Confessions: This is not for the faint-hearted.

When you died, it was not like in the movies. It did not feel like how books would describe it. I did not play my part as perfectly as I should. I did not mourn you.

On the first day of your wake, I wore an orange dress and went to the beach with friends. That was, I think, the most effective way to earn the ire of old relatives. I actually didn't care. But I went through the motions and acted out all the things normal people do, anyway. I knew they all meant well.

When you died, a part of me was even pleased in a distorted kind of way. I milked everybody’s sympathy the best way I could. These are perks that you don’t get to use often, and I made sure I maximized the benefits I got from it. When I failed to show up for my Business Law exams, I used your death as an excuse. When I stuttered through my thesis defense, the panel cannot help but throw me sympathetic glances (my thesis defense happened the morning before your funeral). When I was unsure about my performance in my departmental final exams, I shrugged it off as a side effect of mourning.

When you died, no matter how I tried, I could not feel guilty for the part of me that felt relieved. It was like a very heavy burden has been taken off my chest. I was thankful that I won’t have to see you go through another chemo. That I would not have to spend another day in the hospital. That we won't have to worry about where to get the money for your treatment. It was not easy seeing you sick like that. Six years of cancer is not easy to deal with.

Contrary to what others feared, my life did not break to pieces. In fact, I held up pretty well. Things went on normally after your funeral.

You died in March. The first time I realized that something was wrong with me was in December. For the first time in my life, I was not excited about Christmas. I was not happy.

And then it hit me. I stopped being happy when you died. That part of me died with you.

But it wasn't as horrible as it seemed. At times, it was even pretty convenient not to feel anything. Days became monotonous. A series of unhappy Christmases came one after another. To say that I endured these days isn't exactly accurate. I did not care. I was okay. I made stupid life choices and chose to love the wrong people. But that was exactly the point. I wanted the fleeting satisfaction of making good of an otherwise hopeless situation. This gave me a temporary kind of high. It was all good until it lasted.

Two years ago, I gave birth a few days short of Christmas. It was the happiest I have been in a very very long time. Yes, motherhood changed everything. Each time I look at my son, I feel overwhelmed with love and happiness. For the first time in years, I started looking forward to Christmas and my son’s birthday.

But I would be lying if I say that I am complete now. I am better now, but what’s dead is dead and I am still in the process of growing a new heart. I still feel hollow. And I still miss you every day.

Questions?

"Mama, I have a question."

Although I was taken aback by this "a little too adult" approach by my two-year old, I pretended not to notice and said: "Ok, what's your question?"

Qube: "Train!"
Me: "Uh, what's the question?"
Qube: "Train!"
Me: "But that is not a question. When you say you have a question, it means you have to ask me something."
Qube : (A little impatient by now) "Train, Mama. Si Pete!"

Of course, he was asking FOR something, I understood that pretty well. However, when he came to me with the "I have a question" statement, my immediate response was to try to elevate our level of conversation from the baby talk I am used to, to a conversation with an equal, and it includes expecting him to properly deliver a question.

Having had lots of practice arguing with the husband*, it occurs very rarely for me not to know what to say in a particular situation, and that day was one of those moments - I did not know how to explain to a two-year old the difference between a question and a statement.

These were the possible explanations running through my mind that day:

• A question is when you to pretend to give your parents the option to grant or not to grant your request: 

Example: "Can I buy a train?"

This approach gives your parents the feeling of having power over you. And when you start feeding their ego, it would be easier to convince them to give in. 

• A statement is when you cut all the crap and just say that you want something and expect that it will  be handed over to you.

Example: "I want a train!"

A big NO. You don't want to appear arrogant and spoiled. Remember the first rule, parents like to believe that because they are your parents, they should be the ones laying out the rules. And if you think you are the only arrogant member of the family, think again.

And my dear Qube, "train" is a noun. Or the "object" of your desire. For it to become a sentence, you must supplement a subject and a verb to your object (train). It has exceptions though, but you are too young to learn those.

