The Search for Yaya Malen's Replacement

Wow. The last time I posted something here was almost two months ago! I have been so busy, and so tired. Being undermanned in our household has rendered me and the rest of the family more exhausted than ever. I thought that by this time we should've had found a replacement for our Yaya Malen. We have hired part-time help, but no fulltime helper could so far satisfy the high standard set by having someone as good as Yaya.

I wrote the following note a month ago.  The search goes on.

Some house help are irreplaceable. 

But yeah, I know, nobody is indispensable. 

It has been 3 months since Yaya Malen left for an indefinite vacation. She has never taken a break since she worked with me 6 years ago. She would take a day off every other Sunday. And during times when our family would be gone for a few days, she would take 2 days off only to help another family in their household chores. Her hometown is in Negros and she felt that money for her fare would be better spent by using that to help her parents. 

The other day, she officially said goodbye.  She is scheduled to get married this December and although she still wants to come and work for us, she has decided to start raising a family of her own. And I am truly happy for her. 

Our household has been in a topsy-turvy mode since she left, as she did almost everything by clockwork and has lifted all the domestic stress from our shoulders. I am however, very grateful that I still have my young but efficient Ate Anna who can do almost anything I need her help in.

But Yaya was the workhorse, and the expert.  She plans our menu, which is  quite complex, as we are not all vegan in the family.  She markets every week working within a small budget, cooks, does some cleaning and gardening. On days when I need to leave the house for work, she watches over my toddler, who is now a 4-year-old, while my other Ate watches over the smaller child. Yaya knows where all our stuff is stored, and can call appliance repair, and order Gasul, and prepare potluck meals just the way I want her to.  When guests arrive, and I'm not there, she will suffice as one efficient hospitality committee.

Months and months before she left, she had already warned me about her vacation and possible retirement. Since then, even if I did not want to focus on this loss, I lived each day dreadfully.  I couldn't imagine how I would manage without her!  During her stint with us, I gave birth to two babies, and had a change of laundry woman/yaya/all-around helper at least 5 times.  She was the constant in our domestic life.  Someone I can always count on. During the Ondoy crisis, she singlehandedly managed to clear up and clean up our place, supervising a few workers, both volunteer and paid, while the rest of us had to stay in my mom's house.  Our other helper then was on vacation and did not come back as she promised. But Yaya was steadfast, and was as competent and trustworthy as we needed her to be.  I had a 3-month-old to care for, and the 2 older kids to attend to during that very difficult time of recovery.  Knowing she was loyal, and reliable, took away from me a lot of the stress and uncertainty after that big flood.

I have lost such a precious person and until now, no matter how I have resigned to the fact that she will not be coming back, I still have this little wish she would. I appreciate her so much.

I remember the day my brother died, soon as she found out, she came up to my room, and asked me, "Okay ka lang, Ate?" with tears in her eyes. I wanted to crumble in her arms, but instead I felt strengthened.  Yaya Malen has been some sort of a fortress for me.  God has blessed me with her, to enable me to do a lot of other things.  I could lean on her and be worry-free.

Not is all loss, of course, as I have GAINED a lot of weight, as a result of my husband-chef par excellance's delectable cooking. Not that I welcome the extra pounds, but I have all the more appreciated this hardworking man of mine. I admire his talents, his reliability, his resilience.  Many times I am the optimistic one. He tells people that even if the ship is already sinking, I would still relentlessly steer it to safety.  These last months, he has been the even much stronger anchor that he is. He has been the hopeful, faithful one. One day I asked him if he was tired of doing the market.  And to my relief, he said, going to the market is like therapy to him. It gives him the wonderful joy he similarly feels when he does the grocery. I think that aside from the delight that comes from getting a lot of bargain buys and freebies after having reunited with the many sukis his dad introduced him to at Farmer's Market, he has also felt the fulfillment of mastering the art of crockpot cooking!

My eldest, who enjoys kitchen work, has grown in leaps and bounds in his dependability when his Tatay can't make it on time to prepare meals. My 14yo daughter has been more independent, has grown more patient as a babysitter, and seems to be a much better planner (she can't afford the last-minute washing of costumes or ironing of uniforms anymore). I supremely enjoy it when she has fun with her little siblings, transforming baby duty to play time.  Both teens have been spending more time with the younger ones, and continue to discover how they are actually lovable more than annoying. The little people, likewise have been experts in the chore of packing away, and in the littlest tasks they could help us in. I have spent more quality time with the babies too. I may have missed a lot of exercise and me-time but I know that I will always have those when the small ones get bigger. They grow up so quickly!

Just last week, the moment I have been yearning for since Sept. 3, 2011 happened. My youngest child turned two! It was the day I looked forward to, as I plan to wean him at this age. And I know that once he is weaned, I will have lesser anxiety about his feeding (aka more time away from home perhaps to travel or at least go to the gym).  But a week before his birthday happened, I found myself sobbing and wanting to stay close to him all day, imagining how difficult it will be for him (moreso me) to say goodbye to our bonding time whenever I breastfeed. Time flies so fast!

Time zooms too fast.

And soon as the most awaited moment arrived, I wanted things to slow down.

There are people you may be able to replace, in time.  But moments with your children, with your loved ones?  Irreplaceable.

