Talk About Gifts

I've had so many gifts.

But none as great as. . . .

Lian, 9 & Yana, 4

I can't take any credit. To God goes the Glory.

::

AFLOAT

You might be asking how I am so I thought I would tell you.

I am better than yesterday. Thank you.

I think I have visited more than enough hospitals this year, seen few hospital beds and met handful of people, which is good for an introvert like me. I am not shy. I am just big on privacy, personal space and a firm believer of not talking to strangers. So the nurses and doctors I’ve met? You people are amazing. We should give one day in year to honor you.

The past month has been beyond hard. The worst was the weekend before last. But mother is doing well on Letrozole and B-complex and some vitamins. She now laughs a little, speaks livelier and eats healthier. Recovery road is a long travel. And she needs all these synthetic pills, and our constant love and support to live longer. It is expensive, tiring, stressful and depressing. But we need to choose to stand back up again in life. One foot in front of the other is sometimes the best way we can manage.

We did indeed go see her every weekend and every single time we see her, we walk off somehow feeling enriched and better ourselves. She is okay, we are okay.

There's a quote by somebody famous about how, we must not be afraid to share the hard times in our life. Something about poets heralding the darkness, because if it doesn't get documented, how will people know we got through? That they can get through as well?

So. That's where I'm at. I'm ok enough to log on to my computer and upload some photos and write some words, so that's something. I miss the days of just coming to blog and offloading like I used to, without worrying that some people I love will die, and that bad things will still come one day.

At this point I don't care. It's night-time and it's raining. Tomorrow is a whole new day.

::

This verse has kept me alive. I think about it and it made a whole world of sense.

Isn't it?

Drifting Again

Four years ago we began. I suppose we never really ended, chasing the cancer cells through surgery, the terrible promise of Tamoxifen, and hospital visits again and again. Mother found her own way around the cancer there. The journey changed. The path became less clear and more muddled. It's strange in a way. Side effects of breast cancer. The trouble is dealing with that, with knowing it and living in it, walking around each day with that settled on your soul. The adjustment is not pleasant.

In many ways, I'm not sure what to expect.

A day when the thoughts are closer to the surface, when my memory of her good health is more easily accessible and the road to recovery is a little clearer. But it's still just a day. I cried, but not as much as I might have. There is no clarity, at least not anything new. Some days I feel strong, some other days even the shallowest drama on TV would bring me to tears.

She is in a hospital again. Doctors extracted the fluid out of her right lung. No big deal. Root Canal would have been longer. And more painful I guess.



But the day passed on too slow. Again. I’m counting of all the days until she is out of the hospital.

I know better to expect revelations. I know better than to expect anything at all on a schedule. It's been four years and I know that there will be more years to come. I know in the end it will settle. Not settles in the sense that it's ok, or not horrific in some way, but settles in the sense that it is not actively debilitating when it happens. Loss of any kind, especially the loss out of order of someone you love, is not a wound that heals. Closure is an impractical and misplaced goal. Mother is not a torn ligament or a broken bone, something a surgery and a few months of rehab will set right without further ado. You live with it. Your only choice is how you choose to do that.



Some people don’t know any better. Once they knew about mother, they give us the "cancer eyes." These were the eyes people, from hospital staff to strangers, would give us when they found out mother’s breast cancer. Pity, mostly. The looks I get from these acquaintances are very similar "condolence eyes." Like cancer eyes, I have little patience for them. That's not to say I do not appreciate people feeling bad about what happened to her. Of course I do. But pity does not interest me. To me, that undermines the experience. I prefer sympathy, or empathy. If people want to talk about her, I'm happy to do so. People have told me they were sorry and added something, talked about it. If they're just going to say the words for the sake of saying them though, I'd rather we skipped the formality.



I know this may sound harsh, that people just want to be kind. I know they're trying and do not mean anything by it. Still, I think it's important to recognize what's good to say and what's not. So I suppose I'm trying to say that. I am glad when people talk about her. What I am not interested in is people saying something just for the sake of saying it. Or mocking it. I did not notice it before, but I do now.

::

Thank you all for your continued thoughts and prayers.

Kids, Inc.

Hello to you all my dear friends. I’ve been into a lot of things lately so busy I was not able to update my blog. Well lot of things would mean the youngest kid going now to school, my birthday, my mother’s hospitalization and my endless things to buy and things to do.

Well.

As I said, Yana started big school today. And neither of us cried.



There's such a revolting feeling when your child starts kindy. Who will help them open their crackers? How can they possibly go to a bathroom stall by themselves? The classroom is SO BIG, and she is SO LITTLE. How can this happen?

So we have one girl now in kindy and one boy in year four, at different schools. I keep telling my son in my best Rizzo voice that he's gonna"Ruuule the school."

By the time I was my sons's age, I was already thinking about my future like who will I marry, and how many kids will I have. I don’t feel so pretty then but I know that somewhere out there a little boy is also growing to be my husband.

