Fight Club.

We had been fighting for as long as I could remember.

We fought about everything. It seemed then that the only way we knew how to interact with each other was to fight.

Heck, for the longest time, we could not even agree on the status of our relationship.  (I hear our friends chuckle in agreement!)

So when I got pregnant with Qube, I assumed people were happy. Well, at least the few people we usually bother with our petty fights. I could imagine them heaving a sigh of relief, saying “now the fighting stops.”

Surprise, surprise! It did not. Not that I had any illusions, to begin with. If anything changed, it’s the fact that we now have more things to fight about.  

And during these fights, I swear I feel really happy and relieved that we have no marriage papers to keep us from leaving each other.

So, one day, I told you this: “I love you sometimes, when we are not fighting.”

And you said:

“I love you, even when we are fighting. That’s how we are different.”

I choked.

Here's hoping this does not become another failed attempt.

For a lot of things.

Creating a worthwhile blog entry, for one. Because it has been six months since I last published here – either I have been busy or been simply too lazy to think, much more to write. 

The impenetrable web protocols at work is not helping either.

Qube's babyhood has gone by in a breeze without me being able to document each monumental step, literally and figuratively. Save for the occasional twitter and facebook posts, I haven’t been able to write at all.

Even the sort of writing that one just keeps to herself.  Hmmm. Now I am suddenly reminded to put in writing the mental notes that I have been keeping for quite a time now. Though I would have to muster enough courage for that.

Just a few hours ago, I was torn between panic and amusement because I (again) noticed posts in my twitter feeds which I did not make because I was then in the office, working my ass off, oblivious to the rest of the world. Well… not entirely true, but still. The point is, somebody else was posting on my behalf – of high scores in slam dunk, song quiz and fruit ninja. And if you think a one year, nine month old baby can't do that? Think again. 

Sometimes Most times, I am convinced that my child is a genius. How else could I explain him being able to recognize numbers zero through nine, regardless of what he is doing when you ask him? Or his ability to distinguish colors and make it sound like the most normal thing that a baby should know? Or, just a few minutes ago, the way he was searching for the "clear page" icon on his drawpad, and successfully finding it on the first try, the second, and all other succeeding tries, moments after he saw me pressing it to erase his scribbles to make space for new ones? 

Well, truth is, all mothers feel the same pride for their children. On my part, this pride is coupled with the prospect of us getting famous through him, and probably earning millions when, being the "superbaby" that he is, he'd discover something big that would revolutionize life as we know it. Hehe.

If the above does not prove successful, yours truly would seriously consider being a stagemom, given the "ahem" really good looks that he has. 

WARNING: Do not, for one moment, mistake this as conceit on my part. I am merely playing with possibilities. And a chance to earn BIG.

Like the possibility of him becoming a basketball superstar at nine-years old (that would be less than eight years from now). In our plans, the husband and I have even gone as far as planning to bribe his grade school coach so that he'd get drafted in his school's varsity basketball team. Justifying it as a necessary move so he won't be disillusioned so early, just in case.

If that, too, fails? There’s football.

Anyways, what's so special about this stage is that I could look at him building his LEGOs and think that he’ll probably design the next skyscraper wonder of the world, with his name etched on top of it (and probably have a lady CEO named Pepper). Or see him obsessing over his small stable of cars and conclude that he’ll become the first Filipino F1 car racing champion. Or see him playing Punch Hero on the iPad and decide that, well, he’ll probably get over it in a few days.

All these dreams I could see in him without (yet) being pressured to fulfill any one of it. Let’s see where it takes us in a few years.

But tonight, what’s real is the sleeping baby on my lap who clings on whenever I make an attempt to put him down on the bed, refusing to let go even to just let Mama pee.

Long overdue tribute to my father.

He wanted to be an engineer. But life was hard and he had two sons to support. Working as a tailor during the day, he went to night school and took up Education instead. He graduated and became a teacher when his eldest son finished primary school.


He had his life mapped out without room for errors, because he knew that one miscalculated step could break his dream of a decent future for his family. He was uptight, he was strict, he seldom showed emotion because emotions cloud reason, and he did things with as much accuracy and perfection as possible, as much as he could.

This was my father.

He demanded a lot from us, especially from my brothers.