Hapless Father's Day

I should be celebrating.  It's Father's Day.  But the last days have been so chaotic. I must 've been still recovering from all the preparations for my teen daughter's birthday and her slumber party, plus a more-than-a-week of having a not-so-helpful helper. And the unenviable hunt for a helper-cook. Throughout the day, I was weepy.

I would quickly wipe off my tears and remind myself: Wait, I am celebrating my wonderful husband today. That should stop the tears, and bring in the cheers.

But, it was one no-brief grief moment after another.  I was not as surprised, but I guess I expected that the adrenaline of making my husband enjoy his special day would be enough to keep me from missing Papa.  And Kuya, my only brother.

The month of June had too many special days in it so not to feel "Papa and Kuya-sick."  There's my eldest daughter's birthday on June 10.  She was Papa's favorite, and Kuya's godchild.  They would always try to get her the gifts my husband and I couldn't afford to buy for her.  I already got accustomed to not hearing Papa's voice greet Nik, or reading his text message asking what his granddaughter wanted as a gift. But not hearing from my brother–this was the first.

And then my Papa's birthday was on the 13th of June. Our family has stopped officially celebrating it.  It seems that we are doing our own celebrations individually, in our own corners, at our own paces and spaces left empty by him. My mom wants to busy herself on these special days because she really gets sad if she was caught not doing anything on that day. I remember she requested not to be reminded, or not to make a big thing out of dates like this.

And then Father's Day.

And later on still, there was June 26, my 3-year-old turned four. She was Kuya's favorite. Miro never got to see Papa, but her Ninong Pare?  Oh, they had a lot of fun moments of shooting raisins in each other's mouths, even while my brother was already sick.  I saw Miro very bothered, and saddened by the fact that she can't visit her Ninong Pare anymore, no more shooting-the-raisins game with him, now that he is in heaven.

I tried to quicken the crying.  I did not suppress the sorrow.  But I tried to hasten the sadness. This is probably why the gloom went on and on throughout the day.

And I felt guilty because I know I shouldn't be moping around.  But I was.  And am I glad my hubby was the kind of man that he was.  I don't know if he noticed it as I did not tell him about what was happening inside me, not wanting to ruin his day. I guess anytime now, he will be finding it all out, as he reads this. And I know it will be okay.

I am tempted to waltz around with more sentiments and wallow in feeling-words but recently, a friend told me, I write too long. This must be lengthy already. But then again my friend must've been bored two, three paragraphs ago. So might as well finish this with longer or long-overdue messages.

"Papa, I appreciate how, in your living, you helped me not to fear dying, but go soar beyond the horizon.  And thank you that in your death, you made me want to live to the full."


"Kuya, you were like a father to me, taking Papa's role when he passed on.  Thank you.  And thank you that even in your dying and most painful of days, you remained faithful to the Father, and that makes me praise Him more, even in my grief."


"Tatay, thank you for taking me seriously when I said I wanted to be the mother of your children. For carrying each of them as joys, and never burdens (no matter how heavy they are!). And for enjoying parenting the kids even while sleeping. You are truly heaven-sent."

Scars

What does your scar say about you?  Does it tell about your adventurous childhood?  Your present athleticism?

What stories do they tell?  A tragic accident on the road? An argument gone wild?

A talent agent-photographer once told me. "You know you shouldn't just be a voice talent, you can actually pass for an on-cam talent, but you have a big scar over there (pointing to my temple)." As you can tell, she's a friend. Honest, no-holds-barred encouraging kind of a friend.

So I respond: Oh, that one.

She was one of the very few who have boldly asked me about that scar. Another time, I caught a friend's younger sister (aged 4 or 5 then) staring at me. As she drew closer and closer and uncomfortably closer to me, I asked her what's the matter. She replied with a query, "Bakit ka may bi-ak dyan? (pointing and touching the famous scar)"

Oh, that one.

Just the other week, my 3yo daughter did the same thing. But she was less brutal: "Nanay, what happened to that?  Why is there a hole there?" And like a Filipino, referred to it by pointing her lips towards the right side of my face.

Oh, that infamous one.

"You see, Miro," I recognized the window of opportunity, "when I was around your age, I disobeyed Mama.  I jumped and jumped on the sofa even if she told me not to. I lost my balance, fell and hit this part of my head on the corner of our glass table." She seemed stunned. I wonder if she felt the impact of the fall, or the impact of warning her not to disobey.

My mother pinched this wound of mine intending for the skin to naturally stick together again without any need for sutures. She stayed at it even as I slept through the afternoon,  She was afraid that if she took me to the hospital, the stitches would affect my right eye. I asked her, "You mean, they might touch a nerve and affect my sight?' "No," Mama was quick to correct me.  "The stitches and the scar might pull your eye and distort it, making it different from the other eye."

Oh, that wise mother of mine.

This is the same woman who tried to "naturally seal and heal" the cut on my palm when I tripped on the floor, breaking a ceramic tea cup I was holding. I was just a toddler then.  She told me how she painstakingly clamped my skin manually with her fingers throughout the day.

I have another scar on my left outer ankle. My playmate-neighbor was playing one-on-one "soccer" with me one afternoon. The game was called soccer by the neighborhood kids, but it was an outdoor group activity more like baseball.  You kick the ball and run across the perimeter of a diamond, touching three bases to get back to homebase.

