What Makes You Stay?

I tried to calm my throbbing temples with my left hand while lifting my right leg to the cold wall, stuffing a fluffy pillow under it.

It had been a grueling night for me...and somehow the conversation between me and my hubby had gotten the better of me. Having him go to the bathroom was definitely a breather.

I was trying to gather my wits, while trying to fathom what the hell I was doing in the world right here, right now...thinking the worst, no less... when he came back in through the door.

"Feeling better? I thought we had it all ironed out?" I answered feebly with a yeah, of course, I'm fine. "You're still thinking." No, I'm not. I'm okay. "Your leg's still up on the wall."

On any given day we would have burst out together laughing at the stupidity of that observation. In my pensive mood though, I simply couldn't.

Here we were...analyzing the validity of our relationship...weighing the pros and the cons, the right and the wrong, the mistakes, the sacrifices, the sincerity of love. And he gives out an observation only he had ever noticed. I never even realized I was doing that until last night when he so candidly pointed it out to me.

How can you ever get mad at someone who knows how to make you feel better? (even if he was the reason for your discomfort in the first place.)

Through it all I realized I couldn’t leave this man who had become such a great part of my life. He drives me insane, sure… but through all the insanity my heart was torn apart. There were the days I wanted to exorcise myself from my evil plots against him, just to relieve myself of the pain and insecurity I felt. But somewhere inside I knew I couldn’t last a moment beside him that I wouldn’t have my defenses melted, and that I would have to forgive him.

The toughie is now a softie.

I always prided myself with the knowledge that I was a bitch, and I had every right to be that way if I was right…about my decisions, about my beliefs, about my life. But the irony of it all was that I had found someone who had turned my life over. Wow, and was it an absolute upset!

I find my seemingly cold stare ready to pounce on him, and my marshmallow heart gives in. Puss in Boots of Shrek would be shamed with the woeful eyes my husband just gave me.

Just then, even through the doubts and the fears…I suddenly have the answer. All of the answers.

I am here because I chose to. I am here because I fell in love, with someone who never gave me promises, but tried to give me happiness. I am here with someone who inspires me with his passions, his dreams, his great ambitions.

I am here because I gave a commitment. I am here not just because of that commitment, but because of a sincere hope to offer another person my time, my love, my soul. I am here because I feel responsible for the emotions and the welfare of another human being.

I am here because of a certain uncontrollable force of nature. I am here because I cannot help it. I am here because he is a hard habit to break.

I am here because I feel whole with him, that I am disgusted at the thought of severing myself by leaving my other half. I am here because I’ve been so in the past five years.

I am here because I enjoy him, his company. I am here because I feel alive with him…enjoying his joys, his little-boy-giggly-moments, his pains, his schemes, his bad plots. I am here because of a maternal instinct to care for this little boy who passes on so well as a man. I am here because I enjoy my title as audience to his private singing sprees. I’m here because I think he’s incurably cute… and sexy at the same time. I’m here because he has become every man to me.

I am here because I take pride in being his happiness. I am here because, to a fault, I believe I give him reason to strive. I am here because he is my best friend, and I am his. I am here because I AM his wife, and no one else has better right to be beside him than I do. (RIGHT ON!)

I am here simply because I love him. And I find no other better reason than that.

Empty-handed Doesn't Always Mean Empty

I've been too pessimistic and too optimistic about my life at certain indefinite points. Which probably paints the picture what sort of a wreck, and what sort of a perfectionist I can be.

Technically, call it contradictory. Or inconsistent. It all depends how you look at life as well.

The glass is half-empty...or the glass is half-full. It's not quite enough, or I'll just get some more later. Some people are stupid. Some people have not just had enough education. Some people are poor, or they're just out of luck.

I've been trying to be fair with everything... trying to look at things with a different perspective everytime. And it proved to be even more fatal than just having a small mind, or an unwavering belief in something to a fault. I looked at things based on how I thought it was proper to look at it, one point after another...but forgetting to weigh things out in the end and balancing the whole thing. What happens is that I end up with a wishy-washy mind, with nothing but doubt, fear, regret.

In simple terms, I have nothing but bullshit. Or even simpler still, I just have nothing.

I've often looked at what I didn't have instead of looking at what I had. But more recently...I've had the feeling of being empty-handed, yet feeling blessed. How does being empty-handed give you satisfaction? How does having technically no material possession make a mortal feel blessed... one born of impoverished dignity where families technically teach their children that we have nothing to give you but your education... a mother who yearns to have everything to give to her child... a wife who yearns to make her husband's life easier and more satisfactory...a daughter who yearns nothing more than to give back to the parents who sacrificed sweat and blood through so many years? How does it actually happen?