One anecdote that my eldest brother loves repeating to us was the time Papa talked to him when he was about to enter college. Papa asked him not to fail any subject, it did not matter if it was a major or minor subject, because if he failed a subject, he would extend school and it would, in turn, delay my other brother’s entry to college (My parents had spaced the birth of my brothers by five years because they could not send both children to college simultaneously).

And my brother did just that, and so did my other siblings.

With the very few resources that my parents had, they made sure that we did not lack on everything we need, and they were able to send and have all four of us graduate in the best schools in the province.

My siblings used to tell me that Papa was not as strict with me as he was with them when they were growing up. Still, there had been times in the past when I kept on wishing that he’d be like other fathers who give their children money as baon in school, who allow their kids to play with others in the neighborhood, who do not demand explanations for less than stellar grades in Math and English, who allow their teenage girls to party with no 11pm curfews.

He was strict, there was no mistaking that. He was the kind of father you do not want to disappoint. And although he used to censure us openly, he was also proudest whenever he talks to his friends about his children – about us.

He kept all of my medals, certificates, awards, from the time I started school and showed them to friends every opportunity that he gets. He saved copies of every single issue of our school paper where my name was mentioned – be it an article where I was cited in passing or one where I appeared in the byline – he saved them all. He even kept my high school poems which were so baduy I cringe just remembering how awful the quality of my writing was.

He cried when I passed the CPA Board Exams. I told him then that my grades weren’t that impressive. It did not matter though, he was still ecstatic.

It has been five years since he died, and this is the first time that I am writing about him.

I miss him.

Now that I am starting my own family, the totality and magnitude of all that my father had given and given up for us dawned on me. And I am scared that I won’t be able to measure up. I now have my own little boy who I hope to raise the same way we were raised. And I hope that, just like my parents moved heaven and earth to provide the best for us, I and the husband* would also be able to do the same for Qube and our future kids.

Something's ringing in my ears and it's not my conscience

That is the reason why I found myself queuing impatiently at Patients First in Glorietta 3 yesterday after work.

I thought it would be just another regular check-up: vitals, weight, few minutes of Q&A, write my prescription, done.

But it turned out my dilemma is more complicated than I thought it was.

First, I was checked by an MD who asked me to undergo an x-ray exam.

Okay.

But it took forever for the laboratory folks to call me. And when I was eventually X-rayed, they have to redo two of the three perspectives / angles because they were blurry. So, I waited for a few more minutes before going through another round of x-ray. Only to be told that the result won't be coming out until Saturday, but that I have to check with an ENT doctor anyway.

The ENT lady doctor was nice. Asked me sorts of questions. I repeated what I told the other doctor: headache, ringing and pressure in my ears, no colds. She asked me how I am doing with my breastfeeding. Told her I just quit pumping during work hours, but that I still night feed and pump at home, after work. Just so she knows I won't take steroids, if she's thinking of giving me one.

Now, just so she knows what is really wrong with me - she suspects that I have blocked sinuses - she told me that she has to check my frontal sinuses with a nasal endoscope. Then she showed me this:

And I wished so hard that I did not leave Noi to wait outside, while I will be (in my mind) lobotomized in this office. He did not see me suffer in the labor room when I gave birth to our son, he should at least see this being inserted into my nostrils!

When it was done, she drew little circles in her medical report / record to probably capture in paper the appearance of my sinuses. No masses, thank God. But she said that the mucus need to dry up. Apparently, I had been living with stuffed sinuses for most of my life. I was given antibiotics and nasal spray to de-clog my sinuses, and I was assured that they are safe even while breast feeding.


And the X-ray? She said that I no longer need one. Because I already had nasal endoscopy and she's seen all that she needs to see to give me a diagnosis.

The two-hour wait at the laboratory came back to me and I almost feel a rising anger towards the first doctor who checked me and recommended the X-ray.

There was no way to compromise, so now we're living SEPARATE LIVES.

 
My Medela sits forlorn on top of our dinner table.

And there's a part of me that feels guilty each morning when I leave without my not-so-little black bag that has become my closest companion since I resumed work after my two-month maternity leave.

Before this week, the longest goodbye that I could endure between me and my Medela Swing is four hours. Beyond this length of time is inconceivable. Long separations from it are literally painful and heavy to the chest.

So, you see, this relationship is really very intimate and is incomparable to anything I have had or am still having with anyone. You can even say that I have been too clingy and dependent in this case. And this has been going on for more than nine months, which is also longer than most past relationships that I've had.

