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.

The Chuggtastic effort to bring home Koko

I should have known that he was devising his grand scheme the moment he asked for breakfast and did not like any of the options presented to him.

"Mama, there's no food here!"

By "no food here," he means he did not like the egg, longanisa, and shanghai rolls offered to him.

Cookies?
No.
Sky Flakes?
No.
Milk?
He began crying and declared that he was hungry and wanted to eat.

In other words, he wanted to eat out.

No problem.

We went to Chow King and  I was told that my Congee order was not available. Great. Now I have to convince Qube to try to eat something else. Eventually, he agreed to Macaroni soup in Jollibee. I know. I have written in another blog post that I do not tolerate feeding children with fast food junk. Shame on the condescending other me. It is indeed much easier to write rules than implement them, especially with a hungry toddler.

While I was helping him eat his soup, he said: "Where's my toy?"

"We came here to get breakfast, not to play. Go ahead and finish your food so we can go home already." He did finish his food and did not bring up his "toy" question again.

I saw a man selling balloons outside and I immediately spotted Mickey Mouse. I told Qube that I will buy him one later because he was behaved and he did not have a hard time finishing his food. So on our way out, I led him to the direction of the balloons. He resisted. He said: "No balloons, Mama. I don't want balloons."

I was mighty proud and was even smiling to myself as I thought: "Wow, show me another toddler who refuses to buy a toy!"

So when he asked me "Mama, can we ride a taxi going home?" , it was an easy yes for me. Which must be my biggest mistake that day because, thirty minutes later, I found myself in Rustan's Makati, paying for another Chuggington train. And beside me? A very happy toddler in sando and pambahay shorts.

Breaking in the new train.

Koko saying hi to the other Chuggers

How did this happen?

We boarded the taxi and I told the driver the direction going home. Then Qube said: "Akala ko we will buy a toy?"

No, we will not.
Akala ko we will buy a toy.
No, we will not.
Akala ko we will buy a toy.
No, we will not.
Let's buy a toy, Mama.
No.

That's Qube when he wants something so badly. He would keep on insisting and repeating himself until I give in. This time though, I did not yield. I won. We got off the cab.

And. Here. Come. His. Tears.

And with his tears went my resolve. Two minutes later, we were again inside the same taxi. I could not even look at the driver as he said: "O, pinagbigyan mo rin!"

As if forgetting the drama that just happened, Qube said: "Mama, pwede si Koko? I already told Papa I want to buy Koko." I don't know when that conversation with Papa was or if he really did tell his dad about his plan to buy a new train. Then it dawned on me that my toddler had been playing me all along.

To make matters worse, his train was not available in Rockwell. And that was how we found ourselves in Makati.

Did I already say that we were both fresh out of bed and looked exactly fresh out of bed when we went out to get breakfast?

The Dad of Awesomeness!

Dear husband*, upon seeing this, I’m pretty sure you instantly knew that this is an excuse for not having and not planning to have a Father’s day gift for you. That question being out of the way, let me now proceed to tell the world how much of a trophy husband* and father you are (but hey, let me point out that you have hit the jackpot in me too!).

Some of the items here were taken from the “A Thousand Excuses” note in my mobile phone. It was written with the intention of “saving” me should a make or  break situation arise for us. I realize though that it should not have to reach that point for me to show some appreciation, or more importantly, to be able to diss you publicly, knowing that you will not retaliate in the same manner.

• Last Dec 21, 2010, you stood perplexed inside the delivery room and could hardly catch up with the nurse who wheeled Qube away to the nursery. My instructions were very clear before the epidural claimed all sense out of me: “Take lots of photos and don’t take your eyes away from Qube, else we end up bringing home another baby”. As a consequence of you freezing instead of making sure that the hospital staff tagged the correct baby, we are now not sure that he is really ours. On the flipside, I still feel a little warm inside knowing that it took all of your courage (and almost, your job)  to choose to stay with me during the entire ordeal. But because this is too sappy even for me, my official story at work it that you stayed because I threatened not to give you  naming rights for Qube.

• You were clueless as all new fathers are. And despite Qube’s incessant crying and my helplessness the first day at home, you refused to feed him formula milk when I suggested we give him some. Instead, you braved the infant section of the mall and bought me my very first breast pump, together with a supposed breastfeeding pillow that does not look anywhere near a breastfeeding pillow. Without you or me realizing it at the time, this turned out to be the best parenting support you had given me yet.
  