I also tell him that because he is so strong and tall and popular, he has a duty to watch out for kids who need his help, who might be bullied. He tells me he does - I hope he does.

You think your kids are set once they are no longer babies, that the hardest part is over. It's not. It's a whole new ballgame, one I never saw coming until it came and I was all um, I didn't order this particular parenting sandwich?!

Fights, arm wrestling, limits ignored, harsh words. The severe worry and panic that you are totally wasting these kids up. It's completely terrifying. I just hope it's minimal, that not too much damage is being done, and that when they go out into the world they're armed with enough confidence to take care of themselves. And respect themselves and other people.



Financially, we often just lurch from one problem/crisis to the next. I've been parenting for nine years now. I've sucked at it, been awesome at it, loved it, loathed it. It demands so much, to look after people who can't look after themselves quite yet. Sometimes I count up on my fingers how many more years until it's just me and Hubs again, like, boyfriend/girlfriend.

But man they keep us anchored. And responsible. We're all just a bunch of crazy people, doing the best we can.

Those Big Fat Lice

Warning: This post covers extremely delicate and sensitive information. It may trigger you to feel itchy.

Something really, really bad happened here recently. It was hard to know whether to write about it on my blog or not. When I found about it, I was so ashamed. I felt sick, embarrassed and well, itchy. Dealt with it as best I could.

But I'm ready to write about it now.

MY LITTLE GIRL HAD HEAD LICE.

Who, me?

We are not really lice family. But I noticed it first with the little girl furiously scratching her head one day. Continuously digging her head with her little fingers. Although she seemed not mindful of it, but I was almost sure of one filthy, vermin-ridden shocking truth: she got nits. So I checked her hair.

Positive.

And there was a very likely chance that all of us had headlice too. Except for Hubs who had recently dyed his hair. I remembered a rumor I'd once heard that hair dye kills headlice.

So what does a mother do?

Every night, while asleep I turn her to one side and begin to look for the eggs. The back of her neck was embedded with bites, which her long hair hid.

How utterly revolting are the eggs - and so tricky to miss. You can get every single egg but if you miss just one?

It's the one egg, to rule them all. And it hatches and you start all over again.

The next day I bought what is needed. A wire comb. Every night, combing and sifting Yana’s hair has become a routine.

Last night, like a serious hunter I searched for them with my flashlight. The bulb on the ceiling offered too little help. I wonder where to borrow head lamps next time.

Really why does headlice exist? Do they serve any purpose? No wonder Buddhist monks shave their heads ... they're never face with the moral choice of killing headlice.

Tell me you're jealous of my life.

The Weight of a Woman

There’s no business like show business. Everything about it is appealing. And of course, nowhere can you get that happy feeling.

This line is from a musical Annie. And it also says that there are no people like show people – those happy, flashy, extravagant, over-the-top people who have seamlessly mastered the art of acting, singing and dancing.

They look so powerful and seem well put together. But if you dig deeper ever so slightly the surface, the glamour perhaps the high profile status is torn down and changed into much more humane and common and totally relatable. You see them on cam and you tell yourself how perfect they are. Like all the puzzle pieces just naturally fall into place. You can just tell by the way they talk and carry themselves. It really is a sight to behold, actually. But behind the spotlight, they turned into wives and mothers who are also scared, broken, scarred and worried by life’s imperfections.

These women are beautiful as well as amazing.

And they both have children with severe autism.

Kris Aquino is a celebrity here in the Philippines. She is at the moment a single parent, who loves his two sons so much, including the special child Joshua. He is diagnosed with autism, learning disabilities and Attention Deficit Disorder.

In fact, she has already allotted a big trust fund for the two kids specially to her special child. Her brother, Noynoy Aquino the president of the Philippines, even said that he didn't marry because he wants to take care of Joshua.

She delivered the late night news. Broadcast journalist Karen Davila’s firstborn, David, was 3½ years old when he was diagnosed with Pervasive Developmental Disorder, Not Otherwise Specified (PDD/NOS) in the Autism Spectrum, a severe form of autism. The development pediatrician said there was no cure for David’s condition.

These women are remarkable. And it makes me feel like, little by little, those walls of stereotypes and misconceptions are being torn down. You see them all glammed up but sure they’d come home to children who need them, like how my children need me. Who can make them laugh, aren't afraid to be silly with them, who knows just the trick to get them to eat their peas – and other tons of things in this world to raise kids, to watch them grow and learn and thrive.

And speaking of disabilities in case you ask, would we ever trade your children and exchanged them for somebody who are cuter, chubbier, brilliant, more talented individuals. Our answer? Never.

Cats and Dogs

These guys fight like crazy. You'd think five years difference would mean no fighting.

Wrong. They can fight so often and so relentlessly that the voice out of my head sounds like a strangled cat on a hot day.

You’d think they don’t fight over the same toy just because they’re opposite sex?