I must've been around 10 or 11 then.  The ball went to this part of our yard which was covered with freshly-cut coconut leaves. As I was about to reach for the ball, I twisted my ankle and landed on a broken glass bottle. I remember it was a Sarsi (sarsaparilla) bottle. I don't know how I did it but I still managed to get the ball and go back to our play area.  When I checked my foot, I saw blood oozing from an open and what seemed to me, a very deep cut. I didn't know what to do so I asked my playmate to get alcohol. And she ran to the house, but I called her back, realizing it would sting. So I just asked for a dipper of water. She left again, but I called her back. "Please get cotton, or a towel or... call Ate Lina." My playmate was hurrying to and fro, back and forth to me and to my house. She was the one who was panicking for me.

This time I had to be taken for stitching by my mother, who arrived a bit late that night, catching me trying to wash myself up seated on a bathroom stool, with my leg lifted on another stool.  I think that incident rendered my ankle weak for the rest of my life, as 4 or 5 years later, it was the same ankle that I injured the day before my Junior-Senior Prom. Imagine me in heels dancing the cotillion with a swollen foot. That would make another story.

The final (hopefully the last) major scar of mine is on my abdomen.  It's the result of three Cesarian Section (CS) births, sliced, then closed three times. I did not choose to deliver through CS. But the procedure was necessary. The first, because my second baby was in a transverse breech position; the second was an emergency case—the baby was having fetal distress as I attempted to give birth the Lamaze way; while the third was a scheduled CS. The gap between the last birth and this one was too short and my OB-Gynecologist did not want to risk rupture of the previous wound.

This is the battle scar I used to be embarrassed about.  But after my second surgery, when a friend of mine complained about how her CS scar really made her feel so ugly, I radically realized that this battle scar was the most beautiful mark on my body.

The temple scar was about the consequences of disobedience, and the value of a mother's...shall we say, sense of vainglorious concern for her child.

The palm scar was about the reality that stumbling is inevitable, as we learn and grow through life, and a mother's persevering commitment.

The ankle scar was about a friend's readiness to help me, and how I must have the readiness to know how to help myself.

There are many other little scars: the chicken pox scars, the scar on my knee, the invisible scar of my big toe. I say invisible because I thought it would never get better.  Yet, I don't see any trace of it now. You see, when I was perhaps 7 or 8 years old, I tripped over a galvanized sheet on Good Friday at the farm. According to my mom, children should not play on Good Friday because the old folks say wounds that "happen" on that holy day will never be healed.

Oh, and the acne scars!  Ahh...those talk about how impatient I was as a teenager, squeezing my pimples, hurrying their healing. They will always remind me of late nights as a teen, either partying or finishing some schoolwork; and of first and/or crazy love.

The CS scar?

It was all about how I have laid down my life, possibly ending it, for the beginning of another life.  Three times.

It is long, ugly and sometimes still feels tender, specially when the room is cold. But its pain is nothing compared to the scars on my Savior's side, and on his hands, and on his feet. They are results of deep, undeserved wounds.

Those scars are about God's sacrificial love for me—the one who wounds easily. And heals only, by His grace.

REPOST: “Why Go Through the Trouble”

(A Blog Article for MommySteps.com.ph Written 111011)

It was sad.  I just found out my close friend didn’t get to breastfeed her kids.  As she watched me nurse my newborn, she told me how she wished she had.  She is such an inspiring woman, gave up her career to be a fulltime mom.  She had medical practitioners like her in her family, and surrounded by loving people, but nobody cheered her on when she struggled about nursing.  No one assured her that the hard part was going to be over.

I can so understand her.  I know how it feels to be anxious about milk supply.  I’ve seen my eldest struggle just to latch on, and cry almost unceasingly out of frustration.  I went through the day with so little time to eat, sleep, and go to the bathroom, being at the beck and call of a tiny infant every 1½ hours!  I smelled of spoiled breastmilk, lungad, pee, sweat and tears all day.  I never thought it was going to be that difficult.  My Ate warned me that the first time the baby sucks, it would be so painful, your toes will curl up and exchange places with each other!  And she was so right.   I prayed so hard it would be over soon.  And like my Lamaze experience, just when I wanted to give up, it was soon over.   I toughened up as baby Mishka and I bonded, and the rest is magical history.

I have since then, for 17 years now, been a breastfeeding fan.  But, no, I never imagined to be one.  I was too young to remember being breastfed as a baby.  All I could recall was the comforting sensation from sucking milk through a yummy rubber nipple on a heavy glass bottle.  I did not get exposed to women breastfeeding in my family, except my mom, who nursed my younger sister for a few weeks as Mama had to go back to work. And somehow it felt awkward.  Funny how such a natural thing, wasn’t normal in my experience.  Maybe it’s because aside from having a career woman-mom, I was urbanized, and was from a generation which regarded formula as most superior.  We did not have ads saying “Breastmilk is best for babies…” then.

The first convincing pep talk I got about the benefits of breastmilk was when I attended a Lamaze class with my older pregnant sister.  But she worked fulltime after giving birth, and after a few weeks, Ate could not keep up.  As my friends were getting married and pregnant, I witnessed them trying it out and in public(!), even if it was out of their character.  Even though during that time, it wasn’t as acceptable as it is now.  And that was impressive.

At my church and workplace, I met women, both employed and stay-at-home housewives, who breastfed.  One even did until her child was age 4.  That was highly unimaginable for me. 

