Dear Portia,
Sad news on the tube today. A baby battling malnutrition is surviving on coffee alone because the mother doesn't have the means to provide milk. The immediate reaction of a friend in the medical profession was, 'How stupid of her. Everyone knows caffeine shouldn't be given to a baby.'
But really, had she not been my friend, I would've asked her this: 'Who has enough rationality to think when you don't have money and your child's crying out of hunger?'.
Funny thing, this rationality. Sometimes I think it's a privilege given to those who have no issues to deal with. Issues like poverty, for example. We've no right to judge because sometimes circumstances rob us of goodness, of rationality, of the ability to do the right thing at the right time. I was her once. There was a time, a few months after you were born, when money was so scarce and opportunities so far that I could barely buy you diapers, milk or new clothes. And people probably asked of me then, 'Why is she angry all the time? Did having a baby rob her of her humor?' It probably did for a time. People are like that when they're boxed in situations they feel they have no control of.
So, don't be too quick to judge, kiddo. Contrary to what others think, sometimes there is an excuse for rudeness, for indifference, apathy or plain meanness. We are such at certain times in our lives because we're human. And sometimes, we just can't handle the world the way it should be handled.
We are such because it's the only way we know how to cope. And that's nothing to be ashamed of.
♥,
Mom
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Lost Count
Dear Portia,
Pardon the hiatus. It's just that Cebu has the tendency to do that to you. We've been here for a month and it's been a whirlwind. Here are the top five things that've kept us busy for the month of October:
1. Your Papa's graduation
2. Catching up with everyone
3. Visiting friends and places missed
4. The Faigao Workshop
5. Life
November is no different. I've been so busy going to and fro one errand after the other that I do not have time to write (except for the day job, of course), sightsee or lavish myself with necessary boredom.
I've been missing this fast paced lifestyle though. I've been missing people and places and whatnots. There's nothing quite like Cebu and there never will be. So, remember that wherever our feet and ambitions take us, this is home. This place of smog, lights and insouciance.
This is home. And the world is in order again, in a messed up kind of way. But it's exactly how I like it.
Pardon the hiatus. It's just that Cebu has the tendency to do that to you. We've been here for a month and it's been a whirlwind. Here are the top five things that've kept us busy for the month of October:
1. Your Papa's graduation
2. Catching up with everyone
3. Visiting friends and places missed
4. The Faigao Workshop
5. Life
November is no different. I've been so busy going to and fro one errand after the other that I do not have time to write (except for the day job, of course), sightsee or lavish myself with necessary boredom.
I've been missing this fast paced lifestyle though. I've been missing people and places and whatnots. There's nothing quite like Cebu and there never will be. So, remember that wherever our feet and ambitions take us, this is home. This place of smog, lights and insouciance.
This is home. And the world is in order again, in a messed up kind of way. But it's exactly how I like it.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
29
Dear Poj,
When it rains, it pours. With blessings, I mean. Three wonderful things happened in a span of three days that I’m starting to grow superstitious of October. You see, September is a pretty hard time for me. I’m not sure if affirmation has to do with it. Subconsciously, I may be thinking September is always hard so it remained hard this year too. But October is like the sunshine after the storm. It’s so glorious, so bright, so beautiful that I wish it’ll be October the whole year long. Even more so this year because 10.10.10 fell on this month. Superstition or not, I’m happy of the blessings we’re getting.
Answered Prayer 1: You have a Yaya already
Your mom grew up with a Yaya. My Yaya Vicky was with me until I was 17 that I grow teary-eyed every time I think of her. So I wish the same thing for you too. I wish there was someone outside of family, that whether by obligation or choice, will take care of you like a delicate ceramic figurine. I wish I were one of those mothers strong enough to not need any help at taking care of her own daughter, but truth is, I’m not. I need help badly. No matter how hard I compartmentalize, I have so many obligations that they’re starting to come out of my ears. It’s been a great ride this year with just you and me. But you’re growing up, and my, you’re a handful. We need the extra hand, kiddo.
The new help's name is Joanna (very close to my own Johanna), and Dichi’s Yaya is called Janet (very close to your Ama’s Janette). Is this a fluke or what?
Answered Prayer 2: You’ve had sound siestas this week
I used to grow agitated every time deadlines came in because I knew you didn’t sleep so well in the afternoons. It’s too hot in the room and that probably added up to you having very little sleep come siesta time. 1 or 2 hours is usually your average. But lately, because of the cold weather, you’ve had really fitful sleeps.
This equates to your Mom having enough time to do her own thing. It’s like having an unexpected School day off. I can do a little reading, a little eating, a little movie watching, a little writing—-tidbits of things I usually do when you're finally resting at night time and the world is asleep as well.
Answered Prayer 3: Your mom’s been accepted to her first writing workshop
The third one is taken with mixed feelings. First, there’s panic with thoughts of ‘Why the heck did I volunteer myself to such a murderous act?’ and ‘I hope I don’t vomit when they’re reviewing my work.’ on top of the list. And ever since I’ve heard of the news an hour ago, I’ve been pacing back and forth wondering if I should go through with the execution or not. I can hardly grasp any comprehensible thought , let alone a good story. But yes, I’m going through with it. It’s been my dream to write for a living for as long as I can remember. I’m not about to take the coward’s way out.
The sad thing here though is that the three workshop days will be the longest time we'll be away from each other. Three whole days without you, and already I’m soppy about it. I hope you’ll understand someday, kiddo. Sometimes you just have to reach for that dream when it’s this close.
Nailbiting again,
Mom
When it rains, it pours. With blessings, I mean. Three wonderful things happened in a span of three days that I’m starting to grow superstitious of October. You see, September is a pretty hard time for me. I’m not sure if affirmation has to do with it. Subconsciously, I may be thinking September is always hard so it remained hard this year too. But October is like the sunshine after the storm. It’s so glorious, so bright, so beautiful that I wish it’ll be October the whole year long. Even more so this year because 10.10.10 fell on this month. Superstition or not, I’m happy of the blessings we’re getting.
Answered Prayer 1: You have a Yaya already
Your mom grew up with a Yaya. My Yaya Vicky was with me until I was 17 that I grow teary-eyed every time I think of her. So I wish the same thing for you too. I wish there was someone outside of family, that whether by obligation or choice, will take care of you like a delicate ceramic figurine. I wish I were one of those mothers strong enough to not need any help at taking care of her own daughter, but truth is, I’m not. I need help badly. No matter how hard I compartmentalize, I have so many obligations that they’re starting to come out of my ears. It’s been a great ride this year with just you and me. But you’re growing up, and my, you’re a handful. We need the extra hand, kiddo.
The new help's name is Joanna (very close to my own Johanna), and Dichi’s Yaya is called Janet (very close to your Ama’s Janette). Is this a fluke or what?
Answered Prayer 2: You’ve had sound siestas this week
I used to grow agitated every time deadlines came in because I knew you didn’t sleep so well in the afternoons. It’s too hot in the room and that probably added up to you having very little sleep come siesta time. 1 or 2 hours is usually your average. But lately, because of the cold weather, you’ve had really fitful sleeps.
This equates to your Mom having enough time to do her own thing. It’s like having an unexpected School day off. I can do a little reading, a little eating, a little movie watching, a little writing—-tidbits of things I usually do when you're finally resting at night time and the world is asleep as well.
Answered Prayer 3: Your mom’s been accepted to her first writing workshop
The third one is taken with mixed feelings. First, there’s panic with thoughts of ‘Why the heck did I volunteer myself to such a murderous act?’ and ‘I hope I don’t vomit when they’re reviewing my work.’ on top of the list. And ever since I’ve heard of the news an hour ago, I’ve been pacing back and forth wondering if I should go through with the execution or not. I can hardly grasp any comprehensible thought , let alone a good story. But yes, I’m going through with it. It’s been my dream to write for a living for as long as I can remember. I’m not about to take the coward’s way out.
The sad thing here though is that the three workshop days will be the longest time we'll be away from each other. Three whole days without you, and already I’m soppy about it. I hope you’ll understand someday, kiddo. Sometimes you just have to reach for that dream when it’s this close.
Nailbiting again,
Mom
Sunday, October 10, 2010
28
Poj,
Let's talk about dirty body parts, shall we? Let's talk about feet. Let other people have their delicate bones, high arches and made-for-ballet insteps. Us, we have survivors' feet. Big and strong, and altogether quite practical to trod through life in.
Sure, once in a while you might find it hard to find a shoe to fit you especially since you inherited the shape of my own little piggies, wide at the front and narrow at the back. But that's what this letter is for.
I've always thought the more expensive the shoe, the better it is for your sole. But ever since you started walking, I've been converted to the shoes your ninangs and titas gave you. Sure, I love those cute ballet flats from Little Red Shoes and your polka-dotted wedges from Gap are cute enough to be edible but for Pinoy feet, I think you have to stick with Pinoy brands, people who really know how to treat your toes like well, they were made for walking.
So,yes, Pitter Pat, is the way to go. No paid promotion here. This blog isn't that famous to garner advertising. But do remember the brand when you have your own kids, will you? Your bronze ones are makes the word 'fray' in a whole new light. These shoes do tremendously well with wide feet especially since they have bands and straps and all kinds of things to keep the feet in place including those efficient grips in the sole when you're out rampaging through the world.
Now we just have to figure out how to keep up with you. It's the shoes' fault. They're too dependable.
Mom
Saturday, October 9, 2010
27
Little Girl,
You broke a water glass today. We watched it shatter into a thousand shards at our feet (actually my feet. I was carrying you.) You will be like that someday. You will be like glass—fallen, broken, at someone’s feet. It doesn’t matter when or where. Someone is bound to break you whether they mean to or not.
The only consolation I can tell you is this: there is beauty in the fallen whether it be glass, petals, stars or people. It is when you fall when you feel most human, and isn’t that just the point of life? To be human and to be real. There is nothing more real than pain, nothing more substantial than battle scars.
You may never piece yourself together again but you can be made into something else. A piece of polished jewelry maybe. Or maybe a makeshift knife. You can inspire or you can hurt when you’re broken. The great thing is you get to choose which one.
Scarred,
Me
You broke a water glass today. We watched it shatter into a thousand shards at our feet (actually my feet. I was carrying you.) You will be like that someday. You will be like glass—fallen, broken, at someone’s feet. It doesn’t matter when or where. Someone is bound to break you whether they mean to or not.
The only consolation I can tell you is this: there is beauty in the fallen whether it be glass, petals, stars or people. It is when you fall when you feel most human, and isn’t that just the point of life? To be human and to be real. There is nothing more real than pain, nothing more substantial than battle scars.
You may never piece yourself together again but you can be made into something else. A piece of polished jewelry maybe. Or maybe a makeshift knife. You can inspire or you can hurt when you’re broken. The great thing is you get to choose which one.
Scarred,
Me
Friday, October 8, 2010
26
Portia Bear,
Have you ever heard of the term old soul? Or felt like you were born for a different era? I do. I think I'm a reincarnation of the carefree and conflicted 60s. In my playlist, you will never find Pop Songs although I appreciate them truly, but they're not me. On my playlist, you will find a lot of Beatles, Beach Boys, Jimi Hendrix and reincarnated souls like myself such as Sarah McLachlan, Priscilla Ahn, Emiliana Torrini, Norah Jones, Ingrid Michaelson and the like.
The same can be said for my fashion sense. Your Ama once complained I dressed too old for my age. I've always been playing around with your great grandmother's apparel ever since I was old enough to hoard her closet gracefully. Her necklaces are one of the most sentimental things I shall ever have of her. But you see, it's not really the material value I hold on to the most. It's the beautiful feeling that somewhere from beyond, they left a part of themselves behind.
Why am I saying this to you now? It's to lead to an apology really. I'll say my sorry's now for situations in the future when I may consciously or subconsciously try to let you appreciate the wonders of Jimi Hendrix instead of the latest tart, talk you into buying that charming vintage dress instead of that miniskirt or pass on to you a growing obsession for celebrities like Hepburn, Kennedy and Luther King.
It's not to change you, really. It's just that it's the only way I know of leaving a piece of myself behind.
Love,
Old Soul
Postscript: Coincidentally, this entry fell on the day of John Lennon's Birthday. Must be the vibes in the air. Happy Birthday, favorite Beatle!
