Confessions of a Single Mom Drama Queen

League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

2009-10-12T00:59:00.005+08:00

Ask a Filipino what he or she loves most about the Philippines, and you’re sure to get a myriad of answers. There’s the wind sand beaches with sand as pillowy soft as baby powder, the fantastic shopping in both bargain centers and high-end boutiques, the romantic sunsets, the rugged mountain ranges, the list can go on and on.

And while all those answers are true, if you ask me what I love most about my country, I will tell you that I love our men – specifically, our jeepney drivers. Yes, I am serious.

My friends always tease me about my predilection to what they label as men who are “ers”: drivers, waiters, and blue collar laborers in general.

They say this is because I’m nice to ‘ers’. Anywhere I encounter them, I talk to them, I sometimes joke around with them and make small talk.

What they don’t know is that many years ago, back when there was no MRT or FX, I would commute some 15 kms every day to UP Diliman. Since this was back in the day when the EDSA flyovers were still being built, this kilometer reading translates to a travel time of about 2-2 ½ hours each way.

This went on for about 4 years during which I went through it all the hardships every commuter faces – heat, god-awful rain, waiting at a jeepney stop for long periods of time, pushing and shoving and fighting to get into a jeep when it finally arrived, the smog, the heat (jeepneys are not exactly air-conditioned) and of course, the many stops the jeepneys make along the way – which also may explain my long travel time.

There are many realizations when you ride the jeepney versus riding another form of public transportation like the FX or the MRT, such as:

> Jeepneys are painted with their own unique grafetti that are reflective of Pinoy pop culture like Katas ng Saudi, Laki sa Hirap and my all-time favorite: Basta dryber, sweet lover.

> The jeepney’s parallel seating arrangement make you may be more prone to motion sickness.

> The seat up front next to the driver, may be more comfortable because you’re sitting face forward, but it is also more uncomfortable. For one thing, it’s extremely cramped; its legroom would make economy class seem like First Class. For anther, it’s also hotter because if I remember right, that’s where something like the battery is located. You know how jeepney drivers always have a towel around their necks? Well, they literally are sitting in a hot seat.

> People in enclosed air-conditioned cars have no idea how much noise pollution they make when they honk their horns.

But the realization that stuck with me the most was that jeepney drivers, despite their notoriety as bullies lording and dangerously careening over the streets, are really some of the nicest, most generous people I have ever met.

Yes, met.

Countless times, during my 2-2 ½ hour ride to school, I would get to chat with jeepney drivers and talk to them. (I would often scoot myself to seat right behind the driver or sit up front with them. Once, I even squeezed myself on the left – hand side of the jeep where the spare tire is.)

They would ask me the usual questions like what school I went to. When I would tell them that I was studying at UP, they would always be instantly impressed, making conclusions about intelligence and academic achievement.

They would ask me what course I was taking. When I’d tell them that I was studying Journalism, they instantly made predictions about how I was sure to be the next Loren Legarda (before she was a senator, she was an award-winning journalist).

I would downplay these praises in a typical self-effacing manner. And they would reassure me that I had a bright future ahead of me. I remember one jeepney driver lightly admonishing me for belittling myself, telling me that there was a difference between showing off and simply telling the truth. “Hindi ka naman nagyayabang, nagsasabi ka lang ng totoo. Walang masama dun.”, I remember him saying.

They would tell me that I should study hard and whatever I do, never ever marry a
jeepney driver because “mahirap ang buhay”.

Always, after having chatted with me, they wouldn’t let me pay for my fare. I would insist, but they would just as adamantly refuse my payment and say that saw their own sons/daughters in me and would never ask their kids to pay them for bringing them to school. “Para na din kitang anak, bakit pa kita papabayarin nyan.?”

Others would make me promise to study hard, saying that this was payment enough.
“Sige na, galingan mo na lang ang pag-aaral mo.” [No need to pay, just study hard.]

When they would say this to me, I felt that their underlying meaning was that I had a chance at a good future, a better life; and I shouldn’t waste it because others don’t get such chances.

To an impressionable 17 year old who was not entirely sure what the future held for her, still questioned her capability and well, just wondered if she could make it in this world, their words of praise, encouragement and wisdom made a great impact on me.

But what touched me the most was their gift of generosity. They wouldn’t let me pay for my fare saying that that a free ride was the only thing they could give me in exchange for our pleasant conversation.

When you think of how much jeepney drivers make in a day, you would know that every paying passenger matters and that the saying ‘every centavo counts’ takes on a literal meaning. This made their ‘simple’ gift of a free ride all the more meaningful to me.

Seventeen years later, though not yet an award-winning journalist, I don’t have to commute anymore.

But I have never forgotten the lessons and the kindness of these jeepney drivers who safely took me to and from school in their jeepneys.

I still wish I could thank them. They probably don’t remember me anymore, but I wish I could show them that I did study hard and worked even harder to somehow make something of myself. In part, I have their faith in me and their kindness to thank for that.

So instead, everytime I encounter an er: a driver, a waiter or a cab driver, I make it a point to be extra nice to them and talk to them. I show them that I may have my own car now, but I haven’t forgotten their kindness and their free rides.

