Odoriferous Lullaby

Five-year-old Woog rocking fifteen-month-old Eli to sleep:

"Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetops...
When the wind breaks, the cradle will rock..."

Some wind, kid

A Walk to Remember

The gluttonously satisfying meal of tender pig knuckles in a thick spicy stew of red beans and slices of young jackfruit has Atch and I waddling away from the table, our distended tummies in the lead.

The night is young and the stars beckon to us from their berths in the sky, so we grab our caps and make for a walk, belatedly hoping to counter the effects of the cholesterol carnage that was our dinner. Perhaps the evening breeze would dispel our fragrant expulsions of air, as well.

A shriek. Woog is right behind us, homework-free and begging for attention. So we plunk his cap on him and hand in hand in hand, we make our way out to the courtyard. We pass Inday kneeling over her euphorbia, puzzling over why they aren't growing as abundantly as the neighbors' (look to the dogs, Inday, they have daily pee parties in your garden).

Woog excitedly shrills high-pitched wordless exclamations, jumping up and down and nearly pulling our arms from their sockets. Be quiet, Woog, you're so noisy, his Tatay scolds, stop moving so much.

Let him be himself, I say, dreamily sated, he's a child. In a couple of years, he's going to lose all the vocals and become as silent as a tomb. Now, that is going to be scary.

Atch grunts around his cigarette, holding on to his hyperactive son as we make our way out of the compound. At the corner store, the usual group of bare-chested taffys toughies brag loudly over a bottle of local rum, swigged sparingly while making occasional eye-contact with the drama series unfolding on the store's tv. Hi, Woog, they call out. Woog continues bouncing between us, oblivious to his fans.


Look at him, he's beside himself, I point out to Atch, he loves being with us. When he's older he's going to lock his door, and we won't know what's going on. And I'd go, 'break it down Atch, he might be jacking off!'

Atch laughs, ruffling his happy son's hair.

Or, I continue, he might be in his room dripping hot candle wax on himself.

*snort*

Or...slicing himself and dripping candle wax on the cuts. With his door locked.

Atch is disgusted. Aif, you're sick, his sharp glance says.

Well, you never know. We're getting too old to understand teenagers these days, imagine what it'll be like during Woog's time.

Woog is blissfully unaware of my speculations on his future behavior. He is skipping along and yammering about the super powers of his imaginary pet spider. I am glad he is getting this off his chest, he is, after all, deathly afraid of the lowly arachnid.

Woog, do you remember when all three of us used to walk together after dinner, just like this, when Eli was still in my tummy? I ask him fondly.

Mom, look! A squashed frog! A squashed frog! And our budding coroner rushes off to check out the gore.

Totally out of it, Atch shakes his head.

He won't be for long. I wonder what I'd feel cleaning his room and discovering girlie magazines under his bed...

Atch expels some manly approving laughter.

Or guy-guy magazines!

Atch nearly chokes on his mirth.

We round the corner to the main road, hand in hand in hand. Woog trustingly leans forward and back, sometimes swinging from our clasped hands like a monkey on a vine.

I continue to needle Atch. What if he locks his door, we break it down, and we find him with a girl... and they're both 12!

Or, I am on a roll here, he's with a girl... and a boy...

A threesome, Atch chuckles.

... and a goat!

Woog looks up at the both of us, wondering why his parents are shaking and holding on to their aching guts in laughter.

... and they're filming the whole thing, and the next day it's all over youtube! We're done for! I slap my forehead in mock anguish.

Atch is wordless. Between his teeth, the lighted end of his cigarette is in danger of a dousing from flying spittle and gusts of chortling air. Between us, our son skips merrily along, glad of a chance to be alone with the people he loves most in the world.

We do an about face when we reach the highway - a man, his wife and their little boy - smiles on our faces, the sweat on our brows dried by the night air. And we head back home feeling better about ourselves for a number of different reasons, but mostly because of our lovely Woog, and the child he has awakened in the both of us.

Rub-A-Dub-Dub, One Pig In A Tub

Moral of the Story: Trying to Stuff a Month's Worth of Stories Into a Single Post Will Play Hell on Your Cohesion

Time flies like a demented loon out of the forest of good intentions.

I am trying to shoot for a good metaphor here, instead I end up gunning down said demented loon out of my grammatical stratosphere. Or at least I try to. Because as time is moving ever onward, the only dementia that's left is clinging in tattered entrails to my frantic typing fingertips, trying to make up for lost time (and posts) on this blog.

In the amount of time I was on "blog sabbatical", Woog went through a frightening week-long asthma attack, reminiscent of the ones I used to have as a kid. His was brought about by a now-you-see-it-now-you-don't appetite and a staunch refusal to honor siesta hour. With a weakened resistance, the poor bugger succumbed to wheezing and hacking at the first touch of the cold.

Needless to say, we drowned him in anti-allergens, smoked him silly with his nebulizer, and whupped his stubborn ass each time he conveniently "forgot" a noon meal or his afternoon nap. After each whipping, we sat down with frowning growling Mr. Obstinate, trying to sooth his hurt with some well-meant parental platitudes.

The following vacation day (one among the many other ill-placed holidays declared by an ill-placed president), we took him out for a long scenic drive and tried to stuff him with food. We'd have liked to think we were successful, or perhaps it was his new appetite stimulant cum vitamin supplement, because in the weeks that followed, he started eating and sleeping again. We threw in a full body massage each night (with efficascent oil yet!) each time he met his food and nap quota. How he purred!

Food again?!

What a lucky thing to discover massage as a bribe for good behavior. I wonder if any other desperate parent has come up with equally unusual solutions.

Robust mom, frail son

Meanwhile, the 13-month-old had developed a temperament that ran the full range of the spectrum. He'd go from saccharine sweet to viciously angry in a matter of seconds, uttering harsh staccato barks, hands darting like quicksilver to yank on his Manong Woog's hair. Or rake down our startled faces. Maybe he was frustrated about the excruciatingly slow speed of his first tottering steps, who knows? But in the two weeks that brought him into his 14th month, he went from wobbling little piglet to prancing little piglet, leaving his handlers (two parents and a nanny) plumb out of breath. As part of his daily routine, he'd scuttle up the stairs to the very top, look down from his dizzying height, then wail in a panic for someone to help him down again.

He walks. Finally.

But despite his swift progress, the temper remained. An early caveat about what to expect from him at Terrible Two? We shudder at the thought.

Eli on top of the world

One morning, under a slight drizzle, he made it out the front door and glanced up the drainpipe, hoping for a gush of water to dunk his hands under. Denied that pleasure, he turned his attention on the droplets of rain dotting his grandfather's car. Ooooh! By the time we caught up to him, he was damp and giggling. Eyes lost in the folds of his cheeks, drool mingling with the raindrops on his chin.

It may very well have been the same kind of curious excitement that led his Manong Woog to play with the new set of kitchen knives in the new knife block the day before, losing him a night's massage in the bargain.


Hah! Massage as both positive and negative reinforcement. Who'd have thought it'd work?

In other sad news, my second hand rose died. It is currently serving as compost for my growing sunflowers. Atch made it up to me by buying me some celery. The stalks I chopped and incorporated into our workday meat sandwiches, the leaves garnished Woog's favorite pancit, and the roots I buried in a pot where they are growing fresh shoots even as I type. Thanks to all this rain.


And it is still raining. It has been raining all week. It is flooded from China all the way to Ghana, and our damp days-old wash hangs in sodden downcast flags, sometimes blowing three sheets to sudden gusts of wind.


Oh, what I'd give for a touch of sunshine and some thoroughly dry underwear!