...And God created mothers

May 13, Sunday, is Mother's Day here in the Philippines. A salute to all the mothers who struggle to raise their brood the best way they can, utilizing the resources they have, and struggling against all the psychoses they harbor from their own childhoods.

A deep curtsy to the mothers who plod on despite sickness, exhaustion, sleep deprivation, poverty, abuse and absent partners. A round of applause to the mothers who do their damndest not to yell at their tantruming toddlers, slap their disrespectful tweens and disown their hung-over teenagers.

A bow to the mothers who fight to keep their children alive, despite the unavailability of medical care, the absense of technology, and the cold shoulder of society. Further, a pat on the back to the mothers who constantly live with the GUILT of not having done their best, thinking they could have done things differently, but not having known how.

A toast, a toast, to new mothers, middle-aged mothers, old mothers, and mothers in their grave! The hands that rocked countless cradles, the lips that kissed away mountains of hurt, the overworked bodies that labored, the smiles that brought out suns, the careworn arms that both spanked and shielded, the breasts that nourished the world. To us, who have taken on this non-paying, physically painful, emotionally rending, mostly thankless job - but what a most important job it is!

For my mother-in-law, who struggles against stubborness, self pity and her wheelchair, as she recovers from the debilitating stroke she had last August. For my late aunt, who once told me: "when they're young, they'll stomp on your toes. When they're older, they'll stomp on your heart." - how right she was! For my sister, a mother before her time, who misguidedly continues to make up for her lost youth in all the wrong places and with all the wrong people. For my mother, who raised us the best way she could in her own unconventional way, a chain-smoking and loud-mouthed motherhood that turned out four unconventional girls with fewer psychoses than the fingers of their hands. No candidates for a shrink's couch, we.

And finally, for myself. A Happy Mother's Day to me, a Happy Mother's Day to all.

Counting My Blessings

Ironically enough, two days before Atch was to take over caring for the boys so I could return to work, Yaya Rose texted me to ask if she could come back. I was puzzled about this new turn of events, but never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I texted back in the affirmative.

With mixed feelings, I contemplated this new twist in the saga of my life as Yaya Mom. I was itching to get free of the household fetters, true, but there was always Woog and Eli think of. Everything came back to them. They were the be-all and end-all of my having taken this extended vacation leave, and because of them, I was actually reluctant to return to work. When one is totally depended upon and practically worshiped by one's nearest and dearest, the sensation is close enough to send one to one's knees. (goddess syndrome, anyone?) In the two weeks I was mom-of-the-house, they practically bloomed before my eyes, something I never saw when they were in the charge of a caregiver. Would I have the heart to leave them back in the care of a nanny now I had discovered the exhilaration of exclusively raising them?


Directly the next day while I was scrubbing the kitchen sink, Yaya Rose arrived: thin, dark and out-of-breath. Apparently, with the enrollment period at the her local district high-school still weeks away, her father had required her to labor in the sugarcane fields under the scorching summer sun to help augment the family income. She earned over 50% more as the boys' nanny, so she argued her way back. Poor Rose. I urged her to have lunch and she ate like it was going out of fashion. Hunger can be a very potent argument too.

Which brought to mind the bitching I succumbed to in my previous post. While I was needlessly complaining about being torn between work and family, hundreds (nay, thousands) of women were scrounging for measly opportunities to make more than than the $1 a day that their families lived on. I am blessed to have been born to this privileged life: a college education, steady employment, more than three meals a day, internet access yet! And in this poor unfortunate benighted land, I am living what is considered the good life.

My husband would have called me the shallowest person alive. And he would be right.

In the midst of my musings, Yaya, between mouthfuls of sotanghon , rice and fried chicken gizzard, informed me that she would stay until her matriculation period, and would willingly train her replacement, should I find one. Her father was allowing her until then. I wondered what kind of a father would be small-minded enough to subject his only daughter to the harsh life of the boondocks, when she could have a better future (not to mention, a bigger income) were she to stay in the city. I voiced my concerns, but Yaya only smiled and shrugged. So much for that.

Woog was matter-of-fact about Yaya's reappearance (how grown-up my baby has become!), while Eli couldn't take his eyes (or arms) away from Yaya Rose. It brought a jealous lump to my throat, and an urge to actually shoo Yaya away. These are my children, mine!

With a sobering thought, I realized that these were indeed MY children, and I would have to double (triple!) my efforts at spending quantity quality time with them. No more complacency about having to leave them completely at the mercy of a nanny.

So it was back to work for me. We did have to keep our kids in the good life after all.

Stir-Crazy

The downside of being housebound is that one loses a huge fraction of the independence that every working girl takes for granted. The most important of all being one's purchasing power.

During the two weeks I spent taking care of the boys, I sorely missed the freedom of dropping by the grocery store on the way back from the bank or after work, to stock up on the usual household necessities that we were running low on: bread, butter, coffee, mayo. Sanitary napkins. I cringed for every single time I had to text Atch to please buy this, and to please buy that. I was stuck at home, saddled with the boys, clutching at my cash, with nowhere to go.

Atch's text replies went from: "Which brand did you want?, How many?, and Where do I buy this?" to a single letter: " 'K". He must've began to see me as the proverbial ball and chain, and I began to see why thousands of housewives all over the country go stir-crazy and lit on their work-weary husbands every evening as soon as they get within inches of the front door. I feel for them, I really do.

