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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

5

Dear Portia,

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

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

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

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