Facing Goliath (Part I)

I suppose it had to happen sooner or later. But when it did start to happen, we were caught up in disbelief. A this-sort-of-thing-does-not-happen-to-our-family kind of disbelief. Like a thief in the night, it snuck up on us, and particularly, on Woog, on whom this post is based.

I guess Atch and I were mostly to blame. We were exhausted from the move, bent on making the new apartment as liveable as possible. And then there was Eli to attend to. I was a cranky sleep-deprived zombie, spending most of my non-nursing, non-diaper changing time trying to clean and redecorate. When Atch was at home, he was in full fix-it mode.

Poor Woog was left to his own devices, and to his young mind, alone, to face the insurmountable changes thrown into his life.

It started with his hearing. Or more to the point, his lack of it. We would call him in to dinner. And soon it would turn into a “call of the wild”, our voices yipping into the wind. And that wind would whip out unto the broad plains of the courtyard, echoing back at us, unanswered. All it would take would be the soft clinking sound of Atch's belt buckle leaving his pants to send Woog scurrying homeward.

After his siesta, he would hie off to Door Number Four for an afternoon of Disney Channel (they had cable, we didn't). Give it half an hour or so, and his 18-month-old cousin, Ia, herself approaching that difficult age, would be howling in vexation. Turns out Woog would be grabbing her toddler's toys, or shoving her off her seat, or plain standing in front of the tv to block her view. He would do all this with a diabolical sort of smile (or so Ia's yaya would report later).

Soon, even his eating habits, not the best to begin with, began to suffer. It would take him an average of six minutes to consume a spoonful of food (I know, I timed him). Multiply that by 10 spoonfuls, and you get a whole hour spent trying to get him to finish his meal. You can just imagine our voices grown hoarse urging him to eat his breakfast and get to school on time.

One such morning, while dawdling at breakfast, he decided to take a fork to the new dining table. And, oh the masterpiece that carver did carve! So enraptured was Atch at his son's newfound artistic ability, he applauded him loudly on the bottom with the wide end of a thick leather belt.

I sent him, tearless, unrepentant and breakfastless to sit outside facing the wall. He missed school that day. There is no good cop in this family.

When I checked on him ten minutes later, I found him at the far end of the apartment compound, fiddling with the carpenter's handsaw. I shrieked and he dropped it, terrified.

The whole mountain of manure came crashing down one morning when he came home from school with Yaya, who reported that we were being summoned the next day for a conference with his teacher. I barely had time to call Atch at work about this when I heard an angry voice outside shout Woog's name. This is getting so old, I thought. The only way these days to utter Woog's name would be in an angry shout, amongst other furious explosions.

It turns out, Atch's brother-in-law, Sam, a contractor by profession, had laid to dry two freshly painted plywood boards for one of his projects. Woog had taken a broom, dipped it in murky gutter water, and swept it diligently across both boards. In the span of time it took to yell out his name, he had created a muddy Jackson Pollock on the sticky sky-blue background.

I cannot describe how speechless with embarassment I was. A livid Sam was removing the ruined boards with gritted teeth, and Woog was simply standing there, dripping broom in hand. His doomed bottomless eyes were on me, waiting for the axe to fall...

August 2006

Name Game

Woog's godmother phoned while I was nursing Eli on the couch.

“So how come Eli gets a decent name and my hijado (godson) doesn't?” She complained in indignation.

Oh wow, I wanted to tell her, Eli deserves a decent name. If you can only see who he looks like. Har-har-har.

Seriously. Not that I love my second-born any less, but he isn't going to win any baby beauty contests. Fattest baby maybe. But looks?

Alright, so he takes after his father's side of the family. I'm not discriminating against my own husband. But I can't help being painfully honest, love and affection notwithstanding.

Still, as far as nicknames go, Eli wins hands down, considering Woog started out as “Ogbai”.

Seriously.

We had decided to name our first-born Ogbai (don't ask). And as he was a two-week old fetus at that time, we didn't think he'd mind. As expected, both sets of grandparents and various friends and relatives went up in arms. So on the pain of eviction, disownment and threats of all assorted forms of social stigma, we made a compromise to christen him Owen Gabriel. But “Ogbai” stuck

Distinctive, huh? No other baby is named Ogbai . Believe me, I've googled it up (so babies Apple, Suri, Pilot Inspektor, Kal-el, Shiloh Nouvel, ad nauseum – go eat your hearts out).