And here was my husband, trying to strike a balance between a crucial full branch conversion and new site transfer at work, and having to deal with a hormonal just-turned housewife with two hyperactive kids at home. Poor Atch. Still, he managed to force a rare smile in the midst of his wife's seemingly endless discourse.

Tuning out the audio with a grin

Things came to a head on Labor Day when I presented Atch with a long list of grocery-ables. Eli was running out of diapers, the salt cellar was at an all-time low and there was nothing in the fridge save ice cubes. Atch sighed and packed us all into the car for a sortie into our favorite grocery stores. The kids had fun, and like a monkey let loose in a warehouse of bananas, I scampered eagerly from aisle to aisle.

Cart hogs

Woog builds the diaper fort and Eli drives with the instant noodles steering wheel

Woog: "Why does Eli always get to be top dog?"

Exhausted but happy, and for the moment, his wife silenced, Atch drove us home wedged among a month's worth of supplies. After a moment's reflection, I realized I was turning into someone I swore I would never become: a fishwife. How much of my mobility and financial independence did I treasure vis a vis this precious time spent raising the boys by my own hand? Would my mental health stand the rigors of becoming a housewife long term? Would I be a better wife and mom then? This is, after all, what this blog is all about.

Some wonderful mommy I am, having to go through an internal debate on having to chose between work and family. There shouldn't have to be a choice. Why can't I silence the disquiet brought on by choosing to work AND be a wife & mom? Men NEVER have this kind of guilt. Why would they, they're not the ones obligated to take a leave from work to handle family emergencies, whether or not they bring home the bulk of the bacon.

How I wish with all my heart that I were made differently, but if I don't get a replacement nanny and return to work soon, I'm bound to drive my husband (and sons) batshit, I swear.

Yaya Mom

As far as taking over someone's job went, this one took all the honors. I got a 3-day leave from work to take care of the boys full time. Nursing the tail-end of a flu, on the second cranky day of my period and in the muggy heat of a full-blown summer, I woke up dreading incompetence and clumsy panic.

And I wondered why I was fretting. I am the mother of these angels, am I not? I am the keeper of this house (ok, apartment), am I not? I am woman, hear me roar. And roar I did. Eli was clingy and Woog tested the full complement of my limits on the first day I took over. In the early afternoon during siesta, the power failed twice, shutting down the air-conditioning and causing the kids to wake all sweaty and whiny. I resorted to turning myself into a human fanning machine, which fooled them not a bit. So siesta was cut short and we spent the afternoon outside, courting the errant breeze. When Atch arrived from work that night, I practically collapsed from the tension, only to remember too late that I had to get up to breastfeed.

It seemed strange not to have to rush in the mornings throwing on the uniform and putting on the face. Even stranger still that my little darlings minded not a bit if I forgot to gargle away the morning breath or wash the encrusted sediment from my eyes. No problem. Mommy's here. I fed them and gave them their baths, read to them and sang along to nursery rhymes. They struggled against siesta time, but I soothed them to sleep, and when they awoke, I put them on bike and walker and tired them out in the courtyard.

Three days turned to 8 with no sign of a replacement for Yaya Rose. And I found myself actually hoping no replacement came. Hell, I could get used to this. I actually imagined myself handing in my resignation at work and becoming a house mommy full-time. How else would I continue to relish Woog's arms around me, telling me constantly, "I missed you, Mom, don't leave me." Or Eli kiss-biting my cheeks and chin, slobbering and yammering all over my face.

Perhaps fearing I was going out of my mind, my father picked us up and deposited the boys in my parents' rubber pool. The boys had ecstatic splashy fun, while I relaxed with ice-cold glasses of Coke.



Still, I looked forward to the three of us being together: mom and sons. I'd missed out on how independent Woog was growing. How could I have taken for granted that he made his own bed, got dressed and hung his own p'jamies in the mornings. Or that he brought his plate and mug to the kitchen after every meal. Or that I could rely on him to fetch the baby's bottle, or my cellphone, or my sinus medicine, or any damn thing I might have forgotten to bring downstairs. He even gathered and put away the baby's rubber floor mats without my having to ask. And he's four. Four!



I had recently worried that Eli was a mite behind in the physical development department. At 9 months, he still hadn't learned to crawl. Or even sit up by himself. It took a lot of tough-love days to re-wire the circuits that Yaya Rose had welded into my 'Pokey Bear. Eli was clingy and cranky, but I refused to pick him up unless it was absolutely necessary - something that Yaya Rose could not fathom. She had carried him around constantly. When I took over, Eli spent mucho time on the stroller, on the walker and on the floor. Lots of hugs and kisses, but sorry, 'Pokey, no carrying. By day 4 he sat up by himself. By day 6 I taught him some rudimentary sign language. And by day 8, he pulled himself up to a bona fide standing position. Oh, I am so proud of the both of us!

Making up for lost time

He's totally delighted about his newfound mobility, he's been driving us nuts with all his wriggling around to see what else he can do and how far he can go. Good for you, Pipsqueak!

But as always, reality came and took a huge bite off my complacent ass. One of my clients called and asked me when I was coming back. He must have come by the office an awful lot of times that the admin. officer just had to give my home phone number. Mamsie told me the big boss had noticed my long drawn-out vacation. Ten loyal years in the company - I did have a responsibility, after all. My extended time with the kids was drawing to a close.

Filled with a sense of remorse, I haggled with Atch to take over so I could take up my backlog at the office. I looked lovingly at my sons, and inside I longed for more time.

Is this trade-off even worth it?