Yet, I gave it a try.  And by God’s grace, I hurdled the first months of engorged heavy feverish breasts; sore, cracked, bleeding nipples; sleeplessness; backaches; pumping rituals; crying over spilled and spoiled stored milk; and not being able to just get up and go whenever I wanted, without tagging baby along.  Every trip out of the house was a production number.  It was tiring, tense-filled, terrible, troublesome.  

But I went through it nevertheless.  I found out how much convenient it was to breastfeed than bottlefeed!  Aside from my Ate who started me off in it, who with my mom would place pillows around me to make nursing as comfy as possible, and my parents-in-law who cheered me on, I could not count on anyone else to be La Leche League for me.  I had books, but even my pedia wasn’t really for it, too.  She didn’t have a pleasant experience nursing her firstborn as the baby was allergic to her milk.

But I was blessed to have a circle of moms who encouraged me, and househelp to manage the household, and take over during toxic moments.  I have a very supportive husband who patiently takes care of our babies, so I could take a break.  One night, as I was crying in the shower, in duet with my eldest crying in my husband’s arms, I heard my hubby shout in pain.  He had playfully tried to comfort our baby by offering his breast, only to be grabbed by our son’s voracious mouth.  If he could nurse, he would!

Why go through the trouble three more times?  Because as the advertisements proclaim and studies prove: breastmilk IS best for baby.  Breastfeeding saves us from the big bills purchasing cans of milk, vitamins, and medicines, and spares us from hospital expenses as baby rarely gets sick. But more importantly, it gives me deep joy, outweighing all the distress.  I marvel at how God has so designed my body to share of its strength.  He created my body to nourish and nurture a life dependent on me, to communicate security and love to my little one, to constantly stay by him to bond with and express my deep commitment to, to ensure a powerful immune system and a healthy emotional and intellectual development for him, to regenerate and rebuild itself through the process, to powerfully fight cancer and other dreadful diseases it is prone to, and yes, to feel loved in return.  The baby makes sure you feel it.  As she feeds, she stares at you, and flashes smiles at you, unequalled by any word of gratitude.  And when he grows up, he stays close.  And grateful.

I used to think breastfeeding was all for baby’s sake until I discovered it is all for me too. 

REPOST: Post-partum Party

(A Blog Article for MommySteps.com.ph Written 101911)

It’s no party.  These next days after giving birth.  I should know.  It has happened to me three times before.

With my firstborn, although the Lamaze success meant being up and about in no time, I wrestled with first-time mommy anxieties, sleepless nights, incessant colicky cries, engorged breasts, and cracked nipples.  Soon as my husband went back to work, the blues crept in.  I found myself wanting to drop everything, including my baby(!) and walk away.

With my second baby, the challenges were different–a discouragingly slow recovery from an emergency-CS, an infected wound, Dequervain’s tenosynovitis (a painful wrist condition), and the frustration that I can’t give the same time to my eldest anymore.  The deep sadness hovered around me days before my husband’s paternity leave ended.

After 10 years, with my third child’s birth, in spite of the VBAC-Lamaze failure, I was doing quite fine.  But on the day my baby turned 3 months, typhoon Ondoy happened.  After two nights of being stuck with 40 evacuees in our second floor, we were rescued by our church’s rubber boats, and had to stay temporarily at my mom’s place for 2 ½ months.  The flood’s damage, the stress of living with tentativeness, anxiety over how my lone yaya could restore our home, the separation from my eldest who had to stay at a friend’s place since it was nearer to school, and my husband going back to work and leaving for a business trip, gave the crazy hormones a hard kick.  My health deteriorated, my sorrow compounded.

Now, with my 4th baby, I may be a seasoned person, but am still subject to the same post-partum lows.  I have to consciously resist expecting quick healing and getting back in shape.  I have to disregard the notion that because this is my fourth child, things should be more manageable.  I have to be makapal and holler for help.  I have to anticipate the baby blues not just by talking about it, but by embracing it. 

I am no longer who I was before.  And like any loss, I need to give myself the luxury of grief.  I am grateful that, though I have given up a lot to accommodate a lot more, I am growing.  And that, is good.

It’s 3am, and in this still dark night, as I carry baby upright to burp, the only thing I could see is his nape, silhouetted by the faint light from our neighbor. The only sound I could hear is my husband’s soft snore, signaling how tired he is and needs more sleep.  Realizing how everyone has gotten back to a normal routine, except me, makes me feel the loneliness over again. 

So I rock my son in my arms, to the rhythm of a familiar melancholic lullaby playing in my head.  I press my cheek against his softness, and it dawns upon me.  As if racing against the sunrise, the appreciation rushes in.  I thank my baby that I am not alone, after all.  I hug him tightly. Then as if on cue, he rests on my shoulder and an unexplainable peace hushes me. 

And I thank Him that I am never alone.  In this party of three.

REPOST: Bedrest is Hard Work

(A Blog Article for MommySteps.com.ph Website Written 042811)

I am not used to this. This was my greatest fear—to be confined in bed, and during pregnancy! 

Two years ago, during my last pregnancy with Miro, my 3^rd child, most days were spent at the gym, carpooling & doing the usual errands.  The wooziness was short and I kept meeting up with friends, just being my regular self with a rounder tummy.