Wrong again. They screamed and will kill each other for this.

I hiss at them to stop fighting. Use all my power to stop them. Yell. Cursed. Begged, Cried.

It's infuriating. Fighting is the one thing that really grates on me. I ask other mothers of two if their children fight and the answer is always yes.

But they also miss each other, make up, start all over again.

They laugh and fight, make up then start fighting again. But they adore the hell out of each other.

I adore the hell out of them too. So much I can hardly stand it.

Everything I Ever Wanted To Be

I'm sure you see her.

Why is this girl so happy?

She's the one whose clothes are neatly pressed, nails perfectly manicured, waist so narrow, house is immaculate, and children polite and behave. (Sigh). Mine are so wild sometimes, even Dora can’t explore them.

She is everything I am not.

But I'm trying. I'm really, really trying.

I know I told you I don’t have a resolution.

But I promised myself that for the New Year I will be the best me.

And I've really tried to stick with it--I'll spend wisely, eat better, stay active (*finger cross*), and take charge of all my work stuff.

But then there's me.

The me that everyone sees. Fat arms. Outdated clothes. My husband threatened to burn this one blouse I still use. He said he saw me in this blouse even before I gave birth to our eldest. I wonder if Sigmund Freud is right about penny-pinching.

I am always tired. My hair is flat. My nails are broken and unkempt.

Perhaps I'm being too hard on myself, but seriously? I don't feel great most days.

I feel like there's this person inside of me just waiting to bust a move in the outside world.

But instead she's buried in laundry and all the rest of the mundane chores a woman has to do every day.

So, this year I decided I'd change all that. I will work hard all weekends to get the house organized and in order. I’ll set time for manicure and pedicure.

But I woke up last Saturday morning and reality hit me: Saturdays are reserved for cooking, cleaning, and generally un-fun things. And Sundays are saved for ironing.

But thanks heaven, manicure I did.

But you know what happened when I hung my clothes up in the laundry?

I chipped the polish off of my newly manicured nails.

Gah.

Things They Didn't Tell Me

Hello readers! Hope you have a good weekend..

Glad it’s over. New Year. Not complaining. Just saying. Sometimes the start of the year makes you over think. A lot more introspective than any other days in the year. All the people want to have a fresh start like new look, new girlfriend, new job, new life. The reasons why we write those tricky little bastards called resolutions, right? You see I have grown a little. I’ve changed. There’s a side of me that whenever this season comes, a change in year, I refused to be drawn in to the fiasco that always, always happens this time around. If nothing is coming, then why bother? Just keep on going. There's always a pause, a moment when you realized that stagnancy of life is not bad at all. And I like that I learnt how to play around things now.

How do we get through the things that we can't get through? How can we make sense of the unfathomable? Can't. Just have to keep going, do what we can. Strip it all back. The most important things in life aren't things. We are wiser than we know.

Dreams, like warts and mole, they grow back. At the precise moment of dreadful failures, the human spirit inside us instantly begins to plot its own survival. And a heart that is broken again and again, is stronger that we thought. It can swallow a big pride without choking, strike old wounds without being hurtful and defensive. Although I still don't understand the magnitude of life, who says we have to?

Saying yes to life makes it open up like an oyster.

My mother appeared at Social Security for the annual confirmation. It is the system’s way to check if the pensioner is still alive. She does this so they will continue her check. My father has pension too. But he died elsewhere, with a different family, years after their marriage broke up. I believe I have four or five younger half-siblings. I also learned that it's the other woman who picks up my father’s annuity.

I felt my mother has few misgivings whether to fight for it or not. Half of me can’t take it. It belongs to mother and she could use the money for her maintenance. And I feel for her. I punched my self-consciousness if it’s right to convince her to claim what’s rightfully hers. It took my whole life to be in a place where I believe I can make a difference. But my other side tells the other family needs it more. My father died a poor man. I strongly believe that we live more comfortably than them.



There’s a deep essence of something I don’t know. I'm just so, so sorry down here. I guess a sister is only as happy as its unhappiest half-sister or brother.

So while I wait for God to tell me what to do, I leave you loads of love, understanding and peace. Supersized, and with refills.

How I Feel In Photos

As a sleep-deprived new dad adjusting to life with daughter, I find these pictures completely funny but totally relatable. The images are of Dave Engledow and daughter Alice Bee. What started as a single photo, became a viral hit in Facebook. The pictures, all 56 of them, are planned to make into a calendar. The goal of the project has always been to create something that, although funny, also offers lessons to both parents and non-parents. Really, I have yet to see a new dad too excited to be left alone at the house with a baby. They would rather defuse bombs than change nappies.

These father and daughter portraits are exactly as amusing as they are sweet. What could be more charming than a baby with a lit match next to a pile of fireworks?

P.S. Sorry for guys who are more excellent as mothers than their female counterparts. I know its not flesh and blood but heart that makes a good parent.