Fast Forward

They say you can tell you're getting old when you glance at the calendar and realize a couple of months have gone by and you haven't even noticed. That and the new set of wrinkles which have apparently appeared overnight at the corners of your eyebags (your eyebags!), and aren't those liver spots dotting the back of your hands? There...right there, over where a new strand of milky-blue veins has sprouted on the crinkly paper-thin skin.

And some days, you're grateful for the accumulated wisdom of the ages, but other days you wish you had a horse on hand, or some other herbivorous quadruped with hard hooves to kick the ache out of your back (and maybe, hopefully, carve out a new one).

Another year of life. Another year that didn't bother to approach stealthily, to gently surprise you like a rainbow forming over the wide blue yonder, but a year that chose to jump violently in front of you wearing a colorfully feathered dragon mask and yelling "Ooogah-boogah!" whilst shaking a wooden coconut rattle in your face. Oh, is it that month already? So soon?

And the time warp that just occurred? (or perhaps an early visitation of Alzheimer's, take your pick) It seems to have carried both your children in it's wake: suddenly they seem twice the size they once were. And you shake your head and wonder how it's possible that Woog's pajamas, all of his pajamas, that once covered the length of his shins, now rest on the balls of his knees. Or how Eli's extra long, extra roomy t-shirts have bunched up above his burgeoning belly, making him look like Buddha in a shrunken vest.


And wait. How is it that Woog can now reach the kitchen sink? Wasn't it only a couple of months ago he was on his tippy-toes, hard put to deliver his empty dinner plate for washing? And Eli? He's walking!

Well...ok...he isn't really walking. At least not yet. But didn't you vaguely remember introducing him to Woog's old walker at the age of six months? He sat there for a while looking puzzled, fiddling with the musical buttons, and when he involuntarily kicked out with his feet, the sudden momentum that carried him a few feet backwards startled him so badly he loudly burst into tears. These days, you're hard pressed to keep up with his meanderings. "Uhm-buh!" He explodes, propelling his eight-month-old self in the general direction of the whirring electric fan, his curly topknot of curls bobbing like oft-jumped upon mattress springs, Yaya hot on his heels.



You feel joyous yet somehow despondent, and you sigh the bittersweet sigh of parents whose children are growing up too fast for you to keep up with, leaping through milestones at the speed of light. Don't grow up yet, you want to wail, hoping to hold on to their baby-hood and childhood selves as long as possible. Even as Woog reminds you, all adult-like, to wash behind your knees. Even as Eli reaches out from his high-chair and crams a couple of biscuits into his two-tooth maw, without even breaking into a sweat.

And you exchange a glance with your dearly beloved and equally aged husband, who is rubbing his lower back and wishing for some equine assistance of his own, both of you wanting years upon years upon years with which to enjoy life with the children, without the bothersome occurrence of time warps (or Alzheimer's, take your pick) to distract you from them.

But you finally settle unto yourselves with the realization that, indeed, another year has come upon you, and you are powerless to stop the inevitable progression of seasons. That the only thing left would be to devote unfailing attention to each passing day, to never miss a second of the beauty of your children unfolding.

Woogie Does Hawaii

Woog was a nervous bundle of anxiety the morning we left for Robinson's for his school's annual field trip. On this one, the kids would be paying a visit to Greenwich to learn to assemble their own pizzas.

"I don't know how to make pizza, Mom," Woog worried for the umpteenth time. And in turn, I worried about him. My normally confident and excitable four-year-old has for some reason, recently developed a case of the nerves. He obsesses about the most inconsequential of matters and frets about everything, and nothing: the night's potential bad dreams, the size of his toast, that he might miss a certain children's party, the exact placement of the food on his plate (eggs on the left, fries at 10 o'clock, ketchup dead center). He even broods about events far off into the future.

All this feverish uncertainty in one so young has me frantically nitpicking through our methods of raising him. Are we too stingy with praise? Do we not acknowledge his efforts often enough? Are we remiss in building his self-esteem? Too tough about tough love?

The list is endless, and it piles up into the huge mountain of guilt that all mothers hoist about their shoulders, like Atlas bowed underneath the burden of the world. Don't we all just wish we could do more for our children, but somehow fall short of our own expectations in doing so? I continually bash my figurative head in for failing to be more patient, more loving, and more there (as opposed to thinking about the next thing on my to-do list while Woog tells me about the events in his day).

And so there we were, the worried pair of mother and son, standing before a packed throng of kids and parents grouped around a Greenwich outlet. "Don't worry, Woog, they'll show you how to do it." I assured him with a hug. But he looked at me with clear uncertainty and even managed a faint moan of distress before his teacher roped him over with an apron and stuck him with his name tag, "Owen".

I sighed with resignation and seated myself as near him as I could get, wondering if his agitation were a result of being a year younger and a good head shorter than most of the kids in his class.

More than 50 kids from the pre-school's morning classes were seated around wooden trestle tables and cordoned off from twice the number of parents who were either seated or standing and proudly directing all manner of digicams, videocams and phonecams (yours truly included) at their prodigy.