This time, on my 8^th week, I bled.  I am 45, and I forget.  I pushed myself too far.  Thus, my doctor had to implement Martial Law a.k.a. bedrest. A similar episode happened during my 2^nd pregnancy, 12 years ago, and I had to do the same, but only for 2 weeks.  However, I did not have a breastfeeding 1-year-old, and wasn’t homeschooling a tween then.  I was much younger, much different now. 

So what do you do when parenting duties, and preparations to move out to a new home await you?  You sulk, grieve, take advantage of the sleep license, and deal with the guilt.  I was deeply sorry that I couldn’t spend much time with Miro, drive my older kids around, help hubby with income-making projects, and get fat and flabby.

I tried to drown out the sadness by sleeping, reviewing pregnancy materials/sites, reducing my books-to-read pile, watching the news (was up-to-date, even with American Idol), seeing movies I missed, updating Twitter and Facebook, reading with Miro, using the bed as a homeschooling desk, and conversing with God.

Nomnom (our 4^th baby’s nickname) was a surprise, just like Miro. We knew in our hearts he/she was designed by God’s perfect wisdom and timing. In my journal, I wrote: “I appreciate You, O God, because Nomnom means rest, recovery and stamina.  He is a gift­–reminding me to be faithful, pure and steadfast... I realize this blessing is a season of rest.  Of being still before You.”

I didn’t get to rehash on my French, de-clutter my pack rat-infested room, nor journal a lot as planned, but I was able to focus on my unique role–to be a responsible steward of this life inside me.  I had a renewed appreciation for my ulirang husband, kids and househelp.  I texted friends to kamusta, and interceded for them. God’s peace kept me still.

I am on my 20^th week.  Martial Law was lifted 4 weeks ago! If ultrasound cues me to go back to exercise, I will, but slowly.  The 2 months of bedrest trained my body to take it easy.  I have wonderfully discovered that recovery strengthens, and rest is the gift of active revival and healing.

Oh yes, and because of bedrest, I also found out that I could type fast while on a side-lying-down position, na nakadi-kwatro pa! 

Meant To Mend

Today, Caring (not her real name) marks her 2 weeks under my shelter. She has been a battered wife since she married at the age of 14. With 8 children aged 17 to 3, Caring could not leave home, or if she had the courage to, she would come back to her husband once he comes getting her back. Two weeks ago, she ran to my mother's farm barefoot. She says she cannot stand it any longer, and knows for sure that once her spouse comes to get her, she will willingly go home. My mom decided to take her to Manila to stay temporarily with me. She could help me out with the household chores as I have been one helper less.

The story of abuse. The vicious cycle of being a battered wife. Or husband. Gasgas na ba (Overly-discussed)?

Call me weird. (I don't really mind because I am.) But I really like the smell of sewing machine oil, and newly-bought-from-Divisoria tela (textile). I grew up with Mama's electric Singer Sewing Machine whirrs as my nursery songs, and I clearly recall how I would sit by her feet for hours, waiting for scraps of cloth and threads to fall on the floor only for me to put them together somehow. Or, make them talk.

Mama was raised in a Pampango household where the mother wasn't supposed to work but cook, and perhaps play mahjong in the afternoon. In her particular household. women were allowed to drive cars, and be in athletics, but were raised to be homebodies. Mama's father, a well-accomplished engineer and former Governor of Pampanga, put many others through school, and decided that his princess (my mother) should not be working after college, so he highly recommended (I'm being nice, imposed is the more accurate word) that she took a Fine Arts course and grow in her artistic talent. Daddy (my grandfather) even built a nipa hut studio for her. When she married, Daddy put up a dress shop for her, another daughter and a daughter-in-law. It was a 5-minute walk from our place but eventually, she gave it up and worked from home.

Mama was a repair(wo)man. Although raised in a comfortable setting, she took the time to fix what could still be fixed. I would always see her with a needle and thread nagsusulsi (sewing to repair). Our uniforms would get ripped in school, but would look brand new the next day.

One evening, as my sister and I were infested with head lice, she put some nose-bothersome Chinese medication, and instead of buying a new shower cap to cover our heads as we sleep, she thought of recycling something else. She picked our oldest panties and sewed the openings for the legs and made us wear them. Throughout the night. Yes, we felt ridiculous and no, we did not see any dead lice in the morning trapped in them.  But it will always be a great story to tell our kids, and perhaps our grandkids to show how creative and environment-friendly my mom is. She tired to recycle a lot of things.

I remember even with cracked vases, and broken toys, faded jewelry and tattered stuff, she would find a way to make them functional, polished or pretty again. Or usable in another way.

I think this strength of hers has evolved into some form of a mission in her life. She was always optimistic about how a person can still change. Or how a problem can still be solved. Or a wound to be healed.

When she had a garment business, she would oftentimes employ abandoned children, disabled or abused adults. Each visit I make to her office, she would introduce me to a character, and with that person came a soap-opera material story. Even with animals, she is likewise very kind. Her farm is not just a refugee center of needy people, but an orphanage for a crippled deer, a sick puppy, unwanted creatures, birds whose mistress was terminally sick, turtles, cats, fish, guinea pigs, fowls that can no longer fit into their former masters' residences.

Last Mother's Day, I decided to crochet for her a cellphone case ornamenting it with an owl. Her favorite colors are shades of purple, and using my daughter's Blackberry, I estimated the size of Mama's phone and looped, knotted, tangled away. I cannot outgive my mom, and even if I could afford buying her stuff she would not buy for herself, like a new car or a vacation house or a trip abroad, I know that she greatly appreciates gifts which carry with it appreciation for who I've become because of her.

