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.

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.

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.

Another one bites the dust.

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

And particularly good morning continued despite:

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

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

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

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

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.