However, time, circumstance, and Atch's penchant for his version of Shirley Ellis' The Name Game changed that a bit.

By his father, Woog has been called: Baloogwai, Waloogwai, Woogwai, Woogie, Doogie, Darloogie, Traloogie...

Our son seemed to like the sound of “Woog”, so we called him that.

Eli's still young, I wanted to sooth Woog's godmother. Give Atch some time, and you'll soon behold a baby with a whole new identity.

Elijah Raphael, I wonder what's in store for you.

August 2006

Conflagration

I tried to fry some chicken for Woog one afternoon. Put the pan on. Poured a dollop of oil. Turned on the heat.

Just as I was about to drop in my lovely marinated breadcrumb-bathed fowl pieces, a huge sheet of flame burst into my frying pan. In my panic, I threw some water in and was rewarded with a nice toasty bonfire spewing haywire towards heaven.

I glanced around wildly for help. Any help. And I saw my son peeking in from the living room, both his eyes and mouth rounded in “O's”. I didn't even notice the few dozen house spiders that fell from the ceiling above the stove, all nicely and evenly toasted.

Who's the adult here, ha? Who is the adult? I mentally slapped myself, braved the heat, and turned off the gas. Who's the adult here, ha?

But the pan was still on fire. And the cooking oil bubbled on it, black as the devil's very ass.

“Mommy, you're burning my chicken!” Woog exclaimed from a significantly safe distance away.

Help! Screeched my tortured inner novice cook. Taking a deep breath of clean air away from the fumes, I dove in and took hold of the pan's handle. I had intended to clear a path to the door, and dump this poor blackened flambe'ed cooking piece into the courtyard outside.

But horrors! An obstinate drop of hot oil burst from the flames and landed on my arm. With a yelp, I let got of the pan and watched it sommersault in slow motion, landing face down on the newly waxed floor.

And viola. The fire went out.

Cries of “Oh, thank you!” and “Mom, my chicken!” rang out.

Post-disaster. Yaya came in with the clean laundry and ended up frying Woog's chicken (to perfection, I might add. And she's 16 years old). She scrubbed the soot-blackened ceiling as well. And got rid of the poor roasted spider carcasses.

Meanwhile, the kitchen floor proudly displayed its version of the black hole, the exact dimensions of the coal-colored frying pan lying morosely in the courtyard. Small spots of singed chair upholstery from the oil, which I tried valiantly to scrub off. Alas.

The house smelled of burnt air for hours, even after Atch arrived from work. He eyed the disaster for quite a time. He was not amused.

Adult, my ass.

August 2006

So We Moved

I am not even about to harass myself with a retelling of this most prodigious and supremely stressful event. Suffice it to say, the apartment next door was up for grabs, and grab it we did. Door number Four was getting too crowded, what with the in-laws and all. So we moved. To door number Five.

So we moved. Why does that sound so blessedly simple? Foremost in my memory is leaving my three-week-old son in the old living room while Yaya and I negotiated the bulky dresser downstairs, across the courtyard, then upstairs again to the new bedroom.

Atch covered in sawdust and sweat as he drilled holes and stapled electrical cables.

Woog running wildly back and forth from one apartment to the next, unsupervised.

My milkjugs knocking painfully against my chest as I waxed the new floor.

Nursing Eli while helplessly listening to Atch's poor back creaking from the strain of carrying three sets of cabinets, one disassembled queen-sized bed, an aircon unit, a tv, and various other odds and ends.

Combing the city to find the least expensive possible dining table...and wincing anyway while shelling out the money for one.

Going back and forth for the gazillionth time carrying clothes and shoes and pillows and sheets...how can three people accumulate so much stuff in five years?

Trying to appease Woog who shied in terror from his new bedroom, and his first ever prospect of sleeping alone.

Vacuuming. Wiping and disenfecting. Again and again. And yet again.

In the end, when we finally settled down to enjoy our first breakfast in the new apartment, it started to feel like home. We were practically sleepwalking in exhaustion, but we were home.

August 2006