And I know because of her, I have yearned to become a woman who gives healing, and not pain. Who gives hope, and not condemnation.

My mother is an animal-lover but amongst all the wonderful creatures God has made,
the owl reminds me of her, because of its big beautiful eyes.

I wrote Mama a card to go with the gift. In the card, I shared with her why I chose the owl. She loves animals, and I remember having cats, dogs, lovebirds, rabbits, guinea pigs and fish as pets. But breaking convention, I remember how she adopted owls from Palawan, something unimaginable then unless you were an aviary owner. She installed wires around our porch window, converting it into a cage. 

Mother was a woman of wisdom, as an owl is known to be wise. As I was crocheting the phone case, my 13yo asked why I chose the owl, and after telling her my reasons, she added, "And maybe because she doesn't sleep at night, and makes puyat (stays up late at night)?" When I was relating this exchange to my 18yo, he immediately interrupted: "Is it also because she can turn her head 360 degress?" I laughed. Yes, she can, and is able to sense when someone needs help. Here's proof.

Mama worked for an export garment business before putting up her own.
On a location shoot, the fashion photographer caught her in a lovely angle.
Tall, slim and attractive, she was often teased to join in the shoot or the show to be a print or ramp model.

Yeah, this sounds like a post-Mother's Day tribute. I've written other pieces about her, even way back in college. For an English 5 essay, my professor gave me a 1.0, but more unforgettable than the grade is his very nice comment: "You are blessed to have such a mother, and she is fortunate to have you."

Mama is not into reading blogs so I hope to email this to her. And with it, let me say, "Mama, I praise God, for you have always been meant to mend. Thank you for patiently holding together my palm when I was a toddler as it oozed with blood, after breaking a teacup in my hand when I tripped. Thank you for pinching the skin of my wound on my temple together, when I was a preschooler. You painstakingly did this for the rest of the day, even if it consumed your hours of rest and productivity. Thank you for that late evening, when coming home from work, you saw that the cut I had on my ankle after playing soccer, was too deep for your magic fingers to repair. You knew a professional had to do the sewing in the ER. Thank you for knowing the difference between managing what you could, and letting Someone else take control. I think that you are an awesome Fix-It-All. But more than that, I appreciate you for being a compassionate woman beyond compare."

Why I Cried While Watching Ironman 3

I was so tired. I wanted to go straight to bed. I did not have the energy to wash my face and remove all the make-up. I managed to take my shoes off though. But it was Mother's Day! And Ironman has been waiting. And my Ironic Man has been arranging for this date for two weeks now.

So I freshened up, still donned the new threads (Mother's Day gift from hubba-bubba), and without apology told the bigger kids their parents were catching the 10:30pm screening. Thank You, Lord that the two babies were already asleep! 'Cause if they weren't, husband and I might have to catch the last full show. I'll be a Zombie by then.

With a lot of not-worth-mentioning food in our arms, we were able to sit together (on our last attempt last May 1, there were still available seats, sure, but we can't sit together).  I was going to give a review of the movie but I don't think I will be objective here. I have been a fan of Robert Downey Jr. and I have not given much attention to details of the film, except him.

[Photo from http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1300854/]

I loved how the screenplay writers Drew Pearce and Shane Black (also the director) have kept the personality of Tony Stark (the lead character played by Downey) intact. Even if much transformation has taken place in his life since Ironman 1 and 2, Stark still exuded with a lot of genius, spunk, and confidence, that sometimes his being overly-enthusiastic and confident, gets humbled by a lot of fumbles–human, error-laden moments just to establish that this perfect guy is faulty too. I know that showing the dark or the weak side of the protagonist has been the trend in super hero movies. I think the approach in humanizing the superhuman is here to stay. The kids who used to marvel at Marvel heroes are now the daddies who take their own children to the movie houses. The men now have a springboard to educate (or expose) their kids about fantasy and reality, and probably introduce them to the fact that heroism doesn't have to be supernatural.

I was crying in some scenes of Ironman 3. I thought I'd be able to relax, be amused and be emotionally-detached. No, the film wasn't a tear-jerker. I was sobbing because Robert Downey reminded me so much of my brother, my older and only brother who passed on last March. Maybe it's just me but I can't help see  the resemblance.  Maybe it's the eyes, or the brows, or his mouth, or the beard and moustache.

[Left: My brother TJ Joson aka Tony Rey; Right: Robert Downey Jr. plays Tony Stark in Ironman 3; Downey's photo from http://blog.palmpartners.com/tag/robert-downey-jr/]

Never mind that my brother's name is also Tony (Rey). I just felt, as I sort of anticipated, I missed him so terribly as I viewed the film.

I remember when my Papa passed away. The first film I got to watch, with my husband and two kids (then) was Shrek 2. I did not expect it but I was ambushed by grief during the scene where the Frog King was on his death bed!

Grief attacks you anywhere. Even as you are watching a cartoon, or a movie based on a comic book. It affects your thinking, your eating, your health. It trudges on as it tramples upon your relationships, and your need to hold on to one, and let go of another, or want to gain a new one, and reject one that has absolutely nothing rejectable in it.

