never in the history of an early morning was a nursing mother more wide awake and in full possession of her faculties. And then...

Nothing. Not a single thing. No shimmer in the air. No chill. Not even a goosebump. I looked down at my son and his eyes were at half-mast, clearly enjoying his meal. Do you know something I don't, little guy?

In the car on the way to work, I told Atch. I even brought it up over lunch at work. Atch scoffed at me. The officemates laughed. But I have this theory. That little babies have a radar of consciousness the magnitude of which we will never be able to fathom. That until this cognizance is polluted by the noisy world around them, they can see and hear and feel things we cannot. That this special time of utter clarity draws to an end, all too soon.

Have I come remotely close, Eli? Is Mommy on the dot on this one?

What do you think?

September 2006

Where Did The Time Go?

Is that right? I was looking at the calendar. Has it been sixty days already?

It was the weekend before September 4, the dreaded date when my maternity leave ended and I'd have to go face the daily grind of work again.

No! My innards were practically screaming. It's too soon. Just when I've started to cement my relationship with Woog. Just when I've started to discover the wonder that is Eli. Just when I've started to tackle the labyrinthian nightmare that is the storage cabinet.

Still, I succumbed to the mad scramble of unearthing my Monday to Thursday office uniforms for pressing, clearing out my handbag of baby wipes, discarded feeding bottle covers and an ancient unused diaper, and finally finding the time to shine my office shoes. Gadzooks, I'd have to pack my milk pumping equipment, too!

What a hassle. I'd much rather stay at home. Nurturing my sons, cleaning, rearranging. Even welcoming my husband home like a seasoned housewife (As if!). And to think I was actually entertaining the idea of attempting to learn how to cook.

I thought there'd be plenty of time. But there never really is, is there? At least not for the things that really matter. Like continuing to rebuild Woog's self-esteem, or pampering Atch with a cold beer and a back rub whenever he got home from work. Or even snorting into Eli's tummy just to listen to those heavenly gales of breathless laughter. Instead my days have been filled with managing my new household (which was finally mine, mine, all mine!).

And now...I have to go back to work. Back to an all too necessary reality.

Basically, I'm a very hindsightful person. Which means to say I look back too much at past actions and pull my hair out at their figurative roots thinking about what I should have done instead. These past sixty days were supposed to be allotted to bonding with my family (*yank-yank-yank*), but somehow, I ended up filling my to-do list with household tasks (*yank-yank-yank*), just like a freaking house-a-holic. I am filled to the brim with good intentions, but like the froth bubbling over on a mug of beer, they evaporate all too soon.

Still, I try to console myself: Woog's doing better. There've been no major episodes at home or complaints from his teacher so far. Eli's thriving. And Atch. Well, he's still himself, as always. I may be going to work soon, and I may have to strive double-time to find quality family moments, but I'll make it. I have to. And I will.

And there's always room for good intentions, isn't there?

September 2006

I Know You...I Love You!

A month and a third has passed, and I am looking at this stout and somehow unfamiliar creature who is flashing his toothless gums at me in a smile.

I say the creature's name and try to smile back. My smile feels fake, somehow. But the creature opens his mouth to reveal even more gums and a throaty chuckle. I am highly astonished and deeply moved.

Eli. Who are you? I've been nursing you, changing your poopy diapers and giving you baths. For you I undergo chronic sleep deprivation and unending back pain. I rock your bassinet and sing you to sleep. And all of it just seems so automatic. Like something that needs to be done because its there. And because frankly, I've no choice in the matter.

Thinking about that now...God, that sounds awful! You're my son for juan's sake. And it seems I've just discovered you. Might it have been the lack of sleep? Perhaps the move to the new apartment shifted my neurons a bit. Or was it Manong Woog's deviant episodes that shoved your existence to the far reaches of my awareness?

I merely have to look at you and you present me with one of your pure unadulterated smiles. All my doubts about your ability to see clearly dissipate then and there. You never smile at your yaya like that. Not even for Tatay. After all these weeks of caring for you like an automaton, I must've done something right.