Most importantly, this is the only relationship that did not disappoint me. All that was promised, it delivered. It gave and did not take anything in return. (Well, except for my initial investment which is, of course, necessary in every relationship.) It secured for me unrivaled benefits that not even the father of my son could provide.

But numerous demands at work leave me no time to nurture this relationship. That is why I have to give this up.

But no, this is not total non-commitment - because, as in all relationships, getting over does not happen overnight. And, in my case, I relapse much too often.

So, every night, when I arrive home from work - after kissing my Qube and asking how his day was - I lock myself up in our bedroom to have a little private time with my Medela.

And emerge right back with two 5-ounce bottles full of breast milk.To be stored for Qube's consumption the following morning.


Footnote: Despite having given up my pump-at-work routine, I am still night nursing Qube, and hope to do so in the months to come.

On being starstruck.

I was walking to the office this morning when I noticed Chris Tiu staring at me. I turned around to confirm if it was really Chris Tiu - and yes, it was him! And he was following me with his gaze.

Too taken aback, I did not immediately notice that there were several other stars with him at the Ayala - Makati Ave. underground walkway. Kris Aquino was there, Matteo Guidicelli, Derek Ramsey, Chris Villonco, and several other well-known personalities. I think even Manny Pacquiao was there.


But I did not really care about everyone else. Chris Tiu was looking at me, and it was all that mattered. I knew there and then that I'll have a great day ahead of me.



















Oh, and yes. Here is the photo of Chris Tiu promoting Habitat for Humanities at the Ayala walkway.

Storm signals up.

Stormy Tuesday is reflective of my state of mind today. Or one might be an effect of the other.

Was about to say that it's a case of chicken vs. egg, but who am i kidding to think that my mood could have an effect on the weather? The closest probability is that my perception of the severity of the weather has something to do with my mood. On an early Tuesday!

Friggin' umbrella broke on me today. I, myself, am so close to breaking too.

And the week has just started.

I could have been breezing the storm away because of several pseudo-achievements at work. Then again, pseudo-achievements have been slightly marred with the realization that i am still a few notches below completing everything in my plate this year - and it will be October in a few days. Barely a month to go before our next Board reporting.

On the other hand, maybe I should consider it a good sign that I have been this involved with work. A hundred-eighty degree turn from how I was last year. But hey, everything has been a hundred-eighty degrees different today compared to last year. I was fat and pregnant and did not care about anything else but my bulging tummy.

Now, I have my 9-month old Qube and loads of presentation materials to finish.

I soo envy those sleeping in today. Wet and stormy dreams to everyone.

Missing.

Thirteen hours away from home, and i am already missing my little imp.



I promised the husband* that i won’t be writing any blog entries tonight.

But what the heck, this is my first night free of motherly responsibilities and wife duties, so i will celebrate it by….

…staying in my hotel room writing about how  much I am already missing Qube I want to cry. Only that I’ve been told not to think of him a lot, else he won’t be able to sleep through the night. I hope he does.

I hope I’d be able to sleep too. I’ve already forgotten how it feels not to have Qube sleep beside me.

And for the husband*, I also will not pass the chance to tell the world about how, at 1:30 in the morning, you had me brought you to the ER because of pins and needles on you arm, heart burn, backache, nausea, headache, and what have yous – the night before my very first overnight trip away from home. Go figure.


Haaay, I miss you both.

Eighth Highlights.

Technically, it's still during the eighth month.

Went home last Friday with a not-so-good mood and a giant headache. I was greeted by a smiling Qube doing "The Close-Open".

Was i happy? I was ecstatic and the giant headache suddenly vanished!

Before the eighth month ends, let me count the ways that Qube made me smile on this particular month:  

1. Close - Open: When we had just about given up on him learning to do it.

Starting on his 3nd month, we had been trying to teach him this, but he always seemed oblivious to my and his dad's efforts.

But last Friday, when I arrived and Yaya asked him to show me – he closed his fist tightly, then opened it to show his palm, then he did it two more times. There was no mistaking it; he was really doing The Close – Open!

The catch? He refuses to do it more than twice a day. Or twice to the same person. Stubborn little imp. 

2. Dance, dance: Nobody taught him. Well, I am not sure if Yaya did, but since both I and his dad never learned how to dance properly, we simply did not include it in our agenda to teach Qube. Maybe his daily dose of Showtime is to blame.

