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!"

Sugar, sugar!

The husband* has caught the candy bug.

If you noticed that I haven’t progressed much in Candy Crush Saga, or that I have not been responding to your SOS requests, it’s because I have not been playing this game lately – but the husband* does and using my phone. So whenever he is eager for me to get home after work, I try not to flatter myself into thinking that it’s me he wants to see. True enough, in less than a minute of seeing each other, he would ask for my phone and begin to totally ignore me.

We are now at Level 202 and stuck there.

Much as I want to play when I have lulls in the office, I can’t because of two reasons:

• The level looks fairly easy and I could finish it in a breeze, but it is one of the rare chances for the husband* to finish one level, so I might as well give him this chance; and
• I might actually find it difficult to move to the next level and consume all five lives. Since it will take a while before those get replenished, I don’t want to risk his wrath when the husband* finds out that he has no available candy lives to play with.

You think it ends there? One of the things that I have to ensure is having adequate battery life for when he starts playing. And of course, the requisite “Wow! You did great!”  when he is two moves short to finishing one level.

This is not to say though that we lack deep cerebral conversations. We actually set aside time to discuss and visualize situations and scenarios that, no doubt, will be very important in decision-making and as we go about our everyday lives. Scenarios like:

Him:  What would happen if we have two on the left, two on the right, two more vertically at the center above our first four similar-colored candies, and we push one candy from below to the center in between the two-and-two?

Me: We’ll have a cookie.

Him: But it’s not fair, it should be a super combo. It should be a cookie inside a candy wrapper!

Me: Yeah, but really, you only get a cookie.

Him: I don’t believe you.

Or:

Him: Do you know how many candies can we combine max?

Me: No.

Him: I think nine is possible.

Me: No, I don’t think so.

Him: Really, it’s possible.

Me: No, I can’t imagine that.

(End of discussion)

...and others like that.

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.

you (don't always) say it best, when you say nothing at all.

You were apologizing for not being able to update your blog anymore.

You said you are just happy and content. I know that already - although hearing you say it makes it more real than just me knowing and feeling it. I have to admit that your words made me a little bit happier and a little bit more adequate. As a mother and a wife.

But this is not to say that I accept your excuse for not writing. On the contrary, your statement merely reinforces why you need to write: for me, for Qube. Sometimes, a simple validation spells the difference between real and imagined emotions. Not that I have doubts, it's just that I want us to capture in words all that our hundreds and probably even thousands of photos (already) with Qube cannot show. I want us to be able to tell him his story as crisp as when we experienced them, and not as blurry recollections of two old people that we will eventually become.

I, too, am happy and content. And I have allowed a lot of Qube's significant firsts to pass without writing about them because, whenever I start writing, my words always seem to diminish their meaning, how I felt about them and, hard as i try, they are simply too big to fit into one blog entry. 

But i guess whatever I will come up with is still better than not having anything to tell at all.

So today, while I try to narrow down my list and write about each one of them, I need you to help me out.

Mondays are for remembering everything that makes everyday special.

Today I woke up and kissed my still sleeping Qube. Much as I wanted to wake him, I could not. Else, I'll have a hard time trying to (physically) detach him from me as I prepare myself for work. So all I can do was look at him and marvel at how fast he is growing up, and smiled at the realization that he now exhibits the smarts to go with his good looks. Thank You God for these.

For perfect evenings that cap my days, and for a husband who is far from perfect but is trying soo so hard to be one, thank You.

Chronicles of a Nursing Mom: Guest Post: Busting Those Breastfeeding Myths and ...

Chronicles of a Nursing Mom: Guest Post: Busting Those Breastfeeding Myths and ...: I'm quite lucky to have my officemate Margaux offer to write this article about busting breastfeeding myths. She was able to rally the expe...

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.

Almost six (teeth) , almost one.

Here's Qube, as of three days ago:

A happy friday smile for everyone!

 

Back with a vengeance

It has been a crazy month for me at work, and an especially crazy couple of weeks of board meetings and report preparation. Plus the fact that i had been too lazy to write these past few weeks.

And no, i am not pregnant. (I had to insert this statement because people at work have been joking around that i might be pregnant again due to my recent healthy food fad)

Now, move on to more important things.

Qube has already turned 11 months and I was not able to chronicle his 9-10 milestones. His social initiation officially started at 9 months and he's been doing great in all parties that he has been into. I hope he'll be as bubbly during his own party come December.

Here's a list of Qube's "big ticket" events that I was not able to write about:

• First Family Day at ALI (September 30) - This will be the first of (hopefully) many happy family days in ALI that I will celebrate with Qube and his dad. And the highlight of this day's event? Qube winning the youngest male guest award! Nevernind that he was not really the youngest there, because as I was about to run up the stage to claim our prize, I saw several infant guests who, I am sure, are way way younger than my Qube. I therefore conclude that those kids were late for the registration.

• First birthday / costume party @ Uno (October 8 or 15) - First birthday party attendance and first time to meet Papa's friends and their kids, Qube's future drinking buddies, I suppose.

• First ever concert: LIBERA @ the Cultural Center of the Philippines (October 25) - Christmas began early as the family watched Libera's Christmas concert. Our reason for watching? These kids' songs serve as Qube's lullabye even before he was born. He must have realized too that the sound seems familiar because he started shouting and singing along amid the stillness of the crowd. It was amusing, of course, but the ushers apparently weren't as amused as I was because they later on came to tell us to hold Qube's version of "Joy to the World" to some other time. Well, not exactly, but it was to that effect.




• First swimming party @ Tita Hershey's chubhouse (October 31) - Maybe it was the prersence of other kids, maybe because Kuya Jigs was still there swimming and playing. Or maybe Qube is just a water person, because he did not want to leave the pool even when his fingers and toes had already shrunk from being submerged in water for quite a time. And this swimming proved to be just the first of other similar events. (However, no photo to show for this because we did not yet have the money to buy the high-end, high-powered camera that I want)

• First Halloween party at ALI (October 28) - My little devil donned in a little red devil costume. And he brought home a witch's pot full of candies which he could not eat anyway.

• First movie in a cinema: HAPPY FEET in Glorietta 4 (November 26) - It would have been “Puss in Boots” in Greenbelt. But when we went there a few weeks ago to watch (because we did not check the schedule online), we were dismayed to know that we arrived past the last screening time on that Sunday night. So, when we decided to watch “Happy Feet 2”, we were at the malls as early as 11am to ensure that we would not miss the movie and to get the best possible seats. Everything was according to plan, except that when we were about to enter the cinema, the guards blocked us because we only have four tickets, and those tickets are for me, Papa, Tita Let and Yaya. They were asking us to purchase a ticket for Qube, who is 11months old and who was even asleep when we entered! To make the long story short, and because a queue is already forming outside, we gave in and just asked Tita Let to go to the booths to buy another ticket.

And because Qube paid for his ticket, he now had the right to shout to his heart's content and enjoy the movie any way he wants! That he did, and neither I nor Papa made any effort to stop him. Afterall, there is an extra unoccupied seat that we were asked to pay for. Surely, Qube's way of enjoying the movie would not inconvenience anyone.

When I see you smile...

I see your upper incisors cutting through.


So expect that in a few more days, Qube's smiles will have a totally different look.

Though I am sure that they will be just as lovely.

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.

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.