Woog exhibiting performance anxiety

The moderator was the store's young manager, Tito Al, who carried on with all the good-natured vim and vigor of a clown hosting a children's party. The kids held their own the best they could, up until Tito Al started on an enthusiastic if long-winded narration of Greenwich's history, it's sister stores and various other pizza-pasta statistics. Truly I marveled at their staying power, this huge group of four and five-year-olds, and alas, it was soon obvious that Tito Al had no kids of his own. At least none who were pre-schoolers itching to wiggle off their seats and create chaos. Which, with much aplomb, they soon did.

Woog leading the pack into chaos

The teachers herded their charges back into their seats, only to herd them off moments later, for it was time to make their way into the kitchens.

"Do not touch the hot ovens!" Tito Al bellowed into his headset mic, and most of the parents present exchanged amused glances at the edge of desperation in his voice.

A pizza-making demonstration soon followed (much craning of kiddie necks), and after washing dozens of kiddie hands, the Greenwich staff made their rounds handing out the pizza-making ensemble for Solo Hawaiian Pizza. Through all this, Tito Al pleaded with the kids not to touch their hair/pick their noses/suck their thumbs. He was, as expected, thoroughly ignored.

Spread evenly

The general babble died down as the kids enthusiastically set to work on their respective crusts. Spoons were dropped and liquid was splattered in globulous quantities, but they gamely plodded on.

"Do not lick the pizza sauce!" Clearly, Tito Al was losing it. Woog spared me hardly a glance.

Sprinkle all around

Tito Al's frantic exhortations not to gobble up all the cheese went mostly unheeded, and more cheese had to be brought. Indulgent parents called out encouragement to their preoccupied children, also unheeded.

A million years and some thirty minutes later, the finished products were carried off on trays to be baked. Woog shot me a glance of triumph and exhilaration, and a bright ray of relief banished the cobwebs of worry in my heart. Nothing to it, Woog, I silently mouthed at him, I knew you could do it. My son glowed.

Beside me, a group of concerned mothers debated on stepping in to assist the teachers and poor Tito Al as he personally supervised one parlour game after another in an attempt to keep the kids occupied while their pizzas cooked. The earlier vim and vigor had dissipated all too soon and the poor man was at pains to keep the smile pasted on his put-upon face. Clearly this one would think it over a gazillion times before even considering the giving up of sperm in the spirit of procreation.

An excited hum arose as the smell of oven-baked spiced ham and cheese wafted over to the famished younglings. Soon, the much-awaited Hawaiian Solo pizza and softdrinks were served, and the whir of cameras proceeded, thus:

"Owwie, hot, hot!"

Hawaiian Solo ala Woog

Forget the sugar content, I'm glad you have your confidence back

The morning's end saw us waving a fond adieu to an exhausted Tito Al and the Greenwich staff, the former I'm sure entertaining second thoughts about having the pre-school's afternoon classes over for a repeat performance. Too late, man, sorry. You're booked solid for the day. I feel for you, I really do.

And I followed in the wake of my happy son as he led the rest of the gang upstairs to invade the resident Toys R Us, where the pizza-stuffed and sugar-fueled kids commenced to wreck havoc with the Mega-blocks and the Chikko jungle gyms.

No matter. All's well that ends well. Until the next anxiety attack anyway.

Party! Party!

...so let's go shake some booty...!

...To Remind Me Why Atch Cannot Stay Up With the Baby

Atch means well. He usually does. He is a consistently reliable provider, a supportive partner, a loving parent, the family chauffeur, a fixer of all things broken, and most importantly, he cooks. But if the good Lord giveth talents overflowing, He also provideth chasms of fantastic incompetence, as I was reminded all too clearly the other night when Atch volunteered to stay up with the baby.

I was feeling under the weather at 3 o'clock in the morning when Eli commenced to wail as per his two-hour alarm schedule. Atch roused himself, weaving his groggy way from bed to crib. Three quarters asleep, I was witness to the following "conversation" :

Eli: Waaaaa-aaaaaah-aaaaaah!

Atch: (lifting the baby off the crib and settling them both on the lounging chair) It's okay, sleep, sleep (humming "Moon River" under his breath while patting the baby's bottom).

Eli: Waaaaaah!

Atch: Sleep, Eli, sleep.

Eli: Waaah...*whimper-whimper*....waaaa...

Atch: Shhhhh..... (immediately falling asleep himself and snoring into the now quiet baby's ear)

Eli: Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Atch: (starting awake and commencing to pat the baby furiously) Sleep! Eli! Sleep! $%^&*#+##$!!!

Eli: Waaaaaaaaaaah!

Atch: If you don't sleep, I'll whup you!

(Whappak!)

Eli: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

At this point, unable to take any more, I forced myself to get up and take the hysterical baby away from his brutish arms. Atch made his way back to bed and was snoring in 2.5 seconds.

As Eli settled down in my arms, sleepy memories trickled back of the one other time, centuries ago, when I pleaded with Atch to sooth a screaming baby Woog (forerunner of the every two-hour infant alarm clock). The screaming never abated and I opened my eyes to Atch violently swinging the crib on its wheels around and around the room. He said he was rocking Woog to sleep.

Eli & his Tatay on the infamous lounging chair

The following morning, Atch ruffled Eli's curls as he sat on his high-chair for breakfast, "Who got whupped last night?" He teased.

Eli flashed his two-tooth gums at him and gave a delighted gurgle.

I am so glad babies have such short memories.