We just noticed one night that each time the Dell Fabric Conditioner commercial comes up on TV, he would suddenly turn and stare intently at the TV. Then he would begin swaying his head and move his body in tune with the jingle. That is when we recognized that he was dancing. Several more of  “May one rinse na ang Dell, may one rince na ang Dell…” sang by yours truly, confirmed our theory that he was indeed dancing to the TV jingle.

Now, his repertoire includes: Gotta Feeling by the Black Eyed Peas, Pokerface by Lady Gaga, On the Floor by J. Lo, The Time (Dirty Bit) by Black Eyed Peas, The Sweet Escape by Gwen Stefani and Akon, and a selection of nursery rhymes and bedtime songs.

Oh, and yes, he dances when he likes his food.

3. Clap them softly, 1, 2, 3: The first few times he did it should not counted. Because they were so random and not connected with any particular emotion.

This time, he claps when he is happy, when he sees something on TV that delights him, when he sees Mama about to pick him up, when he is playing with Leopard (his Animaland stuffed bestfriend), when he is playing peek-a-boo with Papa, when he dances.

4. Alive, Awake, Alert, Enthusiastic: Whenever I arrive home from work, I always try to sneak to the bathroom, have a drink of water, change my clothes, before I show myself to Qube. Else, he would be jumping with outstretched arms and shouting “Mama”, and I would not be able to disengage myself from him until a few hours later.

And every day after work, at playtime, he’d start to babble animatedly, hold his breath, tense his body, and squeal. He always does this when he is excited or when he is very eager to talk. And always, I’d have to rub him on his back to make him relax and just try to talk slowly.

5. Crawling little pig everywhere: By now, I’m getting used to turning towards my back first before making any move, to be sure that I would not be stepping on a crawling Qube, because he now makes his presence known in every nook of our apartment.

At eight months, we could no longer just sit and watch TV peacefully. It would always be either me or Papa chasing Qube everywhere.

One of these days, I might just tie him on a leash. Promise.

6. Bedtime singing: I’ve already mentioned in another blog entry that whenever I sing him to sleep, he’s start to slap my face and take over my singing. He does it every night.

Last night, because I want to tease him and test his singing prowess, I started singing in a falsetto. And he did the same!

But because I do not want to make false claims when I boast this to friends, and especially when I write about it, I modified my singing to use my normal voice. And he hummed in his normal voice. Still, not contented because it might have been just a coincidence, I again sang in falsetto voice. And yes, my Qube also began humming in falsetto.

Well, picture me smiling smugly to the husband*. The baby took after me, afterall.

There are many more little things that Qube does to make us proud parents believe that he is the best eight-month old there is today. But of course, all proud parents think this too.

This ends our amazing – eight journey.

Welcome to nine months, Qube.

Thursday, I don't care about you...

And Friday,

I don't feel loved.

Put simply, this week is not my best week.

With a combination of female hormones, frenzy at the workplace, lack of sleep, and chaos at home, what should one expect?

Only new mothers would understand. I think.

To cap off this week, here are song fragments that have been playing on and off inside my head to describe how I feel, because I am in no mood to use my own words:

Unwell – Matchbox 20

“I'm feeling like I'm headed for a breakdown

I don't know why

I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell”

Stomach Flu, Hangover-like headache without the booze, bad dreams this week. Yes, I am unwell.

The Scientist  - Coldplay

“Nobody said it was easy

No one ever said it would be this hard

Oh let’s go back to the start.”

Well, the newness of everything is still overwhelming, even after nine months.

Better Days – Goo Goo Dolls

“And you ask me what I want this year

And I try to make this kind and clear

Just a chance that maybe we’ll find better days

‘cause I don’t need boxes wrapped in strings

And desire and love and empty things

Just a chance that maybe we’ll find better days.”

I could go on singing this song ‘til the end and all the lines are so apt!

Minamalas – Mojofly

I like it now more than ever – from start to finish, and especially this line:

“Minamalas, kase wala na akong mahanap na iba…”

Repeat ten times.

Imbecilesque – Rivermaya

“Good morning baby
Are you still mad at me?
I guess I couldn't blame you
I instigated this big mess
I acted imbecillesque
Yeah I know..”

Most times, it’s intentional. To make you feel as terrible as I do.

