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 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.

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.

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.