Have you ever heard of the term old soul? Or felt like you were born for a different era? I do. I think I'm a reincarnation of the carefree and conflicted 60s. In my playlist, you will never find Pop Songs although I appreciate them truly, but they're not me. On my playlist, you will find a lot of Beatles, Beach Boys, Jimi Hendrix and reincarnated souls like myself such as Sarah McLachlan, Priscilla Ahn, Emiliana Torrini, Norah Jones, Ingrid Michaelson and the like.
The same can be said for my fashion sense. Your Ama once complained I dressed too old for my age. I've always been playing around with your great grandmother's apparel ever since I was old enough to hoard her closet gracefully. Her necklaces are one of the most sentimental things I shall ever have of her. But you see, it's not really the material value I hold on to the most. It's the beautiful feeling that somewhere from beyond, they left a part of themselves behind.
Why am I saying this to you now? It's to lead to an apology really. I'll say my sorry's now for situations in the future when I may consciously or subconsciously try to let you appreciate the wonders of Jimi Hendrix instead of the latest tart, talk you into buying that charming vintage dress instead of that miniskirt or pass on to you a growing obsession for celebrities like Hepburn, Kennedy and Luther King.
It's not to change you, really. It's just that it's the only way I know of leaving a piece of myself behind.
Love,
Old Soul
Postscript: Coincidentally, this entry fell on the day of John Lennon's Birthday. Must be the vibes in the air. Happy Birthday, favorite Beatle!
Thursday, October 7, 2010
25
Kiddo,
Here's where I was when I wasn't with you for a night--at Cebu to attend Tatay's new pocket play and to meet these wonderful crazies I happen to call friends. They say in your lifetime, you're bound to have five people willing to die for you, ten who would strongly consider it and a strong twenty who'd be half and half. I don't know which category these people belong in but I'm sure they'll at least attend my funeral for free coffee and bis-kwits. :)
Seriously though, I don't know what process goes into choosing friends- how we choose them the way we choose them when we do- and I'm sure your process will be different from mine. But rationality aside, I love these people. I love them because with them, I have witnesses to my life. This seems like a pretty selfish reason, but isn't that just what we're looking for? Someone who reminds us that our everyday comings and goings aren't just a petty mix of plans, activities and bygones?
Some of these people I've known since I was eighteen.Eighteen! When my naivete was annoying and my idealism was cloistering. Somewhere in that mix, we started out as employees, then students, then friends. As your Tita Danica once said, it's a comforting thought to be with the same people for years.
Back when I thought relationships were a numbers game, I had high expectations but low demands. I don't want to go through having to maintain that kind of lot again. That's why I choose my friends very strictly. It seems though that my situation with having to raise you and such needs just that type of mindset again--high expectations in friendship but low demands. I've been lucky enough to have found people (aside from your ninangs, of course) with a similar mindset.
Some of them you've already met. And I can't wait for you to grow up and meet the rest. Join the madhouse, little girl. There's never enough schizoids to go around.
Crazy as always,
Mom
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
24
Kiddo,
A great Cebuano poet once said that moments have to be short for moments to be moments. And that's what today was exactly. A series of beautiful moments. Not like a collage but subtler. More like a watercolor painting, beautiful in transition, quiet in movement that sometimes you have no idea when it ended or began in the first place.
I figured I'd start the day by pretending you'd be going to school. Seems like a mighty strange way to start the day but there's logic here somewhere, I swear.There we were drinking our Milos, dressing up and eating our pre-breakfast snack (Yes. We can afford that luxury in gentle Negros). You were carrying your Spongebob backpack and talking to rocks, forgetting that I was beside you. And that's exactly what this exercise is all about. A form of practice really of me letting you go someday. Yes, it's a bit too early for school. After all, you're still a year old. But I'm a slow learner when it comes to disattaching the attached. This will be like shrink time. It'll take years but progress we shall have. I figured that when you turn 4, I can at least let you go for a few hours without biting my nails down to its beds.
Anyway, that's what I did today, let you go to your heart's delight. You walked all over the garden and I was looking at your back when a fleet of butterflies surrounded you like falling petals. I wish I'd captured it, but it was beautiful precisely because it was so flitting.
Then, we headed off to Cinco's today on an obscure road that led to his farm full of ducks, goats, turkeys, dogs and who knows what else lurked in the bushes. We checked out which goat to buy because for some reason, your Ama is obsessed with buying you goats that have a more foreign breed. I don't really understand what criteria foreign actually tips to but they looked pretty to me.
I told your Papa once before, I think, that I do not want to live in a farm. I feel like I've been living in one my whole life and have lost all romantic notions about it. Goat poop isn't romantic, nor is the humongous maintenance needed to run the whole shebang. Think about tractor gas, fencing animals, premature sugarcane, stolen chickens and you'll get the picture. But- and this is a hesitant but-I wouldn't mind having a summer house like Cinco's to go home to with its beautiful fishponds, rainbow-colored flowers, vegetable gardens, roaming animals, trees you can laze around in, the cool air and the endless greenery as far as your eyes can see.
These are moments, snapshots of life we can probably never get again. But am I glad I have you now to witness it with.
P.S. See that goat that's looking straight into the camera like he was born for it? That's yours and Dichi's. Play nice. He's not edible.
Lost,
Mom
A great Cebuano poet once said that moments have to be short for moments to be moments. And that's what today was exactly. A series of beautiful moments. Not like a collage but subtler. More like a watercolor painting, beautiful in transition, quiet in movement that sometimes you have no idea when it ended or began in the first place.
I figured I'd start the day by pretending you'd be going to school. Seems like a mighty strange way to start the day but there's logic here somewhere, I swear.There we were drinking our Milos, dressing up and eating our pre-breakfast snack (Yes. We can afford that luxury in gentle Negros). You were carrying your Spongebob backpack and talking to rocks, forgetting that I was beside you. And that's exactly what this exercise is all about. A form of practice really of me letting you go someday. Yes, it's a bit too early for school. After all, you're still a year old. But I'm a slow learner when it comes to disattaching the attached. This will be like shrink time. It'll take years but progress we shall have. I figured that when you turn 4, I can at least let you go for a few hours without biting my nails down to its beds.
Anyway, that's what I did today, let you go to your heart's delight. You walked all over the garden and I was looking at your back when a fleet of butterflies surrounded you like falling petals. I wish I'd captured it, but it was beautiful precisely because it was so flitting.
Then, we headed off to Cinco's today on an obscure road that led to his farm full of ducks, goats, turkeys, dogs and who knows what else lurked in the bushes. We checked out which goat to buy because for some reason, your Ama is obsessed with buying you goats that have a more foreign breed. I don't really understand what criteria foreign actually tips to but they looked pretty to me.
I told your Papa once before, I think, that I do not want to live in a farm. I feel like I've been living in one my whole life and have lost all romantic notions about it. Goat poop isn't romantic, nor is the humongous maintenance needed to run the whole shebang. Think about tractor gas, fencing animals, premature sugarcane, stolen chickens and you'll get the picture. But- and this is a hesitant but-I wouldn't mind having a summer house like Cinco's to go home to with its beautiful fishponds, rainbow-colored flowers, vegetable gardens, roaming animals, trees you can laze around in, the cool air and the endless greenery as far as your eyes can see.
These are moments, snapshots of life we can probably never get again. But am I glad I have you now to witness it with.
P.S. See that goat that's looking straight into the camera like he was born for it? That's yours and Dichi's. Play nice. He's not edible.
Lost,
Mom
Sunday, October 3, 2010
23
Little Girl,
Your ninangs and I had a quick coffee date while I was in Cebu the other day (not complete though because your Tita Z was busy playing devoted town daughter in Argao and your Ninang Pikz was hiding behind the DJ booth, attracting stalkers with her bedroom voice). And it continuously amazes me that after all these years being together, "narcissistically" albeit subtly talking about ourselves, our worlds which couldn't be more different from each other and our bruises, that we can now include you in the picture!
If you don't get how surreal the moment is, imagine this. Imagine being with someone from when they were still in 3rd grade. From when you saw her play with Sailor Moon cards or bite her nails as if it were a separate food group (that's me, by the way) up to the time she actually talks about more adult endeavors like migration, marriage, career moves and yes, kids. Imagine a child having a child. It's comforting and out-of-body at the same time.
Talking about ninangs, I do not think it's a proper notion to choose one solely on the purpose of making them spare tires to you because realistically speaking, no one could really be you. No one will ever have the same values as you no matter how tied or alike you are. It's an even bigger misnomer to say 'Well, at least I have someone to take care of my kid when I die'. And if you unfortunately don't, then what? Are their roles then sidetracked to giving Aguinaldos every Christmas or pinching your cheek everytime you see them accidentally at the mall every few years or so?
I think it's important to choose ninangs your kids can grow with,go crazy with, have fun with, argue with and even run away to when their mother is being her psychotic self again and is unnecessarily frazzling the household's delicate balance. I'm lucky and assured that I found that in your ninangs.
They're so unlike me from the superficial aspects down to the core. And that's the best thing about them. Because as your Celine Dion lullaby goes (part of your nighttime playlist but I shall refuse it if anybody asks) "If I could, I would teach you all the things I never learned" but I can't, so I ask your ninangs to do it for me: to teach you things I cannot.
Here's a rundown of the things you should learn from your ninangs. Bat an eyeleash. Badger it from them if you must:
From your Ninang Danica:
1. How to cook a mean pasta and all other alcohol-laced meals
2. How to organize anything and everything from a private party to an all-week feathered event
3. How to speak proper English. Get your 'they're' from your 'their' straight, kiddo.Your ninang is a stickler for grammar. She isn't Head trainer for nothing.
4. How to speak in front of hundreds without fainting or choking like your Mom does
5. How to be sane. She's the most centered person I know.
From your Ninang Michelle
1. How to transform anything you can find into wearable art
2. How to keep memories without hoarding them
3. How to cajole your parents (Note: use this on your Papa, not on me)into seeing things your way
4. How to quietly go for your goals without trampling on anyone
5. How to uncomplicate and be content with life as we know it. She's a wonderful kind of crazy, this girl.
From your Ninang Aizza
1. How to apply makeup like you know what you're doing
2. How to carry any outfit. Doesn't matter if she's wearing a sack or a gown. She can rock it, this ninang of yours.
3. How to use the 'fake it 'til you make it' confidence rule with only lipstick in tow
4. How to assertively demand for proper service with a flick of the eyebrow
5. How to go astray but always come home to the people who love you
From your Ninang Pikay (who is MIA everytime I'm in Cebu)
1. how to roll with life's punches and come up beautiful in the end
2. how to rock any hairdo or no hairdo at all
3. how to travel anywhere and feel like you've gone everywhere. Great traveling companion, this ninang. Doesn't matter if you're pregnant or injured too.
4. how to exude confidence in any body, in any form, in any time
5. how to have fun using only the simplest tools in life. Great food. Great conversation. Great people. What else can you ask for, right Piks?
So there, kiddo. Learn hard. And learn well. They won't be easy on you. But that's only because they love you. In the end, that's all that you and I can really hope for.
♥,
Mom
22
Dear Kiddo,
Here’s why I do not let you watch television. Having started in a profession that makes money out of current insight, I know how overwhelming the sense of NOW can be. That’s how people relate to the world. We always have something we need to react to, lash about, feel strongly for. Trends were made under this premise. It’s a way for people to connect to a common theme.
Not to say that I do not want you to learn but there’s a proper pace for such things. Information is vital, yes, but information that’s consumed too soon and too fast breeds a generation of stressed-out people. That is not what I want you to be. You are already living in a stressed-out world to begin with where clutter tells you to always be updated, always be in.
So, do me a favor, will you? When you grow up, go on a technology fast a few hours a day. Turn your cellphone off or whatever it is techies will come up with 15 years from now. Tune out to the latest issue. Go on a self-imposed Web off. You will be surprised at how much of information can actually wait or can be discarded altogether.
For now, my apologies too because you will probably never have as much TV time as you’d like. You will never talk with your friends what happened on the show last night. Reruns and streaming will be your best friends. And purple dinosaurs and 1920s safe Disney films will be your daily companions. At least until you figure out that in real life, Tom cannot actually regenerate himself after Gerry blows, hammers and minces him to pieces.