It’s hard to say I do, when I don’t - Fall Out Boy

“I speak fast and I'm not gonna repeat myself

So listen carefully to every word I say:

"I'm the only one who's gonna get away with making excuses today,

You're appealing to emotions that I simply do not have"

This should not have been included hadn’t somebody popped “The Question” early this morning. So, there.

Spend My Life – Eric Benet

“Can I just see you every morning when I open my eyes
Can I just feel your heart beating beside me every night
Can we just feel this way together till the end of all time
Can I just spend my life with you”

Of course. Despite all the talk, this is still my song.

 

Little James – Oasis

“thank you for your smile
you make it all worthwhile
to us”

Just this morning before leaving for work, I looked at my sleeping Qube and yes,  you make it all worthwhile, my little James Quasar Qyle.

Bukol Survival Tips

Qube got his first bump in the head last night while playing with Papa. With how both father and son reacted, i cannot be sure who between them was more hurt.

Qube hardly cries whenever he tumbles to the floor, hit whatever part of his body with his toys, with the door, chairs, or even when he accidentally head butts me. But last night, he was fighting the urge, but let out a sniffle anyway. And it took several more minutes before he recovered to his usual self.

His usual self can be described by flashing back to 30 minutes before his minor accident:

I was singing “Are you lonesome tonight?” - this is his bedtime song - while feeding and trying to put Qube to sleep, when he pulled himself away from me, stood up, and sort of took over my singing (yes, he does that! I’ll probably have to cam cord it as proof.), prompting his Papa and kuya Jigz (who is on school break and came here for a visit) to come inside the bedroom and witness his little show.

Realizing that he had more than his usual audience, the singing turned to dancing and tumbling around while being held and restrained by his dad.

Then it happened.

Maybe I should still be thankful that Papa’s teeth didn’t fall as a result. Though he swears that it is really painful, which I totally believe because Qube once hit me with his head and my upper lip ruptured.

For similar future events, which I am told is inevitable, here’s my to do list:  

·         Stay calm. And tell the dad not to panic (because he has the tendency to overreact). I can tell from very limited experience that Qube’s reactions (crying, shock, etc.) are especially influenced by the expression of everyone else around him (e.g., the flower on his hair, the Ildefonso incident). 

·         Kiss, kiss. Both the bukol on Qube’s head or any other part which might have been hurt. When I was a child, a kiss from my mom always takes away 80% of the pain. I intend to pass on the tradition to my own kids. 

·         Ice, ice, baby. This one is no myth. And I am copy/pasting my internet research as support: Applying an ice pack will decrease the eventual size of the bump. Apply the ice for 20 minutes and then take a 5-minute break, then 20 minutes again. Offer your child a treat to eat during the icing to console him. 

Although for Qube, I did not need to offer anything else. The feel of the cold on his skin was enough to amaze him and stop him from squirming free of my embrace.    

·         Check for cuts, blood. Though if there is any, it would be hardly negligible. I was told though that cuts on the face, scalp area bleed much more than other areas of the body.  If there is bleeding, apply pressure to the cut using a clean washcloth with ice. The wash cloth, well, washes away the blood while the ice prevents the blood vessels from swelling. Basta, do it daw.  

·         Calpol. Whenever Qube has his monthly vaccine, his pedia always asks us to give him Calpol or Tempra every 4 hours to relieve the pain. Internet research suggests that this works as well for cuts, bruises, bumps and similar minor injuries.

But since the “kiss to the injured part” worked already, I saw no need to administer Calpol, though I’ve made it a point to have one handy, for emergency use which I am glad never happens.  

·         Go out for a stroll. To help erase the memory, the dad strongly advises taking Qube out for a walk. (Just like how the husband* goes out for a walk and a yosi whenever he is finding it hard to put up with yours truly) 

True enough, after the walk and play outside, Qube was again jumping and kicking and screaming in delight, as if nothing happened just a few minutes earlier.

When I locked us inside the bedroom for another attempt to put him to sleep, Qube was humming with me to the tune of “Are you lonesome tonight?” while his mouth latched on my left breast to feed. And his left hand was alternating between pulling my other breast and slapping my chest in rhythm with our goodnight song.

TGIF and Friday thank yous.

Believe me, if most part of your nights are spent breast feeding an insatiable baby, and your work days monitoring the time for your next pump session and the number of ounces you express everyday, you'll be as obsessed as i am to discuss this topic.