It happens in faith. It happens in the heart...or so it seems.

I look at my daughter and I know I may not have everything to give her now...but we have her. And she is loved. How many children have died on the streets because there was no one to love them and care for them? I look at my mother and know that even if it makes her cry and suffer sometimes....working hard keeps her living. Working towards her goals makes her live everyday and never give up. I look at my husband and know deep in my heart that this will make him happy. I know that even if I cannot make things better and easier for him today, I can help him make that happen tomorrow. It all bases on how I deal with it today... how I wait patiently...how I trust him. If I do not make true my promise to stay with him through this commitment, our marriage in its true sense is a failure. Even if our hands are empty today...I must continue to hold him dear and hold him close for him not to feel that he is empty or that he has nothing.

It happens in faith. And it all happens if I believe that everything happens for a reason and a better purpose.

Even if I canot hold it in my own hands.

DO YOU KNOW ME?

I’m sure you’ve seen me a lot of times, and felt a myriad of emotions upon inspection. What will surely amuse you though, is that I have stains on my clothes as varied as your emotions…milk, chocolate, marshmallow, even baby powder on my jeans.

And to battle these challenges( sometimes, in vain) I have my new and updated kikay kit, which sometimes turns out to be a bigger bag: what used to be just lipstick, concealer, and pressed powder…now resides in chaotic harmony with baby wipes, a sachet of anti-mosquito lotion, some colored rubber bands and sparkly hair pins, a small wash cloth, a small container of soap, and of course, diapers. Since I’ve started to wean, though, there have also been occasional feeding bottles. Not to mention, the melted candies I’ve forgotten to dispose of in the bottom of the bag.

You’ve surely seen me. I was the one who expertly held a nursing baby in one hand, holding on to an MRT railing with the other, plus trying to cover any exposed skin with the extra elbow. And all this while keeping a straight and nonchalant expression amidst curious and amused glances.

I’ve kept a smiling face even though I’ve felt like sinking under the ground. You know how it feels at family parties. Specially with a baby, much more a newborn. Everybody wants to know how long you labored, how hard. Everybody wants to know why your daughter is losing weight, and are you feeding her right? Everybody wants to know if she really cries that often, and giving all their advice what to do right, what you did wrong. All your titas, probably even your lola…asked if you kept the umbilical cord, and if you used the bigkis.

I was the one with the bawling toddler in the supermarket. I’ve been in the toys department at the mall for the nth time, and I’m always making the big decisions… is it better to buy the Blue’s Clues storytelling toy than the Dora the Explorer Backpack talking toy, or should I buy it at all? Should I let my kid play longer or should I get affected with the salespersons who warn you against playing with toys that state “Try Me”?

I’ve had my share of diet dilemmas : Jollibee, McDonald’s, or Burger King? Rice or fries? Chicken or spaghetti? Combo meal, or Happy meal? And that’s only a bit of it. When I’m at home, I have bigger dilemmas. Vegetables are good for children, but if she won’t eat it, what will I give her? If burgers, hotdogs, and fries are junk food, my menu choices gets shorter . If she eats Honeystars and Koko Krunch for breakfast, lunch and dinner yesterday, she musn’t be wanting to eat it again today, right? Then why is she screaming at the top of her lungs for Honeystars at 7 o’clock in the morning? Not to mention the fact that her leftovers are my breakfast, lunch,
and dinner as well.
You’ve seen me. Probably once or twice out with my friends…in two years. We used to giggle over the most trivial of things…men, or boys as they still were, why the world invented jerks, or when would I meet “The One”? Or more profound things like heaven and hell, or the meaning and purpose of life, and how important love is to a human being’s existence. Now when I get to see them, I would get to be asked how it feels to be in a marriage, a mom, a wife- since I married first. Is it hard, is it easy?

And the trivial things to me are now trivial worries. I worry how my daughter would react to boys, or what I would do in case she meets a jerk, and would she still need me if she meets “The One” already? I still ponder on important things though, like…are there really only four Teletubbies on Teletubbie Land?

You’ve seen me more often…in those “meetings”. They happen even with total strangers, but those who understand your hardships like their own. They happen in supermarkets, in pediatrician clinics, in jeepneys, with new neighbors, even over the internet. We exchange funny, desperate or touching anecdotes about our children and debate over which milk, vitamins, diapers, or discipline tactics are better. Which one really work, and which ones really don’t.

