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.