Technophobically, speaking,
Mom
Here’s why I do not let you watch television. Having started in a profession that makes money out of current insight, I know how overwhelming the sense of NOW can be. That’s how people relate to the world. We always have something we need to react to, lash about, feel strongly for. Trends were made under this premise. It’s a way for people to connect to a common theme.
Not to say that I do not want you to learn but there’s a proper pace for such things. Information is vital, yes, but information that’s consumed too soon and too fast breeds a generation of stressed-out people. That is not what I want you to be. You are already living in a stressed-out world to begin with where clutter tells you to always be updated, always be in.
So, do me a favor, will you? When you grow up, go on a technology fast a few hours a day. Turn your cellphone off or whatever it is techies will come up with 15 years from now. Tune out to the latest issue. Go on a self-imposed Web off. You will be surprised at how much of information can actually wait or can be discarded altogether.
For now, my apologies too because you will probably never have as much TV time as you’d like. You will never talk with your friends what happened on the show last night. Reruns and streaming will be your best friends. And purple dinosaurs and 1920s safe Disney films will be your daily companions. At least until you figure out that in real life, Tom cannot actually regenerate himself after Gerry blows, hammers and minces him to pieces.
Technophobically, speaking,
Mom
Friday, October 1, 2010
21
Dear Kiddo,
I'm writing this on a bus which, mile by mile, is taking me far away from you. Excuse the overdramatics.That's the separation anxiety talking. In my mind, I'm already picturing out the monstrous tantrums you're gona' pull out- the hairs you're going to be pulling, the faces you're going to slap, the food you're going to toss. In truth, you're probably going to have a milder fit than what I pictured out you having. You will whine at the fact that you will not have a breast ready at your convenience. And will be even more aware of that fact at bedtime when you've already realized I'm gone. Other times, your world will go on revolving.
Mine will not.
You see, mothers like to think they're needed. That's why there will always be that niggling guilt chewing at their consciences everytime they leave, even for just a day. We are afraid that when we're gone you might need us for some reason, and we won't be there. Or worse, that in our absence you discover you didn't need us that much in the first place after all.
When you reach pre-school, sit near the windows, will you? No doubt I shall be one of those nail-biting slobs on the panes, crying a river, lost like a lovelorn puppy. Don't be embarrassed.
I like writing with movement, I discover. I wish for my thoughts to mirror its pace- fast and flowing- and it surprisingly does.
I sit cramped between a rickety old man who doses off on the window ledge and a mother carrying her child. I miss you already.
-----
Kiddo,
The bus conductor is making it his private commitment to make me as comfortable as possible. I do not want comfort. That's not the point of riding public transportation with its rickety wooden slats and a plastic bag covering its holes. Too many times we privatize our world so we can keep others out. We have individual cars or taxis or drive-thrus. Are we really that afraid of interacting with people? That isn't what I want, so I take the bus whenever I can.
What I find more surprising though is why people look at me and instantly assume I can't take any form of discomfort. Is it because I look awkward sitting here notebook and jacket in hand? Is it because I stick like a sore thumb? And not in the cute, quirky kind of way but more in the 'Help! The World is a scary place. I don't want to handle it.' department.
Why?
In all respects of self-examination which isn't that effective to begin with, I ask this.People say I'm a woman child. But really more of child. How baffling to say that especially since I've had you. Doesn't that make me grown up?
It does not.
-----
Dear Portia,
The sea is making me think in verses, in cut lines, in symbolisms and ampersands.
Here's one for you:
Slice through her skin
and it remains untethered
Dive through her vessels
and she treats you like mere cell
Pierce through her coral bones
and it refuses you nourishment
The only way to kill her
is to go for the heart
and that is where she lives immortal
because no one will ever know
where the heart of the sea is
You are the sea, little girl. You are stronger than you imagine. And I did not leave you behind. I brought you with me.
-----
Dear Portia,
It's amazing how strong our power of adaption is. Just barely 3 hours in the city, I find myself painting my nails red, shaving my legs and plucking my eyebrows. Who says these things should be? Did the city give us memorandum that says Stop! No unshaved, unplucked, ungroomed probinsyanas allowed? No. But adaption did.
-----
Kiddo,
It's 1:00 AM here. And I'm back at the house listening to Stephen Speaks and The Weepies crooning about how 'there are so many people searching for what we found'.
I've lived here all my life and yet today it doesn't feel like a coming home. Maybe because home is where you are. It probably always will be.
♥,
Mom
I'm writing this on a bus which, mile by mile, is taking me far away from you. Excuse the overdramatics.That's the separation anxiety talking. In my mind, I'm already picturing out the monstrous tantrums you're gona' pull out- the hairs you're going to be pulling, the faces you're going to slap, the food you're going to toss. In truth, you're probably going to have a milder fit than what I pictured out you having. You will whine at the fact that you will not have a breast ready at your convenience. And will be even more aware of that fact at bedtime when you've already realized I'm gone. Other times, your world will go on revolving.
Mine will not.
You see, mothers like to think they're needed. That's why there will always be that niggling guilt chewing at their consciences everytime they leave, even for just a day. We are afraid that when we're gone you might need us for some reason, and we won't be there. Or worse, that in our absence you discover you didn't need us that much in the first place after all.
When you reach pre-school, sit near the windows, will you? No doubt I shall be one of those nail-biting slobs on the panes, crying a river, lost like a lovelorn puppy. Don't be embarrassed.
I like writing with movement, I discover. I wish for my thoughts to mirror its pace- fast and flowing- and it surprisingly does.
I sit cramped between a rickety old man who doses off on the window ledge and a mother carrying her child. I miss you already.
Kiddo,
The bus conductor is making it his private commitment to make me as comfortable as possible. I do not want comfort. That's not the point of riding public transportation with its rickety wooden slats and a plastic bag covering its holes. Too many times we privatize our world so we can keep others out. We have individual cars or taxis or drive-thrus. Are we really that afraid of interacting with people? That isn't what I want, so I take the bus whenever I can.
What I find more surprising though is why people look at me and instantly assume I can't take any form of discomfort. Is it because I look awkward sitting here notebook and jacket in hand? Is it because I stick like a sore thumb? And not in the cute, quirky kind of way but more in the 'Help! The World is a scary place. I don't want to handle it.' department.
Why?
In all respects of self-examination which isn't that effective to begin with, I ask this.People say I'm a woman child. But really more of child. How baffling to say that especially since I've had you. Doesn't that make me grown up?
It does not.
Dear Portia,
The sea is making me think in verses, in cut lines, in symbolisms and ampersands.
Here's one for you:
Slice through her skin
and it remains untethered
Dive through her vessels
and she treats you like mere cell
Pierce through her coral bones
and it refuses you nourishment
The only way to kill her
is to go for the heart
and that is where she lives immortal
because no one will ever know
where the heart of the sea is
You are the sea, little girl. You are stronger than you imagine. And I did not leave you behind. I brought you with me.
Dear Portia,
It's amazing how strong our power of adaption is. Just barely 3 hours in the city, I find myself painting my nails red, shaving my legs and plucking my eyebrows. Who says these things should be? Did the city give us memorandum that says Stop! No unshaved, unplucked, ungroomed probinsyanas allowed? No. But adaption did.
Kiddo,
It's 1:00 AM here. And I'm back at the house listening to Stephen Speaks and The Weepies crooning about how 'there are so many people searching for what we found'.
I've lived here all my life and yet today it doesn't feel like a coming home. Maybe because home is where you are. It probably always will be.
♥,
Mom
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
20
Dear Hurting,
Sometimes when we're down, we close ourselves to a ton of gratitude coming our way.That's okay too. Sometimes it's better to focus on the hurt. Much can be learned from it. But I figured that when the time comes, when you get past the dismay, you'd want to know what happened to you that didn't involve longing and a prick on the heart.
Had you been watching close enough, here's what you would've been thankful for this week:
New Books
Lots of them! Thanks to your Aunties Joan and Jean. My favorite so far is Anne of Green Gables because I read it when I was a child too and because it reminds me so much of you. Anne, who lived in Green Gables and Portia who lives in a farm in the back lands of Negros. I hope you read it someday and ask me what exactly it was that you two were alike at. Coincidentally, it's also part of our Top 50 Books to Buy and Read before you turn 12. So, Yehey! 49 more Books to go!
Dichi coming home!
You were apart three weeks, and she finally came home on Friday! No more knocking on empty doors, kiddo. You have a playmate again. Spend quality time with little cousin because she might be permanently living in Cebu if all your Uncle's plans come into play successfully. Here's the two of you looking like a bunch of ripe avocados lazing in the midday sun.
Items to Purge!
For some reason, people have always been generous with us. We have relatives giving us clothes and people offering us kind words when we need it most. So, in return and since December is drawing near, we can finally purge your closets for some items to give away. The fact that you do have items to share is proof that you are indeed fortunate and growing up way too fast for your clothes to catch up!
When you get out of your rut, let's do something fun, shall we, little girl? Let's blow bubbles in the wind. Finger paint. Eat Popcorn. Or play dress up. Until then, we'll be waiting.
At your side,
Mom
Sometimes when we're down, we close ourselves to a ton of gratitude coming our way.That's okay too. Sometimes it's better to focus on the hurt. Much can be learned from it. But I figured that when the time comes, when you get past the dismay, you'd want to know what happened to you that didn't involve longing and a prick on the heart.
Had you been watching close enough, here's what you would've been thankful for this week:
New Books
Lots of them! Thanks to your Aunties Joan and Jean. My favorite so far is Anne of Green Gables because I read it when I was a child too and because it reminds me so much of you. Anne, who lived in Green Gables and Portia who lives in a farm in the back lands of Negros. I hope you read it someday and ask me what exactly it was that you two were alike at. Coincidentally, it's also part of our Top 50 Books to Buy and Read before you turn 12. So, Yehey! 49 more Books to go!
Dichi coming home!
You were apart three weeks, and she finally came home on Friday! No more knocking on empty doors, kiddo. You have a playmate again. Spend quality time with little cousin because she might be permanently living in Cebu if all your Uncle's plans come into play successfully. Here's the two of you looking like a bunch of ripe avocados lazing in the midday sun.
Items to Purge!
For some reason, people have always been generous with us. We have relatives giving us clothes and people offering us kind words when we need it most. So, in return and since December is drawing near, we can finally purge your closets for some items to give away. The fact that you do have items to share is proof that you are indeed fortunate and growing up way too fast for your clothes to catch up!
When you get out of your rut, let's do something fun, shall we, little girl? Let's blow bubbles in the wind. Finger paint. Eat Popcorn. Or play dress up. Until then, we'll be waiting.
At your side,
Mom
19
Little Girl,
Remember what we were talking about, about how sometimes people do things because of a terrible sadness? Well, that's how you acted a day after your Papa left. I woke up to the sound of your crying and it was a different cry from all the rest. You may find this hard to believe but by now, I'm familiar with all of your cries. I know when you're hungry or physically hurting or even just plain whining. I know when you're practicing your dramatics or are frustrated by limitations set. But that wasn't how your cry sounded this time. I think you started crying because for some reason, you assumed that your Papa would be there when you woke up. But in his place instead is a pillow you grudgingly thrashed in rebellion.
It's hard seeing a loved one hurt especially when it's someone whose every wound you know of. Your Papa is probably hurting too but it'll always be harder on those left behind than those who left. He will never see the aftermath of things. He will never see you scratch everyone in sight out of anger. He will not hear your whines as you play the You-and-me-against-the-world role to a hilt. He will not see you bite, kick, lash out on the most innocent inanimate objects. All out of a terrible sadness.
I do not want to see you hurt, little girl. And it's tempting to pacify you with laced words of comfort, of how he'll be back before you know it or how he'll think of you everyday. But the thing is, pacification is tantamount to not recognizing your feelings. You hurt. And the best thing I can do right now is to respect that.
You hurt. You are at your rawest. Life will hurt you bad again and again, sometimes more than what you think is necessary. But in time, I hope you will discover that even hurting has its purpose.
Wishing she was a bandage right now,
Mom
Remember what we were talking about, about how sometimes people do things because of a terrible sadness? Well, that's how you acted a day after your Papa left. I woke up to the sound of your crying and it was a different cry from all the rest. You may find this hard to believe but by now, I'm familiar with all of your cries. I know when you're hungry or physically hurting or even just plain whining. I know when you're practicing your dramatics or are frustrated by limitations set. But that wasn't how your cry sounded this time. I think you started crying because for some reason, you assumed that your Papa would be there when you woke up. But in his place instead is a pillow you grudgingly thrashed in rebellion.