Scenario 1:
I was telling the husband* (asterisk stands for "almost") yesterday that the child of my pumpmate at our company clinic yesterday is almost 2 years of age.

Husband* said: "So, you are seeing yourself 16 months from now".


The initial goal was two months (baby steps)... which then became six months and, before yesterday, was fixed at nine months.


Now the goal is not to live forever, but to pump forever?

Scenario 2:
Also yesterday, while snacking on Country Style's chocolate doughnuts, i casually mentioned to the husband* that i have not been taking Natalac for several months now.

Husband* said: "Wow. Means you're really becoming an expert at it. You are Supermom!"
Me: "No. I am Supercow!"

Now i know why i used to love this game:



But no, i am not complaining. If anything, i am very happy to have someone who totally supports me, who encourages and pushes me on when i am losing faith in my capacity to produce enough milk for Qube.

And of course, no small part is played by The Best Nanny in the World who, in her own way, continues to support my breast feeding profession:

• who has learned fast that Qube's main source of nourishment should be breast milk. And that he is to be fed infant formula only, and only, when there is no more frozen pumped milk;
• who, by now, knows that my temper shoots up whenever there is excess unconsumed breast milk in the sink;
• who, despite the lure of the easy mixture of water and powdered formula, coupled with a crying and impatient baby, chooses to patiently thaw chilled milk everyday;    
• who persistently packs an extra pumping bottle for me everyday, even when in the past two weeks, i was not able produce enough to fill those bottles. But maybe because of the pressure of seeing an extra empty bottle, i am now able to produce a few more ounces, to get rid of the empty-bottle malady.

 So, given this overwhelming support, i guess i am really off to Supermom-hood. I just hope my Medela can cope with the pressure.

Another one bites the dust.

Got finger bitten by a freakin' bee. At 5:40 am!  And Bee got murdered without remorse in an instant. That just about serves him right for trying to ruin a particularly good morning.

And particularly good morning continued despite:

1. Several oil burns from the bacon that i was preparing early this morning;
2. A text message telling me that 7:30 am meeting will be cancelled (well, i have to wake up early anyway);
3. Standing inside the office-bound bus (Ayala - Leveriza) up to Ayala Center;
4. Receiving a text message from my boss telling me that he is deciding to push through with our meeting at 7:45 am. My cellphone clock reads 7:38 am and the stop light turned as red as the sirens inside my head;
5. Running from Paseo de Roxas to my Tower One office and reaching the elevator at 7:44 am.

I was sighing heavily and waiting for the 30th elevator to go back down to the 25th (I had to go up first to get my laptop and my pen / notebook) at 7:48 am. Three minutes late, but what the heck.

Meeting is over. I know that my morning continues to be good because I am still in the mood to change into my three-inch heels. I hope i don't trip over anything today :)

Then i realized that my index finger still stings from the bite earlier.

Homesick is.

• when you left the house at 7am and realized that 12 hours has passed and you're still stuck in the office. The fact that this only happens every once in a while still does not make it less tiring;
• when you catch yourself intentionally not touching your computer keyboards so that the screensaver would flash a smiling Qube, which in turn would result to a smiling you;
• when you begin blogging instead of finishing a report for a 730am meeting the next day.
• when you can't wait to go home, because the husband* has been texting, asking what time you will be home since four hours ago, and more importantly because you don't want to miss every dinner that he prepares;
• when your breasts literally ache because it knows that by this time Qube should be breast feeding already;
• when you hit publish, thus posting an incoherent blog entry, and subsequently shutting the laptop down because you had to get home fast, nevermind the traffic that you we're supposed to avoid.

Bite me.

"Don't bite the hand that feeds you" has lately become my regular saying whenever i am with Qube.

A joke that he does not yet get, but one that i keep on repeating nonetheless because i love how his Dad reacts and shakes his head, as if wondering how in ef's world did his Qube end up with a crazy mom who talks in idioms. And i love how Qube looks up to smile at me after i say those words, as if confirming his Dad's thoughts.

But really, i am not talking figuratively whenever i say that to Qube because, at 7 months, Qube literally bites everything, my hands included. Put him down on the bed and he’ll surely attack Panda’s and Leopard’s noses, Turtle’s head, Spongebob’s arms and feet, blankets, pillowcases, mobile phones, everything. Give him his frozen teethers and he’ll chew on them nonstop, a stranger would think we are not feeding him enough (if not for his very plump arms and legs).

