OMG! And I hope he isn't wrong...

Oh wow. Oh geez. How speechless can one get? A blogger priest (yes, a faddah! a man of the cloth!) whose site I am a great fan of, has posted a short (and very sweet) review of my blog at Blogger.com. Seeing as how he publishes multitple posts in any given day, I'm not even going to attempt to link to his review entry, no matter how much my narcisistic publicity-hungry self begs for more www exposure.

This is the first time ever in my life that a member of the clergy has expressed approval (approval!) of my person (ok, well, perhaps the creative output of my person). Ever since that Father Rector from my old Catholic school caught me in the act of channeling my artistic excesses with white pen correction fluid unto a blue corridor wall (I was doing an underwater scene), men of God have either sneered at me or steered clear of me (as the case of a seminarian brother I fancied myself in love with once). No offense meant to my father-in-law who is a Bishop Emeritus of the PIC (love him dearly).

Hurrah for the breaking of this cycle! Hurrah for MadPriest! And yes, if I am to be dumped into the madhouse alongside of you, then I embrace this madness completely. Not to mention your utterly wonderful satiric blog, Of Course, I Could Be Wrong.

In this instance, Father Jonathan, I sincerely pray you're not.

A Slice in Time

It is a hectic morning moment. The breakfast table is a-jumble with scrambled egg, half-eaten toast, the remains of fried garlic rice, chorizo, and various scattered utensils. I am cramming last minute edibles into three lunchboxes: mine, Atch's & Woogie's.

In the bright sunlight streaming insistently (the time! the time!) through the blinds, Atch is hurrying to take the first turn at the apartment's single toilet, his towel perched haphazardly around his hips, an unlighted cigarette dangling from lips that are moving:

Woog, hurry up and finish your breakfast!

around his poison stick.

Meanwhile, said dawdler delicately swirls a french fry in his saucer of ketchup, sniffs it, and brings it up to his open mouth, making gustatory smacking noises. This is followed by a lengthy swig from his mug of chocolate milk. The deliberateness of his eating makes us want to scream with one accusing finger pointing at the clock, save for the thought that it might ruin the appetite of our gourmet-in-the-making. Surely there must be a method to his madness.

Ignored for the nonce, the baby, deposited on the rubber floor mats amidst hand-me-down toys, protests this momentary abandonment by crawling from the living room to the breakfast table. He pulls himself up by the rungs of the first available chair, and attempts to yank the stuffed cushion out from under his Manong Woog:

Ba-bap-bap-bapbap-baaaap!

he screeches in frustration, falling heavily on his diapered behind, before pulling himself up to begin all over again:

Cchthhh-cthh-cthhh-cthhh!

he enunciates, spittle flying from four gritted teeth.

Woog bursts into laughter and hands over a fry. Appeased, Eli settles back down on the floor and bites hard into deep fried potato.

Atch emerges with a diminished paunch, ready to begin another harried tirade. He catches sight of his family halo-ed in the motes reflected by the streaming sun. A post-modern-Impressionist-Norman Rockwell.

He smiles. I smile with him

The bustle of the day is momentarily forgotten, and we revel in this rare moment, stolen from rush-hour time, not soon forgotten.

Foot In Mouth Disease

Excerpt of phone conversation with Atch.

ATCH: Aif, you're too much. You texted me two times. One after the other. TWO TIMES! You woke me up.

AIFEE: But I just wanted to know if we're buying the roast chicken for Woog's birthday. I texted you at 4 pm, you could've always gone back to sleep.

ATCH: Well, too late. I can't sleep now. You woke me up. Try and be more considerate, Aif. You know that we're usually still asleep for siesta at 4 pm.

AIFEE: I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Why didn't you just turn your phone off?

ATCH: Turn my phone off? Hah. What if a client calls?

(...WTF!)

AIFEE: You leave your phone on for client calls but your wife texts you... TEXTS! And she gets told off?!

ATCH: Well, Aif...

AIFEE: Do your clients get told off for calling? Hmmm?

ATCH: Aif...

AIFEE: So your clients can bother you in your sleep, but your wife can't?!

ATCH: Aif...

AIFEE: And if a client calls while you're sleeping, do you get mad at them too? Hmmm?

ATCH: (conciliatory tone of voice): Aif, I'm not mad at you. I was just saying...

AIFEE: Hmph.

ATCH: Aifee!

(silence)

ATCH: I'll pick you up later and we'll buy the chicken, 'k?

(silence)

ATCH: Wuv-wuv.

(silence)

ATCH: I WUV you!

AIFEE (grudgingly): Wuv.

End of conversation.

Moral (lesson) question: If you're uber-shrewish but you don't nag? What does that make you?

And for that matter....what does that make him?

Five years ago today, I held a baby up to the morning sunlight and marvelled at the tender and perfectly plump morsel of flesh yawning and quivering in my arms. How fair and fragrant. How rosy and robust. How soft and supple. I laid claim to all the poetic license my shellshocked mind could call forth after a harrowing three days of induced labor. Finally, he was mine to actually hold, all 7.11 pounds of him.

How eager I was to take him home with me and proudly show him off to the world. And so I did. Often the world avoided me, tired of my show-and-tell pride. How I hungered to cosset and cradle him for countless days and endless nights. The part about "endless nights" did come to pass, and at the end of ten months, the idea of sleep seemed truly alien.

I guided him and steadied him, overseeing every minute detail of his growth. I lectured him and hectored him. Sometimes lovingly, sometimes not, caught up in the compulsion to raise a superman. He thrived and he flourished. He laughed and shed tears. He had close-calls and near-misses. He received love and gave back a hundred-fold.

Five years later, he has become a noisy and hyperactive gangle of elbows and knees, knuckles and shins. Sometimes, I actually get to hold him. Most times, he is too busy living life. At other times, so am I.

We are so alike, my son and I. We struggle mightily to get up in the mornings, we sulk for terribly long periods of time (and often at each other), we growl and spit over imagined slights, and we are the sweetest creatures alive when sated and content.

On this, his fifth birthday, I planned on posting a letter to him, congratulating him on the milestones he hurdled, and the maturity he'd acquired through the years. Instead, I took him out for pizza, a movie and the "ar-cave". Serious quality mother and son time. He had the time of his life and my heart busily photographed each unfolding moment for posterity - enough memories to riffle through with fondness during tough times.

And we've had our tough times, pitting like against like, snarling and circling like pit bulls in a pen. On the night of his fifth birthday, he loudly grouched about the lack of guests (we invited his grandparents, an aunt, an uncle and a cousin from next door), the lack of food (we had cake, ice cream, fried oriental noodles, roast chicken and lechon), and the lack of presents (he got a Barney sticker book). I tried to keep my temper in, mightily helped by warning glances from Atch until the birthday boy reached out with a grimy finger and dug a deep furrow into the cake. Chaos ensued, chiefly instigated by me. I ended the evening with an angry lecture on table etiquette and the importance of being grateful for small blessings. Then I sent him to the sink to wash his own mug and spoon.

On his birthday. On his birthday. On his birthday.


As with every parent who desires the best for her child but falls short on her own expectations, guilt hit hard and fast. But as he came to kiss me goodnight, he assured me he had a great birthday, "I had fun, Mom. This big (holding his hands a foot wide), and the bad parts were only this small (holding his hands apart an inch)."



How much can this wicked unfeeling weak inconsiderate mother take, to be so blessed with such a marvelously forgiving and loving son, who couldn't help but act his age, and then some. I wept.


Happy birthday, Woog. Hopefully someday, you will understand what I mean.