It's hard seeing a loved one hurt especially when it's someone whose every wound you know of. Your Papa is probably hurting too but it'll always be harder on those left behind than those who left. He will never see the aftermath of things. He will never see you scratch everyone in sight out of anger. He will not hear your whines as you play the You-and-me-against-the-world role to a hilt. He will not see you bite, kick, lash out on the most innocent inanimate objects. All out of a terrible sadness.
I do not want to see you hurt, little girl. And it's tempting to pacify you with laced words of comfort, of how he'll be back before you know it or how he'll think of you everyday. But the thing is, pacification is tantamount to not recognizing your feelings. You hurt. And the best thing I can do right now is to respect that.
You hurt. You are at your rawest. Life will hurt you bad again and again, sometimes more than what you think is necessary. But in time, I hope you will discover that even hurting has its purpose.
Wishing she was a bandage right now,
Mom
Monday, September 27, 2010
18
Dear Poj,
Despite the impending doom of your father's leaving, you seemed to make the effort to brush the sadness aside for a day at the beach. We're the same in this department, we two. The water rejuvenates us. It doesn't matter where it comes from, whether it's artificial or otherwise. It doesn't matter whether we're swimming in a spring, lake, sea, river or in a tub at home, there's just something therapeutic about this life source.
Perhaps it's a return to life's womb, the way we used to float endlessly in our safest state during pregnancy. Or perhaps we were born in the water all along, just adapted to land and we didn't even know it. Whatever the case, we will never stop going to the beach. Never. Maybe we'll even live beside one someday-fish for our supper, go skinny dipping at night,befriend a mermaid or two. Whatever the case, always go back to the beach. There you will find home of the most universal kind. The cosmos will always welcome you with open arms.
Here's to the weekend that was:
Dancing happily once you got to the part where your feet touched sand.
A brief photo-op before hitting the water which only the Mom seemed to enjoy because you, little one, are impatient and overeager to pretend you're a fish.
No food. Just water please. Lots of it. A whole oceanful to be exact.
On our way to the cage.
A Spotted dear in Captivity. A sad sight.
Because your Papa insisted that you touch it. And I insisted that you do not on the basis that it might be of a rare monkey-eating, blood-sucking, chewing kind of deer specie.
Mango-Cheese Ice cream from the local sorbetero.
Strolling around the 'resort'.
You and Dichi chasing each other around the cottage.
In memory of the shoes that never went home with us.
Dichi and her lovely bottom.
Don't ask me what you were trying to do. I don't know either.
The light before the torrential downpour.
Despite the impending doom of your father's leaving, you seemed to make the effort to brush the sadness aside for a day at the beach. We're the same in this department, we two. The water rejuvenates us. It doesn't matter where it comes from, whether it's artificial or otherwise. It doesn't matter whether we're swimming in a spring, lake, sea, river or in a tub at home, there's just something therapeutic about this life source.
Perhaps it's a return to life's womb, the way we used to float endlessly in our safest state during pregnancy. Or perhaps we were born in the water all along, just adapted to land and we didn't even know it. Whatever the case, we will never stop going to the beach. Never. Maybe we'll even live beside one someday-fish for our supper, go skinny dipping at night,befriend a mermaid or two. Whatever the case, always go back to the beach. There you will find home of the most universal kind. The cosmos will always welcome you with open arms.
Here's to the weekend that was:
Dancing happily once you got to the part where your feet touched sand.
A brief photo-op before hitting the water which only the Mom seemed to enjoy because you, little one, are impatient and overeager to pretend you're a fish.
No food. Just water please. Lots of it. A whole oceanful to be exact.
On our way to the cage.
A Spotted dear in Captivity. A sad sight.
Because your Papa insisted that you touch it. And I insisted that you do not on the basis that it might be of a rare monkey-eating, blood-sucking, chewing kind of deer specie.
Mango-Cheese Ice cream from the local sorbetero.
Strolling around the 'resort'.
You and Dichi chasing each other around the cottage.
In memory of the shoes that never went home with us.
Dichi and her lovely bottom.
Don't ask me what you were trying to do. I don't know either.
The light before the torrential downpour.
17
Dear Poj,
It's amazing how much chunk of our happiness will ultimately rely on someone. I don't know if I'm supposed to be tickled by this philosophy or saddened by it. But this is what I thought of while we were sipping our Milos and greeting the morning like we do everyday. The only thing different about this morning is that your Papa was here to join us for the weekend, a surprise visit of sorts to celebrate his successful thesis defense.
I wonder now whether the folkmongers' sayings are really true, that daughters tend to gravitate towards their fathers and sons to their mothers. I ask this now because seeing you with your Papa is an amazing sight. It's a sight met with my skepticism. I never had a father figure, you see. So every time I see you and him it's like seeing a movie for the first time. You two have such an easy rapport, an effortless falling into place even when you haven't seen him or he you for three months. And yet, he was the first person you looked for in the morning. When he leaves the room, you seem to hold your breath until his return. And when you perform your dances which you used to do anyway even when no one was watching, you seek his eyes to check whether he is.
With him, you want to be babied. You cry even with harmless falls. You wait whether he'll coo when you have a gash on your knee. The only thing about thing with placing such happiness to someone else's hands though is that they will also be the keeper of your sadness. Sometimes I catch you in a poignant state, as if you're waiting for him to leave again, and are preparing yourself well in advance. Those are complicated emotions for a baby like you. It's hard for me to think how this coming and going will ultimately affect you in the long run.
It's heartbreaking seeing Goodbyes. No matter how many or frequent they are and no matter how many happy memories made prior, a new wound will always cut deep.
Still, it helps to focus on the memories. Here's what you did this weekend, kiddo:
Here's you, pre-bath state. Good mood from start to finish.
Leading the goats outside because goodness knows they have the same navigational sense as your Mom, which doesn't say much for them.
The baby goat you watched being born.
Teaching the city boy a thing or two about goats.
Showing your strut.
Teaching your Papa how to lead the goats to pasture.
It's amazing how much chunk of our happiness will ultimately rely on someone. I don't know if I'm supposed to be tickled by this philosophy or saddened by it. But this is what I thought of while we were sipping our Milos and greeting the morning like we do everyday. The only thing different about this morning is that your Papa was here to join us for the weekend, a surprise visit of sorts to celebrate his successful thesis defense.
I wonder now whether the folkmongers' sayings are really true, that daughters tend to gravitate towards their fathers and sons to their mothers. I ask this now because seeing you with your Papa is an amazing sight. It's a sight met with my skepticism. I never had a father figure, you see. So every time I see you and him it's like seeing a movie for the first time. You two have such an easy rapport, an effortless falling into place even when you haven't seen him or he you for three months. And yet, he was the first person you looked for in the morning. When he leaves the room, you seem to hold your breath until his return. And when you perform your dances which you used to do anyway even when no one was watching, you seek his eyes to check whether he is.
With him, you want to be babied. You cry even with harmless falls. You wait whether he'll coo when you have a gash on your knee. The only thing about thing with placing such happiness to someone else's hands though is that they will also be the keeper of your sadness. Sometimes I catch you in a poignant state, as if you're waiting for him to leave again, and are preparing yourself well in advance. Those are complicated emotions for a baby like you. It's hard for me to think how this coming and going will ultimately affect you in the long run.
It's heartbreaking seeing Goodbyes. No matter how many or frequent they are and no matter how many happy memories made prior, a new wound will always cut deep.
Still, it helps to focus on the memories. Here's what you did this weekend, kiddo:
Here's you, pre-bath state. Good mood from start to finish.
Leading the goats outside because goodness knows they have the same navigational sense as your Mom, which doesn't say much for them.
The baby goat you watched being born.
Teaching the city boy a thing or two about goats.
Showing your strut.
Teaching your Papa how to lead the goats to pasture.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
16
Kiddo,
Here's a difficult word to swallow for today: altruism. I must admit this letter took a long time to make. I thought endlessly of what to say to you and what you will most accept in the long run. You see, the act of giving is always a personal one. So I discuss this with the ever-present mindset that someday you will either distort whatever values I teach you, alter it or discard it altogether.
We have different ways of looking at altruism and neither one is right or wrong. Here, in this very word alone, your father and I have had countless arguments of how to treat it because this is what we will ultimately teach you. Your Papa thinks that as long as people work hard for what they want to get, then a lavish lifestyle is justifiable. He did earn it, after all. He's right. I, on the other hand, think that if you have the basic needs. If you're comfortable enough to have the means for survival and a bit more for your sundries, then it would be selfish not to give what you don't need away to those who do. In a way, I may be right too. When I was involved in an NGO, your father didn't understand how I could give everything, most of my earnings anyway, to give to less-privileged kids' education when I also had needs of my own. So, what do you prioritize? Yourself? Others? Those who need it more? Or you, who might need it in the future? Like most things in life perhaps, striking a balance to the two is what you should strive for. We will have different ways of looking at giving and giving back eventually.
Here's what I think about it though. When I say the source of giving comes from a personal one, what I really mean to say is it comes from a selfish motive. It's selfish because you're fulfilling that aspect of yourself that wishes to be part of something bigger than the pits and falls of your own world. You do it because you're seeking an identity that's found only in the act of giving a part of who you are to others. You do it because it makes you feel good. You do it because you think it's the right thing to do. That is a selfish motive. And I think that you can never escape it being so, and you shouldn't even try. You may be fooling yourself to think that you wish JUST to help although helping is inevitably what the act will entail. In giving, that is the fixed point, that no matter what your intention is, whether it be fame, power or finding yourself through others, the act will eventually boil down to helping. So, don't strive to be the selfless maven who keeps nothing for herself. Strive to be the self-aware person who knows that giving is a wonderful source of happiness.
And know that you don't have to limit giving in the material aspect too, giving your time, your ideas, your effort, your labor or your empathy is as much an asset in this world than what money can give to others. But in order for this to not look like it's a term paper, let's just keep the discussion to material things, shall we? Here are a few things I learned along the way, I suppose, coming from a religious family who was always in the ins and outs of the church and Catholic school:
Never give anything you might not want to receive.
It doesn't matter whether they're toys, clothes, books or supplies. Always check each one and ask yourself whether as recipient, this will make you happy if you receive this from someone. It all boils down to respect, little girl.Those people you are giving to do not deserve your wastes.
Allocate a part of your allowance or a box in order to make a routine out of giving.
This I learned quite late. I always had to rummage around my closet and scour for materials downtown when someone asked for 'donations' (An ugly condescending word but you will probably hear it a lot.). The key is to actually just get a box and drop things there you think might be helpful to others the same as way an expat or OFW might do with his balikbayan box. Better yet, when you have the chance to shop Downtown or somewhere like Chinatown, get essential things like school supplies and such. Someone will always be needing them especially in a country like ours where the Education budget is equal to none at all.
You don't have to be in a group just to help.
It's great if you do especially if the group has the same ideals as you. Members can propel each other and can strive for a common goal. But you also have to remember that each group has a culture of its own. Even NGOs, Charity Groups, Catholic School organizations aren't immune to peer pressure, and this tool can either be positive or negative. Just make sure the group strives to turn you into a positive version of you.
There is such a thing as giving too much.
When you feel like there is nothing left of you, who you were, who you are, left to give, then stop. Regenerate. Find family and friends who will serve as your lifelines. Somewhere in time, when you're ready, you'll share yourself again.
♥,
Mom
Here's a difficult word to swallow for today: altruism. I must admit this letter took a long time to make. I thought endlessly of what to say to you and what you will most accept in the long run. You see, the act of giving is always a personal one. So I discuss this with the ever-present mindset that someday you will either distort whatever values I teach you, alter it or discard it altogether.