  
  
• I could not assess how effective or ineffective you were as a baby sitter when Qube was little. In my mind, you were always playing poker while I was busy trying to be the perfect mother. You never told me about the hands that you folded or the online tourneys you’ve lost because you were changing soiled diapers and failed to act on your trips or pocket aces. Or maybe you’re just really a lousy poker player. So when you started introducing Qube to poker chips, I could not immediately decide whether to hope that he’d become a poker genius by the age of five, or worry that he’d get broken-hearted over and over again by bad beats and miscalculated calls.

• What kind of father would quit his job a mere five months into parenthood? Apparently, it is also the kind of father who gets sick whenever his work demands him to be away for days on end. It is the kind whose weekend plans always revolve around his son and who feels guilty and makes me feel equally guilty whenever we spend more hours at work than with Qube. It is the kind of father who conveniently uses “the wife did not approve” as an excuse for not going out on a drinking spree with friends, when the truth is he is usually just lazing around playing with Qube whenever he uses that excuse. And for everyone else’s info, I am not that kind of wife.

Fast forward to two years:

• I was trying to get some work done one weekend so you volunteered to go malling with Qube. Needless to say, you were so happy to spend some alone time with Qube without me hovering and sharing the attention. Everything was perfect:  Qube was full, he fed the fishes, he was happy, and every now and then you would text me an update about your day out with Qube. Five hours later, you arrived home from your little adventure. You were one proud daddy. Then Qube looks for his milk. Then you look for your backpack. Then we all began looking for your backpack. It’s gone! Together with Qube’s milk and several bottles. I did not care about your bag. But the milk bottles. The milk bottles! Note to self: No more working at home on weekends.

• You know how much I hate the fast food-dependence that I see in a lot of kids today. That is why I really appreciated you taking him to Fruitas while waiting for me in Landmark one grocery day. Until I asked Qube where he has been and what he ate while waiting for me, and he proudly told me: “I ate fries in Jollibee, Mama!” You should have seen your face when I turned to you for an explanation. Another note to self: No more staying in the office beyond 5pm, especially when Qube is waiting.

• You are usually the one to remind me about Qube’s check-ups and I always make it a point to personally take Qube to his pedia, except during his last check up when I really couldn’t get off work early. You assured me that you can do it since it was your rest day anyway. And once again you saved me. Except you forgot everything that Doc said during the check-up so I had to call her the next day and ask her to repeat all of her instructions, including the next vaccines and vaccination dates. Don’t worry though, I did not take this against you since Doc assured me that all Daddies are the same, and went on to tell me her complaints about her own husband.

• At two year old, Qube seems to have already formed an opinion about each of us. And yes, you are his preferred playmate while my role seems to have been confined into all things related to food and sleep. Boo. Maybe because you allow him to do stupid things. Remember when he bumped into a chair and fell headfirst on the floor because he was running with a shirt covering his face? You were both playing NINJAs then! Well, one downside to being as hands-on as you are is that all of his little mishaps happen with you. And I get to accuse you again.

I know that this list hardly sums up your being a father to Qube, and you might even argue that this list does not include your more noteworthy achievements. But if I were to rate you using only this, I’d still say that you exceed all expectations and, believe me, my standards are not low. And even without asking Qube, I know that he looks up to you like a god, even I get a little jealous sometimes.

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.

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.

You got me stranded (in your smile).

Reposted from my facebook notes. Dated May 22, 2011

Just this morning, you flashed me your beautiful toothless grin and there, I decided I want to spend another hour in bed with you – all the while knowing that by doing so, I’d have to cramp taking a bath, getting dressed, kissing you and your Papa goodbye into the 10-minute window I have left before heading to work, then returning from the door to give you another round of kisses.

And just this morning, while walking down the flight of stairs from 501, I thought of how much you’ve grown from the 4-pound little boy that we brought home from the hospital last December 24. You can now sit by yourself in your wheels (that is how your papa and I refer to your stroller) – a milestone that I proudly shared to my fellow moms at work – my Qube is becoming independent na.

I remembered how small and fragile you were when we brought you home. And you were yellow – as in jaundiced yellow.

Sunbathing to remove the yellow.

