Time for a Reboot

I am a satisfied Mac customer. I like how it is not prone to viruses, and that I don't need to reboot the thing. I was actually surprised when dear hubby advised me to do it to make my computer run better.

When my old (reliable) white Macbook got slower and slower, I had to reboot a lot of times. The difference it made may not be significant, maybe even psychological.  But the thought that I gave it a fresh start boosted my confidence in the machine.

I am nearing my 50s, and I have weaned my 3yo for 8 days now. I have just received most of my Annual Physical Exam results and it's high time for a body reboot.  I hope that blogging about it will push me to be consistent, and never give up.  I hold on to God's grace.

A Lullaby for My Slumber Party

Sang for this TV ad. My first time to sing like a mom. I usually just did singing voices of teens or kids.

It was a simple, beautiful melody but I had to do many takes. I had to stop feeling the song and getting emotional. I also had to get rid of my vibrato. The mom's voice had to be straight-toned. Not professional sounding, but in tune.

http://youtu.be/Y9Hls0X21Q8 

The ad reminded me of a book I read to my 4 kids. My voice would always crack while I read it. 

My mom never sang me a lullaby but she said she read a lot to me when I was small. I don't have memories of that, but just the thought that she took the time to read me a story is heart-warming. 

There are things my parents did not do for me, but I'm not complaining. I think I turned out fine. By God's grace. But just because my folks did not parent me in a certain way doesn't mean I would do the same to my own kids. 

I have sung them lullabies since they were inside me, and I sang my Papa to sleep while he was in the hospital. I was actually surprised when he requested it!

Someday, I hope to sing to Mama too. My restless, tireless, always-on-the-go mom. Just so she knows she can sleep sweet and accomplish much, nevertheless. 

Neither Invisible Nor Invincible

I couldn't resist him. 

I kissed and kissed and hugged and smothered Yakob with love. I thought I was invisible to his virus. 

Friday morning, as I drove home with the kids, I started coughing. By nap time, I could only whisper as I read books to Miro. And to think I was going to run in the rain last Thursday night! I am not invincible. I must repeatedly convince myself. 

I was early in bed Friday night. Feeling cold, feverish and weak. I have never felt this sick for a long time now. I would have the occasional cold and cough and a day of rest was enough for me. 

Maybe Saturday the whole day in bed will do. I drank lots of fluids, and the babies were herded off from my corral by the Lovely Sgt. Nik so I could sleep, undisturbed. But every whimper and laughter and shout of glee and scream of disgust would wake me up. 

Our weekday helper had left and our weekend helper couldn't make it too. Her husband was sick. Our stay-in helper had an eye infection and asked to be sent home to rest. 

My ever-reliable Hubby performed his magic tricks: early morning market, cooking, bathing the babies and Kuya and Ate were his strong back-up team. By afternoon, he decided to get my temp (39C!) and commanded that I took medicine. He wanted me to be alright for Mother's Day the next day. 

I think I have, through 20 years of motherhood, overcome the struggle of being able to relax on Mother's Day. But I have an issue about getting sick. Specially when it's Mother's Day and there's no house help. 

Oh, God help me get out of this sick bed, and this sadness. 

Night time came and though I was still ill, I felt so encouraged by how Team Wafooms did it, without me, serving me even like a Queen. A sick ngongo barking Queen.

I wake up to a sunny Mother's Day. As usual my alarm was the sound from the babies' room. 

I'm feeling much better. I know the flu requires days of recovery but that doesn't mean I can't party. In my bed. 

Coming Back to You

Seven months.

That is so long!  And it is frustrating that there's so much to write about, but there's just no time.  I would rather sleep. Or crochet.

My journals are empty, this blog idle. My clutter ever building. But remembering that I may not have time to write, yet have lots to write about is "better" than having so much time and nothing to gab about.

My last entry was about losing our yaya.  And she has not returned.  She has married last December, and we are very happy for her.  I lost my other yaya (who has been with us for 3 years) last February. Breach of trust. I don't think we can leave our babies with her anymore so we had to let her go.

And things have been busier.

It is so hard to replace househelp when you have young children.  We have stopped scouting around.

A lot of adjustments took place in our household: the big kids getting more chores. Still I am thankful. My eldest (son) has been very dependable in the kitchen (just like his Tatay), and my eldest daughter so reliable with babysitting. The babies also known as the Kalat Brigade are learning to pack away with a time limit, haha!

I am thankful that God provided a new stay-in helper who is the sister of my former yaya, and though inexperienced as a cook/yaya, is proving to be hardworking and teachable. She has two kids, left to the care of her mother at the province. We didn't really want to hire mothers of young children as they need to go home once a child was sick. Just like a few weeks ago. This new help of mine had to be away for 2 weeks to be with her youngest who got hospitalized for measles.  And the busyness is non-stop.

I am still grateful...

...For our part-time laundry woman, Ate F!  She was our helper decades ago when I was still single, and has been able to stay for a total of 5 days and 4 nights a week, as her other employer did not need her anymore. Truly God's orchestration!  On the days she is at home, life is a lot easier. She's such a precious gem, I can trust her about everything at home, including babysitting. She is in her menopausal stage, has more aches and pains, and isn't as strong, but she is resilient, and we have complete confidence in her. I pray she will stay healthy and remain with us.

On the other 3 days that Ate F cannot be with us, Ate A, former yaya of my big kids, comes during the day.  She is now married with 4 kids and can only report for work when her husband has no overtime on top of his night-shift duty.  Ate A like Ate F, can do all-around chores, including some sewing.  She was able to finish sewing school on her last year with us, so now, finally, we have new curtains and some of my pending sewing projects have been finished. I have taught her how to crochet and she takes home some work to earn. I simply tell her what to do, and how to do it and voila! Things have been mended, sewn, even crocheted with a smile.  Plus showbiz news gets to our home always fresh, because of her.

Things haven't gone back to normal. I still don't have a routine. But I am nevertheless, grateful.  Maybe I will have more time to blog, while the big kids are on summer break. Maybe I'll have a bit more time to do work, a more regular time for work-out and squeeze some time to go out.  Need a break!

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.