We have different ways of looking at altruism and neither one is right or wrong. Here, in this very word alone, your father and I have had countless arguments of how to treat it because this is what we will ultimately teach you. Your Papa thinks that as long as people work hard for what they want to get, then a lavish lifestyle is justifiable. He did earn it, after all. He's right. I, on the other hand, think that if you have the basic needs. If you're comfortable enough to have the means for survival and a bit more for your sundries, then it would be selfish not to give what you don't need away to those who do. In a way, I may be right too. When I was involved in an NGO, your father didn't understand how I could give everything, most of my earnings anyway, to give to less-privileged kids' education when I also had needs of my own. So, what do you prioritize? Yourself? Others? Those who need it more? Or you, who might need it in the future? Like most things in life perhaps, striking a balance to the two is what you should strive for. We will have different ways of looking at giving and giving back eventually.
Here's what I think about it though. When I say the source of giving comes from a personal one, what I really mean to say is it comes from a selfish motive. It's selfish because you're fulfilling that aspect of yourself that wishes to be part of something bigger than the pits and falls of your own world. You do it because you're seeking an identity that's found only in the act of giving a part of who you are to others. You do it because it makes you feel good. You do it because you think it's the right thing to do. That is a selfish motive. And I think that you can never escape it being so, and you shouldn't even try. You may be fooling yourself to think that you wish JUST to help although helping is inevitably what the act will entail. In giving, that is the fixed point, that no matter what your intention is, whether it be fame, power or finding yourself through others, the act will eventually boil down to helping. So, don't strive to be the selfless maven who keeps nothing for herself. Strive to be the self-aware person who knows that giving is a wonderful source of happiness.
And know that you don't have to limit giving in the material aspect too, giving your time, your ideas, your effort, your labor or your empathy is as much an asset in this world than what money can give to others. But in order for this to not look like it's a term paper, let's just keep the discussion to material things, shall we? Here are a few things I learned along the way, I suppose, coming from a religious family who was always in the ins and outs of the church and Catholic school:
Never give anything you might not want to receive.
It doesn't matter whether they're toys, clothes, books or supplies. Always check each one and ask yourself whether as recipient, this will make you happy if you receive this from someone. It all boils down to respect, little girl.Those people you are giving to do not deserve your wastes.
Allocate a part of your allowance or a box in order to make a routine out of giving.
This I learned quite late. I always had to rummage around my closet and scour for materials downtown when someone asked for 'donations' (An ugly condescending word but you will probably hear it a lot.). The key is to actually just get a box and drop things there you think might be helpful to others the same as way an expat or OFW might do with his balikbayan box. Better yet, when you have the chance to shop Downtown or somewhere like Chinatown, get essential things like school supplies and such. Someone will always be needing them especially in a country like ours where the Education budget is equal to none at all.
You don't have to be in a group just to help.
It's great if you do especially if the group has the same ideals as you. Members can propel each other and can strive for a common goal. But you also have to remember that each group has a culture of its own. Even NGOs, Charity Groups, Catholic School organizations aren't immune to peer pressure, and this tool can either be positive or negative. Just make sure the group strives to turn you into a positive version of you.
There is such a thing as giving too much.
When you feel like there is nothing left of you, who you were, who you are, left to give, then stop. Regenerate. Find family and friends who will serve as your lifelines. Somewhere in time, when you're ready, you'll share yourself again.
♥,
Mom
Friday, September 24, 2010
15
Dear Portia,
How blessed we are. Clients have started coming in again and for some reason, even with the constant chaos in our little abode, I find the time to think of concepts to satiate them. Here are the great things about my job which I've only just started to appreciate:
a. You don't actually have to graduate to be a graphic artist
b. You can Photoshop to death your own pictures quite well to make yourself passably attractive even just in cyberspace
c. It doesn't matter whether you're in Timbuktu or in the bowels of Negros Oriental, you can still work for as long as you have a PC and Photoshop
d. You can make your child's own invitations during her parties. No ugly morphed bodies of your face, Poj, in a Pooh or Dora the Explorer body.
There are still so many advantages of being a graphic artist. And for a time, I thought I had to give all these up. This time in September last year, when you were 3 months old, I had just resigned from my full-time job so I could take care of you. I thought I'd give freelancing a try and for some reason ,clients came to me anyway even without credible references. Unfortunately, I just couldn't cut it. I was missing one deadline after another. I didn't know how to handle my time. And revisions were so difficult. I just couldn't meet clients because I was breastfeeding you and all. I found it hard trying to compartmentalize my being a mother from my job especially since you were just a few feet away from me when I was working. It was a difficult time, financially and just about all other aspects.
But see, the higher beings really do have everything planned. You had everything in plan too, I think. Because when I had to give up designing for a time, I was forced to pick up my other love which was writing. I always said to friends that all I really wanted to do was to write for a living, didn't matter if it was for a tabloid or a TV guide. I just wanted to write. And here you were, testing my abilities, making me look for ways to make that dream come true. Whether by choice or circumstance, writing came to be even if I did have to divide my writing for work and my writing for creativity's sake.
So now, I'm stuck in the in-betweens again. I cannot choose between one or the other. And I don't even want to try. Here's another dream of mine I'm sharing with you. This was inspired by your birth too, actually. I plan to make graphic apparel for babies. There are moms like me out there, I'm sure. Looking for apparel that are the antithesis of babyish, not wanting to let their kids drown in baby pinks and blues.
The brand will be called Hodgepodge (no surprise where that came from). It's an extension of visual poetry in clothing. By the time you'll be old enough to understand it, I hope to get it up and running. In the meantime, here's a preview:
They were pipes of Pagan mirth
And the world had found new terms of worth
He laid down on the sunburned Earth
And raveled a flower and looked away
--Play?Play?-- What should he Play?
--An Interpretation of Pan With Us from Robert Frost's A Boy's Will
Draw me a Dream
As far fetched as you can
For Dreams aren't made
Solely on Structured Plans
Draw me a Dream
Make it over the Moon
And keep that dream as far from
the reality that comes too soon
Little One, Your Heart never ceases
to amaze me. It beats the world.
It beats the yearning out in play
It beats just how it should
On this humid February Day
Play. Play. Always Play.
I love you. Always and always.
Mom
How blessed we are. Clients have started coming in again and for some reason, even with the constant chaos in our little abode, I find the time to think of concepts to satiate them. Here are the great things about my job which I've only just started to appreciate:
a. You don't actually have to graduate to be a graphic artist
b. You can Photoshop to death your own pictures quite well to make yourself passably attractive even just in cyberspace
c. It doesn't matter whether you're in Timbuktu or in the bowels of Negros Oriental, you can still work for as long as you have a PC and Photoshop
d. You can make your child's own invitations during her parties. No ugly morphed bodies of your face, Poj, in a Pooh or Dora the Explorer body.
There are still so many advantages of being a graphic artist. And for a time, I thought I had to give all these up. This time in September last year, when you were 3 months old, I had just resigned from my full-time job so I could take care of you. I thought I'd give freelancing a try and for some reason ,clients came to me anyway even without credible references. Unfortunately, I just couldn't cut it. I was missing one deadline after another. I didn't know how to handle my time. And revisions were so difficult. I just couldn't meet clients because I was breastfeeding you and all. I found it hard trying to compartmentalize my being a mother from my job especially since you were just a few feet away from me when I was working. It was a difficult time, financially and just about all other aspects.
But see, the higher beings really do have everything planned. You had everything in plan too, I think. Because when I had to give up designing for a time, I was forced to pick up my other love which was writing. I always said to friends that all I really wanted to do was to write for a living, didn't matter if it was for a tabloid or a TV guide. I just wanted to write. And here you were, testing my abilities, making me look for ways to make that dream come true. Whether by choice or circumstance, writing came to be even if I did have to divide my writing for work and my writing for creativity's sake.
So now, I'm stuck in the in-betweens again. I cannot choose between one or the other. And I don't even want to try. Here's another dream of mine I'm sharing with you. This was inspired by your birth too, actually. I plan to make graphic apparel for babies. There are moms like me out there, I'm sure. Looking for apparel that are the antithesis of babyish, not wanting to let their kids drown in baby pinks and blues.
The brand will be called Hodgepodge (no surprise where that came from). It's an extension of visual poetry in clothing. By the time you'll be old enough to understand it, I hope to get it up and running. In the meantime, here's a preview:
And the world had found new terms of worth
He laid down on the sunburned Earth
And raveled a flower and looked away
--Play?Play?-- What should he Play?
--An Interpretation of Pan With Us from Robert Frost's A Boy's Will
As far fetched as you can
For Dreams aren't made
Solely on Structured Plans
Draw me a Dream
Make it over the Moon
And keep that dream as far from
the reality that comes too soon
to amaze me. It beats the world.
It beats the yearning out in play
It beats just how it should
On this humid February Day
Play. Play. Always Play.
I love you. Always and always.
Mom
Thursday, September 23, 2010
14
Dear Portia,
Have you ever heard of the term bed of roses? It's an idiom. You'll probably take it up in 4th grade or so. It means comfort. But comfort for your mom isn't drowning in a bed of roses. It's drowning in a bed of Julie's Coco bread. That artificial treat has the sugar content of the whole Negros Oriental placed in a bite. Precisely what I need to keep up with you. Sometimes, I dream of them. I even talk to them. It's a good thing I'm breastfeeding you otherwise call me Butterball right about now.
The Julie's cart hasn't passed by yet, so I'm hyperventilating.
On a serious note, I hope I raise you well enough to find joy in the simplest things in life, little girl. Because if there's anything I learned, they're the ones worth trying the most. And simplicity does not only refer to tangible living. It could refer to purity of thought, of intention, of feeling. It's that time in your life when confidence strikes you so strong, you feel like every action is an extension of your true self.
Materially speaking, it wouldn't hurt to live within your means too. Never purchase something you will have to give up the basic needs over. It doesn't matter if that dress makes you feel good or that new gadget makes you seem cool. You will still have that niggling feeling of doubt hanging over you, which isn't the point of buying in the first place. Buying is supposed to complete a part of you, not make you feel guilty. Consider only the necessary. All the rest are dispensable.
Take a walk through the village. Pick stones at the beach. Have a quiet conversation with a friend. See the sunset. Rest on a loved one's shoulders. Receive a letter from a friend. Bike through quiet streets. Doodle. Make a shell necklace. Have coffee on the sidewalk.
They're free.At least, most of them are.Best of all, there are no embellishments to distract you from your true self. Find her.
Love,
Mom
Have you ever heard of the term bed of roses? It's an idiom. You'll probably take it up in 4th grade or so. It means comfort. But comfort for your mom isn't drowning in a bed of roses. It's drowning in a bed of Julie's Coco bread. That artificial treat has the sugar content of the whole Negros Oriental placed in a bite. Precisely what I need to keep up with you. Sometimes, I dream of them. I even talk to them. It's a good thing I'm breastfeeding you otherwise call me Butterball right about now.
The Julie's cart hasn't passed by yet, so I'm hyperventilating.
On a serious note, I hope I raise you well enough to find joy in the simplest things in life, little girl. Because if there's anything I learned, they're the ones worth trying the most. And simplicity does not only refer to tangible living. It could refer to purity of thought, of intention, of feeling. It's that time in your life when confidence strikes you so strong, you feel like every action is an extension of your true self.
Materially speaking, it wouldn't hurt to live within your means too. Never purchase something you will have to give up the basic needs over. It doesn't matter if that dress makes you feel good or that new gadget makes you seem cool. You will still have that niggling feeling of doubt hanging over you, which isn't the point of buying in the first place. Buying is supposed to complete a part of you, not make you feel guilty. Consider only the necessary. All the rest are dispensable.
Take a walk through the village. Pick stones at the beach. Have a quiet conversation with a friend. See the sunset. Rest on a loved one's shoulders. Receive a letter from a friend. Bike through quiet streets. Doodle. Make a shell necklace. Have coffee on the sidewalk.
They're free.At least, most of them are.Best of all, there are no embellishments to distract you from your true self. Find her.
Love,
Mom
13
Poshi Bear,
Beautiful day, isn't it? Birds chirping. Trees swaying. Goats bleating. Sun shining. And best of all, you and I got off to a good start. We watched your goats,drank our Milos in the terrace and chased after each other in the living room. Can you hear my enthusiasm? All that came from a good amount of sleep. 10 hours of sleep, to be exact, starting from the time you also slept to the time you also woke up.
Here's something I learned today. When you're cranky, stressed or just plain mean, take a good nap. Sleep it off. How simple and yet I wonder why I never thought of it before.