I can refuse monstrous grief to overtake and overwhelm me. At the same time, I cannot deny how little pockets of grief can occupy short but frequent time slots of my waking hours. I have learned to expect the strong effects of losing someone close, such that when the unpredictable sorrow captures my attention, I am no longer as enslaved to its power.

Ironman 3 is about superior intelligence and giftedness that is paired with a weakness or disability and when used without morals, and fear of God, and respect of man, can no longer be a wanted favor, but a dreaded curse. Like grief, we can use events, experiences, our talents, and abilities to do good and be good; to do better, and be better. And we don't even have to wear a suit. Or be extra smart. 

If it's any indication, I must've liked the movie so much, I tried to squeeze into the next days, never mind if I watched it in many parts, "The Avengers". I felt so terrible to have missed that!

Knocked Down But Not Quite

This was how I managed to run and take time to smell take a pic of the flowers.

I do not want to disturb my running time, but these flowers were almost like fluorescent yellow as dusk was  taking over. I had to stop. Or at least slow down. This area is usually the point at which I feel like giving up after a steep uphill climb. The flowers gave me reason to recover.

Another No-other Nanay Day (Part 2/2)

[Continued from "Another No-other Nanay Day" (Part 1/2)]

Very much motivated, I tried to shake off all the shaking of my flesh as sleep has evaded me. I got up from bed and remembered I had to finish the earrings I was making so I could have something red in my outfit. Black, white and red was the color motif for the Praise and Worship Team. I had to go to the girls' room to locate my crochet bag which I remember my 13yo borrowed before I dozed off (now I onow why). As I opened the door, lo and behold, down on the floor by the hallway, in the dark, I could see two big white bags and this beautiful work of art attached to them. Aha! My husband was able to squeeze in some shopping for my outfit for today and my eldest took the time to create this.

I did not get to wear the beautiful black top and much-coveted white pants which was on my mental "When I have extra money, I will buy myself a..." Wish List, that morning. But I wore it for the evening service.

My eldest and I caught the 7am call time, and with God's enabling, finished the first of the three sessions we were going to do that day. Here, we were enjoying a special Mother's Day breakfast date. I mix-matched the left and right parts of the two images. The first one is what I call the happy mix.

This next, was what my son called scary. Husband, my eldest daughter, and the two babies followed to Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, and Ina (mom-in-law) and some friends came too.

After the second service, we went home for lunch and tried to rest. But I thought that if I was going to wear the black blouse my hubby gave me for the vesper service, I should have something red around my neck. So I worked on a necklace that matched my earrings. I should be taking a nap but I thought I'd be able to finish this one in a jiffy. My artist-hubby and budding-artist daughter collaborated with me in designing this. In exchange for a nap, here's what I call Nanay's Motherhood Necklace. It had a big circle, and four smaller ones.

As we waited for the evening service to start, my 13yo showed me her nails. Now, who wouldn't feel special with this nail art in honor of her Nanay?

It was a full day of meaningful worship time and I got a lot of loving from the kids. 

These two babies (our second set) may not know it, but their smiles were packages of joy I open up every moment I need to be reminded that mothering is also about receiving much, sometimes even outweighing the much that you give.

Dinner at my in-laws followed after the evening service and even if I wanted to plop myself down like a rag doll in bed, and not move for 10 straight hours, I couldn't miss the Movie Date my hubby had been wanting to have. Finally, we were going to see Ironman 3! 

So that's how it concluded. I fell asleep (as I expected) in some parts of the film, though I really thought it was wonderful (a Nanay review soon!), but I sat through it and while munching on some Mother's Day junk food, I hugged the Lord in thanksgiving for the perfect-for-me guy He richly blessed me with. I am the mother I am, only because he is the father that he is. We make a mighty good team. By God's grace alone, of course. And I will always be gratefully elated that he cooperated much with my deep longing to be the Nanay of his children. 

Another No-other Nanay Day (Part 1/2)

Couldn't sleep. Mother-child pairs were going to lead the singing in church the whole Mother's Day and my eldest and I were one of the tandems. It has been quite a while since the last time I stood in front of an audience in church. That must've been Mother's Day 2010 when I shared my motherhood story. Though what we were doing as songleaders wasn't a performance, I had the jitters. Last time I sang on stage was at our high school reunion last December. However, for Mother's Day, there was going to be a lot of prompting for the congregation to sing, and I was assigned to be at the helm. I don't remember having done this ever at all. I kept waking up every hour anticipating the 5am alarm. I kept checking the clock or my phone and by 3am I decided I might as well get up if I wake up at 4am to spare me another hour of restless sleep. 

So I got up at around 4am, and right beside me, on top of my computer was a letter and a crocheted heart ring. I was in tears as I read the last paragraph. Wasn't this what I was asking the Lord to help me in? 

I decided to wear the heart ring the whole day. It was a reminder of how much I was loved and appreciated. 

With the ring, came this little note.

What a way to jumpstart that special day! I have been lacking sleep for the past days, and physically I wasn't at my peak. But the messages boosted me up with energy and enthusiasm. 

I must constantly remind myself the powerful truth that a young lady, and 3 other young hearts (and minds) are watching me, ever so closely, perhaps even noticing the little steps I make towards being the mother God wants me to be, and learning a little or emulating a lot. 