Last week, his first front tooth appeared and just the other day, i noticed two of them already. Given this recent development, i might now revise my saying into: “Don’t bite the breasts that feed you”, which i am sure will make Qube’s dad cringe even more, especially because i am posting this for the public to read.

And yes, i am talking about breastfeeding and my now emerging fear of  being Qube’s human teether.  But biting or no biting, i still hope to continue breastfeeding Qube long after his next sets of teeth appear.

Here are pics of Qube at seven months (totally unrelated to this teething entry):

 

the F-word

Last night, while we were trying to get Qube to sleep (picture this: my arms over his body to pin him on the bed, while he was shouting, squirming and squeezing himself out of my embrace), he did it. He said the F-word. Twice.

By now, Qube's speech is comprised of the monosyllables Bee, Kii, Boo, Peee, Nee, and when he is super annoyed because i keep on ignoring him, he blurts out Mamamamamamama with this look on his face:

And last night, he said Eff to Mama and Papa for forcing him to sleep at 1:30 in the morning. And another Eff for taking the laptop away from him while he was still enjoying Garageband.

Here's a photo of Qube at play:

Dear Qube

You weren’t the Qube I imagined. First of all, for seven months in my tummy, you weren’t Qube. I used to call you Azira, your would-be name had you been a girl. But since it took us forever to think of a perfect name for you, you were Azira for the longest time, even when we already knew that you would be a boy. Your pre-birth documents and pictures all have Azira in their file names too (which reminds me that I have to change all of them.)

It seems to me that your goal in life at this point is to surprise us every day and bend our plans your way.

You were born a month early and, while I had in my purse a print-out list of all that we should bring with us to the hospital when my and your due date comes, your dad and I ended up bringing shopping bags of unwashed newborn baby clothes and towels to the hospital (thank God, we advanced some of the items in our baby shopping list!). All because you probably decided that you already want to spend Christmas with us, which was really sweet, but my Dear Qube, you almost gave your dad and me a heart attack – your dad, especially, because it is not a secret to everyone that he hates hospitals but he did not have a choice then because it was just him and me at our house when I felt you were about to come out. This, ladies and gentlemen, is surprise number one.

The second surprise was when you finally came out after my 10-hour long labor. Although I have fairly managed not to expect too much in terms of size, I was still not prepared when I was told that you were four pounds and 11 ounces. My immediate thought was that it was a mistake. I remembered asking the nurse how to convert ounces into pounds and how many more ounces is needed before you reach five pounds.

Silently, I blamed myself for not drinking Anmum, for having an occasional soda and coffee, for sometimes missing my pre-natal vitamins, and for simply not being healthy enough to provide you with the nutrients (and genes!) that could have made you bigger, heavier, taller. What will become of your dad’s dream of letting you join the PBA? Subconsciously, this might have become my biggest motivation to breastfeed you, even when I had no milk the first few days after your birth.

When we were about to leave the hospital, your in-patient pedia told us that she thinks you are turning yellow which could mean that a) I get to leave the hospital but leave you behind for photo sessions (I was told this is not the photo op that vain people do); b) I could decide to stay and wait for you to recover but this would mean additional costs for me, of course; and c) we both get to go home and spend our very first Christmas together. And because this is a happy story, we were able to go home together and we spent our first Christmas eating take-out food from Jollibee and Ineng’s (because all the other nearby restaurants are closed for the holidays). The end.

But the surprises kept on coming.

There is the realization that you had just taken away one more month of freedom from me when you were born early, but that it’s okay because had you stuck to the plan, your Papa would not have been there to witness your birth, your first cry, your first smile because he had an out-of-town work assignment during your supposed birth week.

There is the realization that when I decided to breastfeed you, I had also given up small pleasures like shopping and going to the movies (for two months), drinking tequila, soda, coffee, and eating unhealthy food (for as long as I am breastfeeding) because I don’t want any of these in your system.

And this one is quite painful for me: I also had to give up the dream of having straight long beautiful hair (after nine agonizing bad-hair months), because I was told that I can’t get my hair rebonded just yet – and what’s the point, anyway, when I just have to tie it all the time because the strands coming in contact with your skin might cause you allergies.

There is the realization that I can no longer sleep all day during weekends because there’s you sleeping between your Papa and me: waiting to be fed, to be held, to be told stories that I am not even sure you already comprehend, to play with, to spend the entire weekend with.