So, let's make a pact, shall we? I hereby will force myself to sleep earlier. No more sleeping well after midnight. I will be more organized with my work. I will accomplish only one thing at a time. And I will greet you in the morning being less of a Scrooge. In return, please sleep for more than an hour in the afternoon, okay? So Mom can finish her work.
Agreed? Good. Let's spit on it. Wait, cancel that. I'm supposed to be teaching you about good hygiene.
Love,
Mom
Here's you back when you were 10 months old and still loved to sleep.
Beautiful day, isn't it? Birds chirping. Trees swaying. Goats bleating. Sun shining. And best of all, you and I got off to a good start. We watched your goats,drank our Milos in the terrace and chased after each other in the living room. Can you hear my enthusiasm? All that came from a good amount of sleep. 10 hours of sleep, to be exact, starting from the time you also slept to the time you also woke up.
Here's something I learned today. When you're cranky, stressed or just plain mean, take a good nap. Sleep it off. How simple and yet I wonder why I never thought of it before.
So, let's make a pact, shall we? I hereby will force myself to sleep earlier. No more sleeping well after midnight. I will be more organized with my work. I will accomplish only one thing at a time. And I will greet you in the morning being less of a Scrooge. In return, please sleep for more than an hour in the afternoon, okay? So Mom can finish her work.
Agreed? Good. Let's spit on it. Wait, cancel that. I'm supposed to be teaching you about good hygiene.
Love,
Mom
Here's you back when you were 10 months old and still loved to sleep.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
12
“So what happens when you make something illegal that is just a natural part of the world? You might as well make flies illegal or sweat or Monday morning. But that’s what the king did out of a terrible sadness.”
Dear Poj,
This is one my favorite lines from the movie adaptation of the Tales of Despereaux which I’ve probably seen six or seven times since I’ve discovered it. I love it because there’s such humanity to the line. And it reminds me that sometimes, it isn’t important to judge action from the morals of good and evil but by the side by which they were made from. I think that’s important for me to impart to you although I’ve yet to learn that lesson myself, that sometimes we are neither right nor wrong. We just have a side to consider,a value we subconsciously fight for that spans from a lifetime of influence and culture we know no other way of.
Like this morning for instance when you kept turning on and off the TV despite several reprimands from your Ama. And in my semi-groggy, semi-grouchy state, I abruptly cut off the plug while you stood there upset over what happened. Your side came from the need to explore your world, discover the cause and effect of things. Never mind that the button was about to shout bloody murder. While my side came from a sleepless work bee that slept at 4 AM in the morning looking for an instant solution to stop the ruckus. These are two sides. And I hope someday you develop the ability to see the one other than your own.
I’m telling you this now because I keep on doubting how to handle you, how to discipline, how to give you enough freedom to discover the world for yourself and yet save some for until you finally have the responsibility and initiative to handle it. I’m also telling you this because there might be times when actions that come from me come from a terrible sadness, a terrible anger, a terrible stress or a terrible fear of what you might do to yourself before you even have the chance to discover what you’re fully capable of.
How exactly do other mothers do it? They make it seem so easy trudging the black and whites of their child’s life. And I make it look so awkward. How are you assured you’re doing the right thing? How do you impart to your child only the good parts of yourself? And how do you give her foundation and ground and rules without taking away something that may be a natural part of her? Like your energy. Your tenacity. And your ability to hold your ground even with me.
It’s getting harder and harder to discipline you these days. You are more like me than I thought. You have a stubborn streak equal to the land mass of Siberia. I never thought I’d actually have to use that word for you. Discipline, I mean. Back in the days when your ninangs (whom I miss terribly) used to discuss this, I would say to them ‘Oh, she’s going to be a Bohemian Baby. She can do what she wants. I don’t want to trample her identity.’ Good thing they weren’t bringing a recorder then. Or else I’d turn red just about now for eating my words, bones and all.
I hope that you consider my side when I decide for you too. Someday, there will come a time when you will start to doubt what my absolute and unquestioned decisions for you were. Please do. There is nothing sorrier than a child who does not question. But that day isn't today. For now, stop using that wire as a scarf, will you?
Walking on eggshells,
Mom
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
11
Dear Portia,
You and I spent some time on the swing today. We don’t spend our mornings there anymore as much as we used to mostly because we barely get in when you decide you want to get out again. When still, even when in motion, the slow pace makes you squirmy and I wonder how much megavolts you actually have in that small body of yours especially since you churn fuel more than a power plant eats coal. Now there’s an issue worthy of a different blog altogether.
This morning, you took your pre-breakfast snack on our swing and for once managed to keep at rest for more than a few minutes. There’s a lot of history in that swing, little girl. Children. Grandchildren. Great-grandchildren, and now you, all paying homage to this monument of a sort with broken arms, bumped heads, stuck fingers and an overwhelming sense to go faster and higher than anyone else. Back in my college days, a granduncle of mine once asked what exactly the course Fine Arts (which was the course I took) entailed, and naively I tried to make him understand by oversimplifying it. ‘Well, we design and we paint.’, I said. And the morning after, he came home with two gallons of paint and several brushes so I can practice my ‘painting skills’ on the swing. That summer in 2006, I spent the whole summer trying to make this grunge of a swing into tidy white. That was impossible of course because I didn’t know enamel required a thinner combination for it to stick, so I spent days and weeks on end trying to paint the swing over and over again.
I love this place of wood and nail. It reminds me of a happy childhood. Once, I dreamed of providing you with a swing similar to this so you can experience the same happiness. But I’d rather not. My memories are not yours. And it would do no good trying to replicate an object just as it would do no good trying to replicate a feeling. Because I realized what I really want you to inherit is this sense of ancestry. This swing is a portal, a divine connection to someone who, even generations before, loved you enough to craft it. Enjoy the ride.
As always,
Mom
10
Dear Portia,
I said something mean to you today, something a mother of a far higher caliber would not have said. We were winding down for the day. You were already in your sleepwear. I was already thinking of the list of things I had to finish crossing off after you fell asleep. You had the bad case of the giddies, and was constantly rolling around the bed, touching wires, disarranging things I just fixed a while ago, biting me and whining endlessly because sleep was getting to you and you didn't want your day to end just yet.
Then I semi-shouted, semi-sighed in an annoyed tone, 'Poj! Makawala jud ka'g pasensya!'. I'd regretted it as soon as it came out of my mouth and regretted it even more when I saw your face wither, your mouth quiver, your eyes shift down. Shortly afterwards, you just giggled it off and continued to play with me. You really are a trooper.
If I could apologize a million times, I would. It was completely my fault and I offer no excuse except that it was the fatigue talking. I've had no sleep for days now, chasing after deadlines by night and then chasing after you by myself by day. Don't get me wrong. I love playing with you, love being with you. It's just that my mind goes haywire and sometimes, I really just need rest and time for myself. I'd trade all the Skittles in this world, part of my soul even, at this point for some undisturbed sleep.
And if you're wondering where I found the time to write this, I've traded in my evening bath time for some blogging therapy. Yes, that's me you're smelling even in your sleep. I'm sorry. A thousand times, I'm sorry.
Guilty,
Mom
I said something mean to you today, something a mother of a far higher caliber would not have said. We were winding down for the day. You were already in your sleepwear. I was already thinking of the list of things I had to finish crossing off after you fell asleep. You had the bad case of the giddies, and was constantly rolling around the bed, touching wires, disarranging things I just fixed a while ago, biting me and whining endlessly because sleep was getting to you and you didn't want your day to end just yet.
Then I semi-shouted, semi-sighed in an annoyed tone, 'Poj! Makawala jud ka'g pasensya!'. I'd regretted it as soon as it came out of my mouth and regretted it even more when I saw your face wither, your mouth quiver, your eyes shift down. Shortly afterwards, you just giggled it off and continued to play with me. You really are a trooper.
If I could apologize a million times, I would. It was completely my fault and I offer no excuse except that it was the fatigue talking. I've had no sleep for days now, chasing after deadlines by night and then chasing after you by myself by day. Don't get me wrong. I love playing with you, love being with you. It's just that my mind goes haywire and sometimes, I really just need rest and time for myself. I'd trade all the Skittles in this world, part of my soul even, at this point for some undisturbed sleep.
And if you're wondering where I found the time to write this, I've traded in my evening bath time for some blogging therapy. Yes, that's me you're smelling even in your sleep. I'm sorry. A thousand times, I'm sorry.
Guilty,
Mom
Monday, September 20, 2010
9
Dear Portia,
I was supposed to be working 3 hours ago. I was supposed to be making a living, saving, planting your future and all. But instead I watched a movie. I watched Ballet Shoes. It was a beautiful movie that I wonder why nobody ever picked it up. Maybe because it’s sad in all the right places, and Hollywood does not want subtly sad. They want tragedy. They want comedy. They want action, dynamites and a torrid love scene. But they do not want subtlety. I hope you watch this movie. There is a thing to be learned about passion, ambition and sacrifice of a sort here. And yes, there’s a happy ending too.
But that wasn’t really my point. My point is that when there’s an off chance that you feel like you’ve been stretched just too far, just a little bit too thin then what you’re supposed to be,then stop. The soul will know this state because it stretches beyond the fatigue of the body and the procrastination of the mind. Do not think about work, or obligations or even the state of the world. Think about yourself. Find the things that you love simply because you love them. This will renew you and give you enough gamut to continue on.
See, the thing of it is we are like a puzzle. We are born in different places, different times, different eras, different lives. And that’s what makes life so beautiful, finding a piece of ourselves one bit at a time. The lovely part about all this is that there is no specific value or duration required to find yourself. You don’t have to be rich or be totally idle. You just have to find that moment in time when you feel like you’re ready to get to know yourself a little bit more again. And that’s when you’ll find the missing piece.
So, don’t be guilty to set up a bit of time aside. Breathe in the smell of a book. Blow bubbles in our garden. Cook dessert and eat it the whole day. Climb trees and sip tea in the swing. Watch a movie. Get ice cream. Laze around. Find a pocket in time that you alone can own. And when you’re ready, think about the state of the world again.
Yours,
Mom
I was supposed to be working 3 hours ago. I was supposed to be making a living, saving, planting your future and all. But instead I watched a movie. I watched Ballet Shoes. It was a beautiful movie that I wonder why nobody ever picked it up. Maybe because it’s sad in all the right places, and Hollywood does not want subtly sad. They want tragedy. They want comedy. They want action, dynamites and a torrid love scene. But they do not want subtlety. I hope you watch this movie. There is a thing to be learned about passion, ambition and sacrifice of a sort here. And yes, there’s a happy ending too.
But that wasn’t really my point. My point is that when there’s an off chance that you feel like you’ve been stretched just too far, just a little bit too thin then what you’re supposed to be,then stop. The soul will know this state because it stretches beyond the fatigue of the body and the procrastination of the mind. Do not think about work, or obligations or even the state of the world. Think about yourself. Find the things that you love simply because you love them. This will renew you and give you enough gamut to continue on.
See, the thing of it is we are like a puzzle. We are born in different places, different times, different eras, different lives. And that’s what makes life so beautiful, finding a piece of ourselves one bit at a time. The lovely part about all this is that there is no specific value or duration required to find yourself. You don’t have to be rich or be totally idle. You just have to find that moment in time when you feel like you’re ready to get to know yourself a little bit more again. And that’s when you’ll find the missing piece.
So, don’t be guilty to set up a bit of time aside. Breathe in the smell of a book. Blow bubbles in our garden. Cook dessert and eat it the whole day. Climb trees and sip tea in the swing. Watch a movie. Get ice cream. Laze around. Find a pocket in time that you alone can own. And when you’re ready, think about the state of the world again.
Yours,
Mom
8
Portia aka Fangs,
I didn't know when and where it happened but somewhere between the time I gave birth to you and now, you transformed yourself into a vampire. And I have the bruises on my arms, shoulders and legs to prove it. Aren't your rattles enough?How about those teethers we have strewn all over the place? I'm flattered that you find me so palatable but seriously, do you have to bite into me like I'm Chickenjoy every minute or so? And then you go ahead and laugh it off like it's the biggest joke in the world.