Cannot Escape Breakfast

After breaking the 21-day habit on Day 3 (ha!), I needed a fresh start last Saturday morning. But I had to rush to a songleading rehearsal for Mother's Day Worship Services the next day.  So what does my ulirang asawa (exemplary spouse) do?  He brews me coffee and packs some papaya, and kakanin (rice cakes) like palitaw (sprinkled with muscovado instead of white sugar), biko and putong puti.  I wanted to skip coffee as I needed to have an itch-free throat, and the ability to nap and make up for lost sleep. But surely, I can't have the sweet stuff without my morning black coffee! (Cutting-down-on-sugar Tip: If you're eating something sweet with coffee or tea, skip the cream and sugar in your drink. You'll have a new appreciation of both the raw but powerful taste of coffee, and the originally-intended sweetness of your dessert.)




Are these rice cakes vegan?  Let's see what is in them to find out.

Palitaw (my favorite) or Rice Dumplings is sticky rice, grated coconut, sugar and sesame seeds.  To make it less evil, sprinkle some brown sugar or muscovado (molasses) instead of white sugar.

Biko (my husband's fave) is sticky rice, coconut milk and a lot of brown sugar.

Putong Puti (described by my 18yo son as mochi kakanin) has basically again, sticky rice, some salt, baking powder and white sugar in there. Substituting white sugar with brown will however make it Putong Kayumanggi.

I'm no fan of kakanin, but I'm a fan of the fan of kakanin. My sweet-toothed hubby has introduced me to a whole new world of sweets including native cakes, thank God, most of which are vegan. Eggs are frequently used as toppings you can scrape off if you're strict. And often, the milk used in native cakes is gata or coconut milk. And that's not just healthy but yummy. Don't want to escape that.

Stitching Stitch

Last Thursday (Friday morning), I slept at 3am and got up at 8:47am to help my 13yo finish crocheting a birthday gift for her friend.  Yup, it's Stitch, the alien character of Disney's "Lilo and Stitch".  Some movie my daughter grew up with. Her friend was turning 14, and owns this humongous stuffed toy of Stitch so this was a giant indicator that her friend would love a handmade miniature version. If my 18yo mixes music or prints shirts or writes a poem or designs a card for his friends' birthdays, this daughter of mine majors in knitting, making pompoms, bead jewelry like earrings and rings, and crocheting amigurumis. What are Am...am..gummybearumis?

Kaya lang the pattern my daughter found was an upsized amigurumi.  She did not realize how big it was until she was running out of yarn. So excuse the leg warmers (had to resort to powder blue).You can find the pattern here Thanks to Shannen Nicole Chua of Sweet N Cute Creations!

We tried not to wake up Tatay (my husband) as we giggled whenever we made mistakes, and told stories just to keep us awake. I had lots of pending deadlines but everything is pushed aside whenever this daughter of mine asks for my help. I thought these were opportunities when a young heart gets tender and teachable. I wanted more moments like this. It can get frustrating as I'd like to have more time to get her to run with me, or choreograph some dance moves together, or try more difficult guitar chords, or play better badminton. I've been wanting to mentor her more through a regular DDD (this is what we call our Darling Daughter Date) studying the Word of God, and praying for each other  just like old times. Since she went to mainstream school (I homeschooled her from birth to 5th grade), and my youngest was born, I couldn't find much focused time with her. This makes me really sad.

Then I recall how it was with my mom and me. I am very happy that I am close to her. I would tell her that I would mother my children exactly the way she mothered me. Of course, with a little improvement. Mama did not mentor me the way I wanted to have been, maybe that's why I wanted to  something more towards this daughter of mine. Mama did not teach me every crochet or embroidery stitch. She refused to orient me on Kapampangan cuisine, when I asked her to give me cooking lessons. She said I will eventually learn when I marry, and when I am forced to cook. But she modeled all the arts and the crafts (and the repairing of torn garments, broken or dirty stuff), and the character I often surprisingly find myself doing, emulating and being.  More is really caught than taught. 

But I also remember the many times when she would stop what she was doing to answer my queries.  She would teach me a new thing or two with the needle. Even in writing business letters, or relating to people, she would coach me with the exact words to say. I think that Mama was a woman of wonderful timing. She would always seize the day. She was not an ally of procrastination. One would really know she must be dead-tired to leave something undone.

As I pulled the needles, looped the yarn, prickled myself numerous times with the pins, and gently held my daughter's hands to guide her, I was asking God to help me be a good example to my child. I won't always have the luxury of being able to puyat (staying up late), but I will show her that there are reasons worth the puyat. 

If my mother who was a busy career woman had such a great positive impact on my life, I think I could have the same on my children, even more.  When I was running out of energy and time for family because I was attending to my sick brother, I wanted them to aim to be a sibling who sacrificially cares.  Whenever I would do anything and everything to help my parents out with work they needed, I was hoping they would desire to be helpful loving sons and daughters. Whenever I go out of my way to meet with friends, and celebrate their happy events with them, or grieve with them in their losses, I am beseeching God to create in them a longing to be loyal, faithful friends. And as I mother my daughter, and live out life day to day, I pray I will model excellence, not so much perfection. I pray that God enables me to train her to be godly and gracious, not self-righteous and overbusy. To influence her to hate laziness, and love productivity. To inspire her to pursue eternal values, and shun temporal happiness. 

I wish I had all the time to do this.  This is something I cannot postpone.  Growing up cannot be procrastinated. It happens so fast.  It happens right now. 

And then, Mother's Day came.