You’ve seen me around, sure. I take a walk most afternoons around the subdivision. Most of the time with a little girl, sometimes with a man too...but it doesn’t matter if I’m with them both or alone. They have one name for me, and I usually answer to it. When my daughter came to this world, that man I called Honey, usually forgets pet names and simply refers to me as Mommy. He even does it when he’s not talking to our daughter!

I don’t even just answer to that anymore. I answer to a cry, a whimper, or even to “Juice! Juice!” , as long as it comes from the small voice I would hear and recognize even if I’m locked up inside the bathroom and doing No.2 (which I eventually postponed a lot of times to be “on call”).

Yep, I’m Mommy. The one who clapped when my little girl finally memorized all the basic and secondary colors for the first time (all of them, wow!). Who danced Ocho-Ocho and Spaghetti with her, and even enjoyed it. The one who bought those pretty red Mary Janes because red looked cute on my daughter (and it matched her birthday dress), if but a little expensive. The one who learned to love Teletubbies because I had to watch it at least 10 times a day. The one who now had the reason to buy toys she wanted as a little girl, clothes she wanted to wear as a little girl, go to places she would have wanted to. The one who put herself in a corner to control her temper, and agreed with gusto when someone said that any mother would understand why some wild animals ate their young ( and even thanked the heavens I wasn’t a wild animal…or else!)

The one who cried because the continued nursing for two years hurt me. The one who cried when a relative insinuated I wasn’t a good mother. The one who kept her chin up when she realized she WAS a good mother, no matter what. The one who worried when her daughter was losing weight, or never gained weight for that matter. The one who wanted nothing in the world but a whole night’s sleep, or a few hours alone reading a book or watching CSI or Sex and the City. The one who so badly wanted to spend time with her husband (if he wasn’t working late in the field, or if our daughter slept early, much better!) The one who feels desperate sometimes, but blessed more often.

Yep, Mommy here. 24 hours a day, seven days a week, for the rest of my life. You know me, you’ve seen me. But if you’re a mother as well…you’ll understand who I really am.

I knew I was getting older when…

I knew it would come one day…but not one day SO SOON. Nowadays I would stop dead in my tracks and realize… WAIT! Was that time that just ran over me without my knowing it?

I would be first to admit I was scared of becoming “old” because I was one of those naughty adolescents who smirked at parents who tried to be fashionable, who tried so hard to be “uso”. Don’t get me wrong! It’s just I myself, eversince, did not believe in purposefully dressing, acting, talking, or (god forbid) dancing a certain way to be “cool”.

And it happened.

I became Mommy.( And well, becoming Honey also ages me a bit…hehehe)

And suddenly I understand.

I know I had gotten older (aka uncool) when…

… suddenly time seemed to fly. I look at Jylianne and I wonder where my baby had gone. And imagine she’s only three! When I was in my teens, it always seemed such a long time until my crush called again, or until next Saturday to go to Hard Rock, or the months you had to wait until Grad Ball.

… I started using the sentence “ When I was in my teens” or “when I was your age”

… I started asking people about the clothes I wear --- whether my arms looked humongous, or my belly was jutting out… and making a conscious effort not to look too Mommy-ish. ( “Mukha bang nanay?” or “Mukha bang loshang?”)

… I started acquiring an even faster version of my mom’s machine gun mouth (no offense, Ma!) Even my own mother, who would laugh when I tell her I was becoming like her, would shake her head a little at the slightest RAT-TA-TA-TA-TAT, most of the time at messed up toys, a spilled glass of milk, or food that wasn’t eaten

… I started having discipline words of “ If Mommy says you do this, just do it! I won’t make you do anything bad for you!”

… I’m listening to music (Evanescence, Beyonce, Maroon 5, Avril, the like) and I’m thinking that those are the genres Jylianne would smirk about when I’m forty and listening to it only on Sundays, on programs dedicated to oldies music

… I remember my childhood crush Nick Carter and think my daughter will probably think “Eww, sino yan? Ang baduy ni Mommy.”

… I start wondering what I’ll feel if Jylianne does suddenly grow up and she acquires friends, does her own things, gets her own life. I feel sappy when I wonder if she’ll still need me

… I wanted to spend the rest of my life with ONE MAN ( and he wasn’t even a man yet when I thought that)

…I woke up one day and I changed my mind about that

… I woke up again one day and thought I was a mature woman, and when I make decisions, I stick to it (only old people think that way, di ba? Trying to convince themselves the mistakes they made weren’t actually mistakes)

… I had admitted my mistakes to myself

… I actually knew what my mistakes were, the right from the wrong

… I knew the right from the wrong, but remained adultly hard-headed enough to maintain the wrongs I liked…hehehe

Hay, whatever. Doesn’t really matter whenever, wherever, whatever ages me…this heart will never age.