Now I'm wondering whether that burst of happiness when I discovered your first tooth (that was on January 7,2010, just for the record) was a disillusionment. I certainly didn't picture out being an edible entity back then. But then I didn't picture out you to have so many teeth growing out of your gums eight at a time like bamboo stalks, which is exactly what they're doing now. Your fangs are out, so are your canines, and your molars are out as well. Please be gentle with me. Everytime your mouth comes remotely close to my shoulders, I feel a sharp tingle in my stomach and brace myself for the impact that's sure to come complete with drool.
Figures. Your Ama once shared to me how I used to bite your Uncle like mad when I was young too. He never complained. But then I'm not your uncle. I shout like a banshee which begets curious stares from passersby. If they only knew who was abusing who. Compared to your 10, I was a steady 6 in the biting category.
On a happy note, you and Goober have a great thing in common now, your profound ability to make even the most inanimate objects yelp and groan. Good job.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
7
Portia Bear,
Let me share to you one of my dreams. I dream of you and I becoming gypsies and traveling the Philippines together with only the clothes on our backs and a Volkswagen Kombi for companions.
Before reaching that though, here are a few milestones you and I have to go through:
I need to:
1. learn to drive like a sane person
2. save up to buy a battered old Kombi
3. get more money to actually make that Kombi run
4. stop buying online to compensate for gas and food for our trips
5. learn how to pack light
6. develop a free spirit
You need to:
1. have a firm resolve of home
2. grow up
3. learn how to potty first,then develop the art of pottying anywhere, fields and all
4. read a map because your mother has lost all hope of acquiring navigational senses
5. find your place in this world
Dreams should be like this, I think. Spoken out loud for everyone to peruse. Never be meek about your dreams. Us adults make the common mistake of being too cautious when it comes to vocalizing our passions. Maybe because it's easier to hide failures that way. You have more guts than that.
In a way, I guess we already are living part of that dream. We go back and forth two places so frequently that I wonder why you find it so easy to acclimatize. Sometimes, I grow scared of how this might affect you, whether from this you get a strong sense of adventure to take into your adult age or an insecurity that gnaws because you have not planted your roots deep enough. Parenting is this difficult. It goes one way or the other.No psychology subjects I've ever attended prepared me for this.
In the meantime, I'll continue dreaming for the both of us. How would you like your Kombi? I'd like mine in red. Knowing you, you'll probably prefer pink. So let's compromise and choose lime green, shall we?
6
Dear Poj,
These are one of those days when I wish we could fast forward to your teenage years, me lecturing you to wake up early, you grunting in your sleep. Both of us could pretend we were bedbugs and just snuggle in bed the whole day and night long. But your biological clock is wacko (actually, it's actually quite normal for babies but I like to exaggerate) because it seems ever since you were born, you made it your private commitment to wake up between 5:30 to 6:00 in the morning when I've just barely touched my head in the pillow.
Today was like that. I slept at 3AM because I had a deadline to catch and if there's one thing Advertising has ingrained in me, it's to be subconsciously a stickler for corporate deadlines. The rest of my life can be free range. The first thing you say to me is 'Mom? Namnam?' quite sweetly actually. And when that doesn't work, you place my face between your hands and exclaim 'MOOOMMMMM! NAAAMMMMNAMMMM!' which is baby talk for 'You're my mother. It's your duty to feed me. God and the government is watching.'
After which you proceed to roll yourself on top of me, treat me like a trampoline, bite my hand sometimes my toe, scratch my face and almost apologetically, put your forehead beside mine and then pull me to get up. When I'm fully awake which takes about an hour or so of your prodding, we go outside, turn the lights off, greet the ancestors from the picture wall and then go down for another sunny morning.
These days we've taken to going out to watch your goats being led into pasture. And most recently, we watch the migratory birds and mayas at play. Picture small albatrosses playing with brown mice in the air. That's how it looks like.
It's a beautiful place, this hometown. I'm glad I showed it to you. Somehow I find comfort in letting you stay in a place where our ancestors can keep watch, generations of people who've had a hand in making you who you are now. And most of all, it has enough room for your dramatics. Above all else, I think that's what a child of your exuberance needs most: space to grow.
I'm going back to sleep. Wake up your grandmother.
With toothpicks on her eyelids,
Mom
These are one of those days when I wish we could fast forward to your teenage years, me lecturing you to wake up early, you grunting in your sleep. Both of us could pretend we were bedbugs and just snuggle in bed the whole day and night long. But your biological clock is wacko (actually, it's actually quite normal for babies but I like to exaggerate) because it seems ever since you were born, you made it your private commitment to wake up between 5:30 to 6:00 in the morning when I've just barely touched my head in the pillow.
Today was like that. I slept at 3AM because I had a deadline to catch and if there's one thing Advertising has ingrained in me, it's to be subconsciously a stickler for corporate deadlines. The rest of my life can be free range. The first thing you say to me is 'Mom? Namnam?' quite sweetly actually. And when that doesn't work, you place my face between your hands and exclaim 'MOOOMMMMM! NAAAMMMMNAMMMM!' which is baby talk for 'You're my mother. It's your duty to feed me. God and the government is watching.'
After which you proceed to roll yourself on top of me, treat me like a trampoline, bite my hand sometimes my toe, scratch my face and almost apologetically, put your forehead beside mine and then pull me to get up. When I'm fully awake which takes about an hour or so of your prodding, we go outside, turn the lights off, greet the ancestors from the picture wall and then go down for another sunny morning.
These days we've taken to going out to watch your goats being led into pasture. And most recently, we watch the migratory birds and mayas at play. Picture small albatrosses playing with brown mice in the air. That's how it looks like.
It's a beautiful place, this hometown. I'm glad I showed it to you. Somehow I find comfort in letting you stay in a place where our ancestors can keep watch, generations of people who've had a hand in making you who you are now. And most of all, it has enough room for your dramatics. Above all else, I think that's what a child of your exuberance needs most: space to grow.
I'm going back to sleep. Wake up your grandmother.
With toothpicks on her eyelids,
Mom
5
Dear Portia,
If you woke up any earlier, you'd be a rooster.
Please go back to sleep.
Eyebag-infested,
Mom
If you woke up any earlier, you'd be a rooster.
Please go back to sleep.
Eyebag-infested,
Mom
4
Dear Portia,
Let me share a poem I made back when I was still pregnant with you. Somehow, even then, I knew you'd be born with a mind of your own. The truth is this was more intended for me. You made me grow up more than I thought.
Little Girl,
You’re growing up way too fast
Now instead of taking snapshots of the clouds,
You tie yourself upside down in sheets and filaments
That string themselves behind your broken
Rose colored glasses
Sometimes I catch you
Making thought bubbles when you steal secret naps
And I wonder if those flights of not-supposed-to’s
Glided you back to your old self,
With skirts that billow with the wind
And fingers that traced shooting stars
But your thoughts are sound at best,
And I wonder again how you can keep
From being wounded
When you don’t even slide grass blades in your hands
Little Girl,
When the winds are finally still,
Try not to miss it too much
After all, remember that back when I was supposed
To run with kites,
I ran with you instead
Soppy as always,
Mom
Let me share a poem I made back when I was still pregnant with you. Somehow, even then, I knew you'd be born with a mind of your own. The truth is this was more intended for me. You made me grow up more than I thought.
Little Girl,
You’re growing up way too fast
Now instead of taking snapshots of the clouds,
You tie yourself upside down in sheets and filaments
That string themselves behind your broken
Rose colored glasses
Sometimes I catch you
Making thought bubbles when you steal secret naps
And I wonder if those flights of not-supposed-to’s
Glided you back to your old self,
With skirts that billow with the wind
And fingers that traced shooting stars
But your thoughts are sound at best,
And I wonder again how you can keep
From being wounded
When you don’t even slide grass blades in your hands
Little Girl,
When the winds are finally still,
Try not to miss it too much
After all, remember that back when I was supposed
To run with kites,
I ran with you instead
Soppy as always,
Mom
3
Dear Portia,
The day I saw you reading a copy of Reader’s Digest by yourself will probably be one of the most amazing highs I will ever experience. It feels good to know that I have given you one of the greatest gifts, and that is a developed love for literature. Already, I see you read on your own, picking out books in stores and getting mad when I don’t finish a story. This is quite amazing for a 1-year old. And it’s more amazing that you can already point out pictures and imitate words you’ve heard only once. But slobbering mom aside, it feels good to prove that you can build a culture of reading simply by starting early and giving an example. I myself have been lucky enough to have a mom, your Ama, who has built me a library with some of the most imaginative children’s literature you can get your hands on. Sitting there in our now-joint bookshelves are hardbound copies of Nancy Drew’s, Secret Seven’s, Hardy Boys’, Enid Blyton’s and all the fairytales and versions of them for you to one day discover, read and reread.
Many memories have been built in that bookshelf, between those pages. In kindergarten, when I tried to run away from my grandmother, your great-grandmother, the only thing I brought with me was a copy of Enid Blyton and some clothes placed on a stick just like Bugs Bunny. In second grade, your Ama bought me a nightlight and ever since, I’ve scavenged all the books I can lay my hands on. I read a book a day then. Sweet Valley Twins. Heidi. Greek Mythology. The Secret Garden. Black Beauty. Even adult books. You name it. My eyes have never been the same ever since.
I guess this is also a good time to tell you, before your Papa boasts we derived your name from both of ours, your name was actually gotten from literature figures. Portia came from the protagonist in Merchant of Venice by Shakespeare. It may be a little difficult to read at first. Arm yourself with Cliff’s or Baron’s notes. I confess I even had to watch the movie to fully understand it. But be sure to read it if you can. Jo came from Jo March from Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women. I chose them because both of them retain very strong qualities, bastions of women power, so to speak, which I hope you will someday come to embody in your own way, as Portia Jo.
It’s important for me, at this point, to not let you read those ‘Once upon a times’ and ‘Happily Ever Afters’. Because the truth is, you will be vastly disappointed. What I can give you is a barrage of real people, poets who can make you tingle with their rhymes, authors with stories so innovative you wonder if their partly real, partly out-of-this-world.
More than anything, Poj, I wish to give you the gift of education. Somebody once told me that the greatest prevention to life’s mishaps is through a book. Of course, I don’t want you to live through books. But I do want you to read through them, learn from them, and prevent some mistakes through their guidance if possible. So, you probably won’t be getting a lot of clothes allowance. Maybe just some change for a movie or ice cream. But yes, you can expect a humongous book allowance on this end. And your library is on the way.
Here are some books I hope to get for you in a span of ten years’ time. We’ll mark it off soon enough. You and I will discover a different world one book at a time:
1. Little Women
2. Original version of Alice in Wonderland and Alice through the Looking Glass
3. Tales of Desperaux
4. A Collection of Robert Frost’s Poems
5. A Collection of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Poems
6. Peter Pan
7. Ballet Shoes
8. Charlotte’s Web
9. Chronicles of Narnia series
10. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
11. Guess how much I love you
12. Dr. Seuss series
13. The Giving Tree
14. Where the Sidewalk Ends
15. Good Night Moon
16. Winn Dixie
17. Where the Wild Things Are
18. Madeline Series
19. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
20. A Wrinkle in Time
21. The Boxcar Children
22. The Velveteen Rabbit
23. The Secret Garden
24. Matilda
25. Tuck Everlasting
26. A Little Princess
27. The Black Stallion
28. Black Beauty
29. The Phantom Tollbooth
30. Bridge to Terabithia
31. Inkheart
32. The Hobbit
33. Harold and the Purple Crayon
34. Snoopy and Peanuts series
35. The Little Engine that could
36. Wind in the Willows
37. The Series of Unfortunate Events
38. Are you my mother?
39. A Bear Called Paddington
40. Babar Series
41. Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel
42. Lassie Come Home
43. Winnie the Pooh Series
44. Anne of Green Gables
45. Mary Poppins Series
46. Swiss Family Robinson
47. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer
48. The Neverending Story
49. The Scarlet Pimpernel
50. Harry Potter Series
Love,
Mom
The day I saw you reading a copy of Reader’s Digest by yourself will probably be one of the most amazing highs I will ever experience. It feels good to know that I have given you one of the greatest gifts, and that is a developed love for literature. Already, I see you read on your own, picking out books in stores and getting mad when I don’t finish a story. This is quite amazing for a 1-year old. And it’s more amazing that you can already point out pictures and imitate words you’ve heard only once. But slobbering mom aside, it feels good to prove that you can build a culture of reading simply by starting early and giving an example. I myself have been lucky enough to have a mom, your Ama, who has built me a library with some of the most imaginative children’s literature you can get your hands on. Sitting there in our now-joint bookshelves are hardbound copies of Nancy Drew’s, Secret Seven’s, Hardy Boys’, Enid Blyton’s and all the fairytales and versions of them for you to one day discover, read and reread.