Okay, I held off telling him these. But really, should I already start reviewing sentence types and structures? Or more than that, should I begin to worry about my thought process and the possibility that Qube just may have taken after me?

On a more serious note, should I be concerned about the way I talk to him? Am I beginning to burden him with expectations way way beyond his age?

Well, in defense though, I don't expect him to be able to write his full name at his age. That is just too much. However, I do expect that he knows his alphabet and numbers even when he is very sleepy or upon waking up. I expect that he knows how to read Qube whenever and wherever he sees it. Or type his iPad's passcode because it's just logical that he knows its passcode given that he doesn't even let me borrow it.

I don't expect him to be a good dancer. In fact, I don't want him to. But he should be able to carry a tune. Sayang naman pagiging bokalista ng tatay nya. Ahem. Okay, maybe this is too much, given I still seriously doubt the authenticity of his dad's claim.

Here's one truth though, I need toddler parenting classes. Seriously.

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?

Palusot.

I was watching Qube play with his trains a short distance from where I was having breakfast. He was again removing everything he sees on the couch. Whenever he wants to play, he does not want any obstruction blocking the path of his trains. This time, he was busy removing pillows and putting them on the floor.

Seeing that I was intently looking at him, he turned towards me and asked: "Mama, is that a giant electric fan?"

I thought for a moment and surmised that, well, he was saying that in reference to his size. I innocently replied: "Yes baby, that is a very big electric fan."

With that, he smiled and said: "I know Mama. Look, na-blow kang electric fan ang pillows to the floor."

Here comes my moral dilemma. Applaud the effort and get him off the hook? Or tell him that no, that is not the truth?

I did not see this as one of the things I should worry about a thousand days ago.

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.

Wet Summer Nights

I opened my eyes and saw Qube standing over and intently staring at me. At 230 in the morning! Then when he saw that I am awake, said: “Mama, maihi ako!” (Mama, I need to pee!). And just like that, drowsy and still half-dreaming, I had to jump out of bed and dash to the bathroom with Qube amid all the pillows that have already become our nighttime fortress.

It’s been like that for the past few weeks. Whenever I hear the word “maihi (pee)” in the wee hours of the morning, I swear I could literally feel adrenaline surging through my brains and see sirens flashing rapidly in the background as I carry Qube off the bed and into the bathroom.

And success for both of us means being able to outrun his wee-wee. Afterwards, Qube would proudly say: "Wow, dae basa ang briefs!" (Wow, the briefs did not get wet!")

When we go back to the bedroom, he’d go right back to sleep, oblivious to the mini heart attack that I just went through.

Let me make it clear though, these early morning frenzies are great sources of pride for all potty training moms like me. And no, I am not exaggerating when I described how it is like whenever Qube feels the urge to urinate in the middle of our sleep. Oh, and yes, the husband* is usually fast asleep while this is happening.

Things have not always been like this, though. We've also had our share of waking up to a wet mattress and blankets, and being forced to change clothes and replace the bed covers with extra thick ones at three in the morning. And if it is not obvious enough, these instances also equate to having to sleep with dried urine on our bodies. So, you have to understand my panic to reach the bathroom when a chance presents itself to save us from literal wet sleeps. And lately, it's been presenting itself every night. To my relief.

Sometimes  it’s tempting to go back to the comforts of the disposable diapers. But, as pointed out by the husband*, this is a necessary step for Qube to achieve diaper-independence.

I have long readied myself emotionally for these, though we only started to seriously train Qube to use the potty during the Easter break. And forgive me for bragging, but I can proudly say that despite being a working mom and all, I was the one who made him pee inside the bathroom. The first time, the second time, and the third time the same day. While there were lapses during the next few days, that first day success was what convinced him to try the potty again the next day, and the day after, until it has become his daily routine.

These days, whenever Qube says: "Tara, maihi kita!" in the middle of his play, you'll be amused to see all of us (Yaya, me, the husband*) drop whatever we are doing and run to his side to usher him to the bathroom.

To be rewarded with his grin and this statement: "Wow, very good na ako!"