In return, you grace us with your smiles, with your squeals of delight whenever we make funny faces and sounds while playing with you; you stop my story-telling with your own speech comprised of ohhs, ahhs, kiii, and other monosyllabic sounds that I and your papa pretend to understand to encourage you to talk further, and just lately, you amaze us with your ability to sit by yourself, to jump up and down nonstop when held in a standing position.

I know that this is just the beginning. Your surprises will keep on coming and I will be here to witness you becoming the Qube who is way way better than anything I had imagined.

contemplating.

Last day

Sana i could make this come true.

Coming Clean.

As a rule, I never open the topic of weddings in any conversation. But I do not necessarily hate the subject. In fact, weddings excite me just as much as the prospect of buying new shoes come sweldo weekends. Well, mainly because it does involve me buying new shoes the nearest sweldo weekend if I am to attend somebody’s wedding. I like looking at wedding pictures and formulating my own fashion dos and don’ts based on the same photos. I like watching prenup videos better than watching sappy Tagalog soaps. I like seeing people in love and declaring it to the world.

But my excitement ends just about there.

I dread having to listen to the whole procedure especially the part where couples recite their wedding vows. I have yet to hear somebody deliver lines that do not sound like an excerpt from an 80’s greeting card. I dread having to gather with all the other female guests for the ceremonial tossing of the bouquet because I hate the thought of it landing on my hands, with all the silly superstitions and beliefs that come with catching it. I prefer going alone, without a date, rather than be with my boyfriend during weddings because it would mean that he would be among the other guys who might end up with the groom’s wedding garter. I am sure I’d hate to watch him place it on the leg of the person that is not me amid bellows and catcalls from the crowd. I hate attending weddings but I do not hold my feelings against those who want to participate in this primitive ritual.

I could probably come up with a thousand reasons why I hate weddings. And just to be fair with myself, I have also given it a lot of thought, all the while wondering if I am just being illogical and short-sighted when looking at weddings. After weighing all my facts, I have decided that there is nothing wrong with me, and my bias is not at all that irrational.

Why? When we go down to the bottom of it, I haven’t really mentioned that I do not want to get married someday. I hate those generic and cheesy wedding vows, but that does not mean that I cannot come up with something fresh and original, even if it comes to the point that I myself have to write the lines for my groom. And for my own wedding, I can just ditch the other traditions that I hate and I am good to go.

The reason it makes me uncomfortable discussing it now is because I do not have ready and honest answers to the question “When are you getting married?” or “Why are you not yet married?.” Well, the severity of these questions largely depends on the personal circumstance of the person being asked. For me, the second question is worse because it has a tinge of finality and hopelessness as opposed to the first question. I have answers in my head but good morals and simple etiquette would not allow me to reply with “because I can see your life and I do not want the same for me” or with the simple but effective “I don’t see how it is any of your business”, especially when it your family who is bugging you with these types of questions. For family, my normal answer would be “I am not yet ready for something that serious”; for friends, it will be something like “what do I need it for, as long as I am with someone?”, all the while knowing that both of my family and friends are not buying any of it.

So why indeed? While both of my answers above are partly true, a much more major reason would be because, when all the shoe-shopping and other preparations are done, the fanfare would not change the fact that a wedding is a symbol of something really major that I am not sure I could sustain for life. Being so self-righteous, I honestly believe it is selfish to bind another person into a life contract with no escape clauses given the volatility of human emotions. What if the other person feels differently after two years? What if it is I who would feel differently sometime in the future? I would not want either of us to suffer needlessly because we were so in love then and we failed to look at things as objectively as possible. In short, I am fair and selfless. Second reason: I am a big spender and my annual net income is still not enough to cover all the debts that I have accumulated over the years. Given this plight, being wed is the least of my worries. Besides, it would be unfair to the person I am marrying to share in the mess that I am in. Third but not the least bit unimportant: Because he hasn’t asked me yet. Given an actual proposal, who knows? I just might flush all my arguments down the drain. After all, nobody would really believe that spiel about selflessness and fairness, when I have been consistently unreasonable and stubborn all my life, especially when it comes to getting what I want – from toys to boys – to a concatenate of both. And I really do need someone to share my finances, for better or worse.

But for now, I am content to be with someone who I hope to be with long into the future. Depending on how volatile our emotions would be. Or on how long he could tolerate my cooking.