Many memories have been built in that bookshelf, between those pages. In kindergarten, when I tried to run away from my grandmother, your great-grandmother, the only thing I brought with me was a copy of Enid Blyton and some clothes placed on a stick just like Bugs Bunny. In second grade, your Ama bought me a nightlight and ever since, I’ve scavenged all the books I can lay my hands on. I read a book a day then. Sweet Valley Twins. Heidi. Greek Mythology. The Secret Garden. Black Beauty. Even adult books. You name it. My eyes have never been the same ever since.
I guess this is also a good time to tell you, before your Papa boasts we derived your name from both of ours, your name was actually gotten from literature figures. Portia came from the protagonist in Merchant of Venice by Shakespeare. It may be a little difficult to read at first. Arm yourself with Cliff’s or Baron’s notes. I confess I even had to watch the movie to fully understand it. But be sure to read it if you can. Jo came from Jo March from Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women. I chose them because both of them retain very strong qualities, bastions of women power, so to speak, which I hope you will someday come to embody in your own way, as Portia Jo.
It’s important for me, at this point, to not let you read those ‘Once upon a times’ and ‘Happily Ever Afters’. Because the truth is, you will be vastly disappointed. What I can give you is a barrage of real people, poets who can make you tingle with their rhymes, authors with stories so innovative you wonder if their partly real, partly out-of-this-world.
More than anything, Poj, I wish to give you the gift of education. Somebody once told me that the greatest prevention to life’s mishaps is through a book. Of course, I don’t want you to live through books. But I do want you to read through them, learn from them, and prevent some mistakes through their guidance if possible. So, you probably won’t be getting a lot of clothes allowance. Maybe just some change for a movie or ice cream. But yes, you can expect a humongous book allowance on this end. And your library is on the way.
Here are some books I hope to get for you in a span of ten years’ time. We’ll mark it off soon enough. You and I will discover a different world one book at a time:
1. Little Women
2. Original version of Alice in Wonderland and Alice through the Looking Glass
3. Tales of Desperaux
4. A Collection of Robert Frost’s Poems
5. A Collection of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Poems
6. Peter Pan
7. Ballet Shoes
8. Charlotte’s Web
9. Chronicles of Narnia series
10. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
11. Guess how much I love you
12. Dr. Seuss series
13. The Giving Tree
14. Where the Sidewalk Ends
15. Good Night Moon
16. Winn Dixie
17. Where the Wild Things Are
18. Madeline Series
19. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
20. A Wrinkle in Time
21. The Boxcar Children
22. The Velveteen Rabbit
23. The Secret Garden
24. Matilda
25. Tuck Everlasting
26. A Little Princess
27. The Black Stallion
28. Black Beauty
29. The Phantom Tollbooth
30. Bridge to Terabithia
31. Inkheart
32. The Hobbit
33. Harold and the Purple Crayon
34. Snoopy and Peanuts series
35. The Little Engine that could
36. Wind in the Willows
37. The Series of Unfortunate Events
38. Are you my mother?
39. A Bear Called Paddington
40. Babar Series
41. Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel
42. Lassie Come Home
43. Winnie the Pooh Series
44. Anne of Green Gables
45. Mary Poppins Series
46. Swiss Family Robinson
47. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer
48. The Neverending Story
49. The Scarlet Pimpernel
50. Harry Potter Series
Love,
Mom
2
Dear Portia,
Here’s an interesting factoid about this slob you call mom. She is a perpetual starter. Never a finisher. That, she has yet to learn. Precisely why I made two entries for you today. Because I just couldn’t help my giddiness at the thought that you might actually read this someday. I thought about writing you real letters, broken penmanship and all. But disorganized as I am, I’ll probably just lose them. So, I’d rather be content with your letters being placed here, stuck in cyberspace, waiting for you to read it 15 or 20 years from now.
No surprise. You did not sleep longer. In fact, you slept shorter than usual. You woke up to the sound of the Julie’s jingle which your ‘suki’ plays as soon as he reaches the house to announce his coming. He’s a wise man, that Jules. I don’t actually know his real name. I just dubbed him Jules because well, he looks like a Jules. Everytime you come with me to buy bread, we always end up buying more than what’s necessary. You always choose crinkles and donut, and then proceed to sampling one on each hand. This is the department where I didn’t have to worry about you. You have always been a voracious eater. So far today, you’ve eaten everything from fish to pasta to cookies, and the day isn’t over yet. I wish I were as confident about food as you. Your relationship with it is simple. You like it because it nourishes you. It nourishes you because you like it. Whereas mine, understatedly speaking, has always been rocky. You see, it started when my father, your grandfather, told me I was fat when I was seven. Not chubby, not cute. But fat. And ever since then, I’ve never really come to terms with food being an ally. Even when I was pregnant with you, I never had any problems with overeating because it just didn’t feel right.
Someday, somebody will say the same thing to you. They will tell you you’re too fat, too skinny, too tall or too awkward for your body. They will tell you to reupholster it, put more embellishments, and make it sleeker without taking the concept of comfort in mind. Don’t believe most of them. Only trust judgment from the ones who love you, and make sure they’re the very same ones who use constructive criticism as a frame. That’s me included. As your mother, an opinion from me will serve as double-edged sword. On one hand, I will always consider you as beautiful eternally, inevitably. On the other hand, I feel I owe you the truth when I feel like you’re ready to take it. Whichever I use, always remember I have you, the whole of you in mind.
I will not say beauty is not important. But I will say that to someone out there, you are beautiful in all the ways that matter. Hold on to just that.
Love,
Mom
Here’s an interesting factoid about this slob you call mom. She is a perpetual starter. Never a finisher. That, she has yet to learn. Precisely why I made two entries for you today. Because I just couldn’t help my giddiness at the thought that you might actually read this someday. I thought about writing you real letters, broken penmanship and all. But disorganized as I am, I’ll probably just lose them. So, I’d rather be content with your letters being placed here, stuck in cyberspace, waiting for you to read it 15 or 20 years from now.
No surprise. You did not sleep longer. In fact, you slept shorter than usual. You woke up to the sound of the Julie’s jingle which your ‘suki’ plays as soon as he reaches the house to announce his coming. He’s a wise man, that Jules. I don’t actually know his real name. I just dubbed him Jules because well, he looks like a Jules. Everytime you come with me to buy bread, we always end up buying more than what’s necessary. You always choose crinkles and donut, and then proceed to sampling one on each hand. This is the department where I didn’t have to worry about you. You have always been a voracious eater. So far today, you’ve eaten everything from fish to pasta to cookies, and the day isn’t over yet. I wish I were as confident about food as you. Your relationship with it is simple. You like it because it nourishes you. It nourishes you because you like it. Whereas mine, understatedly speaking, has always been rocky. You see, it started when my father, your grandfather, told me I was fat when I was seven. Not chubby, not cute. But fat. And ever since then, I’ve never really come to terms with food being an ally. Even when I was pregnant with you, I never had any problems with overeating because it just didn’t feel right.
Someday, somebody will say the same thing to you. They will tell you you’re too fat, too skinny, too tall or too awkward for your body. They will tell you to reupholster it, put more embellishments, and make it sleeker without taking the concept of comfort in mind. Don’t believe most of them. Only trust judgment from the ones who love you, and make sure they’re the very same ones who use constructive criticism as a frame. That’s me included. As your mother, an opinion from me will serve as double-edged sword. On one hand, I will always consider you as beautiful eternally, inevitably. On the other hand, I feel I owe you the truth when I feel like you’re ready to take it. Whichever I use, always remember I have you, the whole of you in mind.
I will not say beauty is not important. But I will say that to someone out there, you are beautiful in all the ways that matter. Hold on to just that.
Love,
Mom
Saturday, September 18, 2010
1
Dear Portia,
I don’t know why I decided to start this project today of all days. I have writing assignments coming out from my nostrils and should be taking advantage of the fact that you decided to sleep in the afternoon for once. That is a rare case these days. You seem to have more energy than an electric company, and never seem to have blackouts to boot. Nevertheless, something happened today that may have altered my concept of motherhood, one that I tried to realize before but never really understand before now.
Today, September 19, 2010, you are at 1 year, 3 months and 19 days. I didn’t know how babies would be before you. I always thought they’d be serene and have not a care in the world. You, on the other hand, expect to be treated like an adult. You put the rest of us pseudo-grown ups to shame with your decisiveness. Exactly why you got angry with me today in the first place. You see, today, your Papa called and for some begrudging reason, you didn’t want to talk to him. I handed you the phone three times, cajoled you into talking to him, impress him with your animal impersonations, but you wouldn’t budge. After the third time, you threw the phone so far into the corner, it turned off by itself.
Here’s what I learned about you today, daughter. When you say No, what you really mean to say is NOOOOO! Your expressiveness astounds me. I hope you never lose that. Because you see, that’s a jewel to keep in this world, although you will get in trouble for it a million times, with me especially. This world expects tact, most of the time, not truth. Nevertheless, assuming you keep on with that value for as long as both you and I interact, I realized that you may not be as accepting of my own values as I thought. So, I’m taking advantage of this project by imparting to you in writing what you may not comprehend or willingly accept verbally. Your will at this age is like Gibraltar. You don’t back down. When I lecture you, you look me straight in the eye every time. Yes, sometimes I want to shout ‘til my lungs drop at you but that’s just a for-the-moment reaction, me trying to play mommy to you as best as I could. Inside, you are the baby I always wanted. You are and will be stronger and more assured of yourself than I will ever be. So, look past my rants, will you? You are loved more than you know. As you are.
On a ticklish side note, I read you the Three Little Pigs today, one of your favorites amongst a huge pile of other books and DVDs and your first reaction upon looking at the cover was, Yum! Yum! Yummy!
My hopes are someday you’d read this and look at your mother with more humanity than I did with mine.
Okay. Back to work now. Please sleep longer than usual.
Love,
Mom
I don’t know why I decided to start this project today of all days. I have writing assignments coming out from my nostrils and should be taking advantage of the fact that you decided to sleep in the afternoon for once. That is a rare case these days. You seem to have more energy than an electric company, and never seem to have blackouts to boot. Nevertheless, something happened today that may have altered my concept of motherhood, one that I tried to realize before but never really understand before now.
Today, September 19, 2010, you are at 1 year, 3 months and 19 days. I didn’t know how babies would be before you. I always thought they’d be serene and have not a care in the world. You, on the other hand, expect to be treated like an adult. You put the rest of us pseudo-grown ups to shame with your decisiveness. Exactly why you got angry with me today in the first place. You see, today, your Papa called and for some begrudging reason, you didn’t want to talk to him. I handed you the phone three times, cajoled you into talking to him, impress him with your animal impersonations, but you wouldn’t budge. After the third time, you threw the phone so far into the corner, it turned off by itself.
Here’s what I learned about you today, daughter. When you say No, what you really mean to say is NOOOOO! Your expressiveness astounds me. I hope you never lose that. Because you see, that’s a jewel to keep in this world, although you will get in trouble for it a million times, with me especially. This world expects tact, most of the time, not truth. Nevertheless, assuming you keep on with that value for as long as both you and I interact, I realized that you may not be as accepting of my own values as I thought. So, I’m taking advantage of this project by imparting to you in writing what you may not comprehend or willingly accept verbally. Your will at this age is like Gibraltar. You don’t back down. When I lecture you, you look me straight in the eye every time. Yes, sometimes I want to shout ‘til my lungs drop at you but that’s just a for-the-moment reaction, me trying to play mommy to you as best as I could. Inside, you are the baby I always wanted. You are and will be stronger and more assured of yourself than I will ever be. So, look past my rants, will you? You are loved more than you know. As you are.
On a ticklish side note, I read you the Three Little Pigs today, one of your favorites amongst a huge pile of other books and DVDs and your first reaction upon looking at the cover was, Yum! Yum! Yummy!
My hopes are someday you’d read this and look at your mother with more humanity than I did with mine.
Okay. Back to work now. Please sleep longer than usual.
Love,
Mom
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