Qube at 8 days.

But being the little fighter that you are, you got over the jaundice, grown at the pace that your pedia has had a hard time believing, and turned into quite a looker. In fact, as early as now, girls already swoon over you. Of course, I am on top of the list. The English-speaking-pretty-five-or- something-little girl in BHS who came from nowhere and started kissing you the last time we were there,  the strangers who stop us in malls and at the airport to greet you and to ask if you are of foreign blood and not to be outdone are your Lolas and Titas who are understandably biased towards you.

There are many other small things about you that I should have written from day one. But I got so engrossed witnessing and marveling at your day to day growth that I couldn’t get myself to leave you, to write. Besides, we take photos of you every day… and if there’s any truth to the saying that a picture paints a thousand words, there would be several volumes of books about you by now.

But you see, I realized that it’s not enough. So while you are asleep beside me, I decided to start writing. And there will be separate stories about your first smile, your first turn, your refusal to do “close-open” until now and your papa’s insistence that it’s still too early to push you to “close-open” your hands, your first real laugh, your excitement when you want me to get/hold you, and many many others.

Happy fifth month Qube.

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.

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.

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.

My dear eldest nameless child.

By now, you can probably hear me and your father talk about you endlessly every night, heck, every moment that we are together. By now, you probably already know that our goodnights revolve around what your name will be after you are born and about how I always complain that my name will be reduced to a mere middle initial because your father wants his name imprinted all over you. Don’t worry, I have no qualms about it at all. Truth be told, I am actually even prouder that he considers you to be his own wonderful creation. And that I co-created you with him. (My conversation with your father will have a different perspective though: “He co-created you with me.” Don’t mind us. Someday you will understand and will laugh about our silly competitions)

By now, the conversations you hear between me and your father may already have wielded your opinion about how we will be as parents. So, as early as now, am writing this to manage your expectations (and in the same way, manage our fears of not being the best parents we hope we could be).

Your father and I, we are not perfect. We’re far from it actually. At 29 and 30, we’re still children prematurely pushed into adulthood because of you. Let me tell you a little secret: I haven’t planned a future with your father because I never really believed we’d end up together. And you coming into our lives is a welcome change from that mindset. As you can probably tell from our nightly discussions and arguments.

Though I cannot speak for your father, I can tell you little things indicative of how I think he will fare as a father:

• Am not sure if you remembered the time we fought about him waking up at 2am to watch a football match between Spain and Netherlands? I cried a whole lot then because he preferred watching the FIFA finals over me losing sleep, turned out he was blogging about how he would wake up the same wee hours of the morning to take care of you when you are born.

• Your father tosses and turns a lot when he sleeps, that is why I am having second thoughts about having him sleep in the same bed with you. However, now I am pregnant with you, he always makes it a point to check whether you are comfortable, if my sleeping position does not hurt you, and if his embrace is not squeezing you inside my tummy. And he does not like my idea of keeping his bed separate from yours.

• He has zero organizational skills. In fact, he even voluntarily refers to his life as an “organized chaos” – Not to worry though; he is learning to clean up our house for starters. Lately, he has claimed the kitchen and the bathroom to be his domain.

• He’ll insist on turning the music louder than a normal person can tolerate, but I can assure you that he’ll instinctively cover your ears to shield you from the sound of thunders during a storm.

• He does not like talking to people, except a select few. And you’re on top of that selection – since he apparently talks to you a lot, even tries to verbalize you thoughts sometimes. Which I do not always agree with.

• Your father never learned to say goodnight to me. What he learned to do every night though is to listen to your heartbeat, though most of the time, it’s just my stomach digesting my dinner; to kiss and have a short conversation with you; to kiss and hold my hand till I fall asleep; to wake up to turn the aircon off whenever I complain that it’s cold already.

• Your father has had lots of women before me, a few serious ones, but he assured us that none of them could claim to be mothers of his child. You’re his first. (We might need to revalidate this one though. :)

• He is a wonderful child to your grandparents and a great kuya to your cousin. I am sure he’ll be even better as a father.

• Your father is my best friend. Sure, we fight a lot, we criticize each other a lot, we compete a lot about who is better at everything, we throw tantrums to annoy each other. But at the end of the day, we accept and try to live with each other the best way we can. I look forward to the day when you, too, could be best friends.