And oh, thank God you're too young to know the difference between true mindful mothering and the distracted zombie-like upkeep that you've had to put up from me.

But I promise you, son of mine, you whose grinning expanse of gums is surpassed only by your obvious rapture at the sight of your lackadaisical mother...I promise you a more attentive and attuned parent, a limitlessly patient and tangibly loving parent. Despite the exhaustion. Despite the lack of sleep. I promise you all my good intentions, no matter how tremendously outlandish they may seem.

And perhaps, when you are old enough to read, and you happen upon this obscure entry from this equally obscure blog under your mother's name, then perhaps you just might find it within yourself to forgive her lapses, past and present.

Because she means well, she really does.

Septemer 2006

Facing Goliath (Part II)

...Eli chose that very moment to cry. Saved by your brother, I thought. Yaya hurriedly shepherded Woog inside, her anxious eyes on me, lest I do damage to her precious charge.

Yet as I sat nursing the baby, a great heavy sadness settled somewhere in the region of my chest. What was happening here? Woog was by nature a mischeivous litle imp, but he had never displayed any willful destructiveness. In his sweetness, he never went out of his way to hurt other people. His heart was in a good place. Or was it?

After a time, he approched me. “Mommy, I love you.”

My heart wanted to melt, but I kept the mask of my stone-face on. Inwardly aching, I watched as my son wilted before my eyes. I was determined not to be a pushover in disciplining my children.

The next day, more disappointment was in store for us. Atch and I paid a visit to Woog's teacher. Miss Mae sighed heavily as she related how Woog frequently disrupted the class, wouldn't answer his seatwork, and refused to copy his assignments. Apparently, he also had the attention span of a gnat. She was stretching her patience, really she was, but she was nearing the end of her rope. It was never mentioned, but the specter of ADHD floated around our heads.

Have you ever felt that kind of helplessness as when your orderly world was falling down around your ears? I felt exactly like that that day. I'd take on work problems, financial worries, even a perenially busy and distracted husband, but please please please, don't let there be anything wrong with my kids...

It hit me then, right there, that perhaps I should stop thinking of all of this as happening to me. Maybe Woog wasn't problem. Maybe he was trying to tell us something. Only he didn't have the words.

Hysterical. My son, who on default mode has “palpitation of the tongue”, didn't have the words.

Atch and Miss Mae were looking at me strangely, and I realized that I had chortled out loud.

I think I know why Woog's not himself these days, I said. I really think he's behaving this way because he's had a lot of major changes thrown his way in the span of what? Two months?

A look of understanding dawned on Atch's face. Miss Mae asked me to elaborate.

Well, for one, he's started the schoolyear with a new teacher. Then he's had a new brother to bump him off his status as “baby of the house”. The following month, we moved to a new apartment. And, oh he has his own room now, too. He wasn't even allowed a transition period. Poor Woog. And to think he's only four years old.

Guilty thoughts flooded my mind of Woog creeping into our room in the dead of the night, begging to sleep with us. And his short-tempered sleepless mother sending him out because he might wake the baby. Damn me to hell and back for alienating my own son.

He's a David, facing Goliath. Several Goliaths. All at once. And to think that he never once went all-out-demented-berserk on us. I know I would have.

Miss Mae nodded. She had guessed as much. We discussed the ways in which to make Woog feel important again. She would try to give him more attention in school, as well.

Aren't pre-school teachers wonderful? They're approachable, sympatheric, proactive, and most importantly, totally focused on the kids they teach. For myself who went to school when corporal punishment was the norm, and for Atch who'd never even been to pre-school, Miss Mae and her ilk were a revelation of sorts. And a very wonderful one at that.

And so we headed home lost in our own thoughts. Thoughts which featured us hitting ourselves over the heads for being so clueless to what was happening with our son. Atch & I exchanged cringing glances. Poor Woog. He was raw and hurting from our indifference, uncertain of his status in our lives. It was up to us to equip him with the stones to slay the Goliaths he was facing. Time for us to blanket him with the support he was seeking, and which he truly deserved.

We headed home, resolving to love our son. Really love him. And hopefully, he'll turn out to be a mighty David some day.

August 2006