So when in Manila, check out our world-famous jeepneys, (the hop-on, hop off versions are now air-conditioned. They are a unique, colorful tourist attraction in themselves. And better yet, don’t miss the chance to chat up the driver and see for yourself why Philippine jeepney drivers belong to their own league of extra ordinary gentlemen.

This post is this blogger’s official entry to the When in Manila contest to win a free or partial scholarship to Anton Diaz’s Maven Secrets course at the Asian Institute of Management. This blogger wants to uncover the secrets of successful blog marketing so that she can publicly market her blog about the struggles and real – life dramas of being single motherhood in a country where ‘divorce’ isn’t even legal. Blog marketing and promotion is a concept that continued to remain elusive to her, despite her many attempts at trying.

For more information about Manila's other tourist attractions, log onto http://www.wheninmanila.com

The Terminal

2009-09-27T05:29:00.002+08:00

They say that you can tell a lot about a person by the way that they deal with little inconveniences in life -- just think of how people face adversity, are daunted by hardship, or are tempted by money and power.

Well, as I found out today -- you can also add to that flight delays and waiting for an indefinite time at an airport.

Kiddo and I were coming back from our annual summer trip which we decided to take in one of our yet-to-be-discovered remote islands. That may sound very exotic -- and it was -- but it did also mean that we were cut off from a lot of the comforts of civilization like paved roads and a steady, consistent mobile phone signal.

We were going back home and had just checked in when we were told that our flight was going to be delayed for 1 ½ hours. Bummer, but not being able to do anything about it, we decided to while away the time in one of the sari-sari stores eating chips.

I thought that it was a waste to have to stay at the airport for another hour when we could have had more time exploring the little provincial town that was our home for 4 days.

Kiddo began to commune with technology and kept herself busy with her hand-held games. We decided to wait outside so that I could have access to a mobile phone signal and text, and Kiddo could munch on some chips while communing with technology.

After an hour, we went back inside the terminal to wait for our boarding call. It was unusually hot inside and we found out there was no electricity.

We whiled away the time observing people. There was a group of middle aged ladies laughing, eating and just having a good time.

There were parents fanning their sleeping children who made beds out of the airport terminal benches.

And...finally, the announcement came!

Unfortunately, when the announcement came, it wasn’t to board, but to tell us that our flight was again going to be delayed for another hour. Effectively, this made our total waiting time close to 3 hours in an airport with no electricity, no cellphone signal. No reason was given for the additional delay, but there was a feeble attempt to appease us with a snack subsidy worth P70.

Now that really riled people up and got their ire. Because on top of the waiting, the heat and being cut off from the civilized world with no mobile phone would be enough to bring out the devil in anyone. People were hot, tired and hungry.

Actually, for typical Pinoys, hunger alone is already considered a major punishment.

A lioness emerged from a very poised and rich looking young mother traveling with her husband, three kids and nanny. She lashed out at the airport attendant and said in a loud voice, “My children are sick. I could sue this airline if anything untoward were to happen to my children.” It was quite a departure from her proper and quite demeanor.

Then there was the group of 17 or so matrons who let out a collective grunt of dissatisfaction and resignedly just decided to troop to the sari-sari store to see what their P70 meal allowance could get them.

There was another Caucasian couple whose teenage son was dehydrated and weak. He was led to a lounge area with a proper couch that he could sleep in.

At the sari-sari store, people were lining up and showing up for their P70 merienda. People were demanding hot wait to boil their cup noodles; asking to have luncheon meat micowaved so they would not have to wait for it to be fried. (the sari sari store apologized for not having a microwave). And of course, there were the sarcastic jokes and complaints about the airline that kept them waiting.

Then, there was my Kiddo who simply found a way to entertain herself by being resourceful and finding things around her that she could play with. She found some rocks, cooled them off and came up with a bright idea. She decided to have an impromptu cooking show where she would demonstrate how to make a rock smoothie. Of course, she wasn't going to do this without asking me to tape it.

She watched the first episode and asked me to tape another set. She talked about cleaning rocks – she called the act of dusting the dirt off the rocks as “peppering”. She was so happy with the first episode that she asked me to tape another one and made me primise to upload it on You tube.

Suddenly, the horn blew signallig the arrival of the plane. Finally!

In the middle of her cooking show, she jumped up and down and started shouting. “It’s here! It’s here! This is the happiest day of my life.” She shouted into the camera.

So yeah, if life’s little inconveniences and adversities are a good way to build character, then I am happy and proud to see the beginnings of tenacity, making do with what you have and not letting anything get you down in my Kiddo.

When I asked Kiddo what she was making and told her it was for this blog post that I’m writing, she looked down and suddenly very quietly and uncharacteristically shy told me, "Thank you mommy for including this in your magazine.”

Punctuated Motherhood

2009-09-20T00:05:00.003+08:00

Single-mother.

Yeah, there’s a hyphen up there.

That makes all the difference.

In grammar, a hyphen is used to connect two words with opposing meanings like:

Low-fat.
Ugly-pretty.

And yes, single-mother.

Because in reality, how do you live like a single person and as a mother?

Well, if you’re like me, you live a double life.

You have twice as many roles, twice as many responsibilities and twice as many clothes.
The skirts that defy gravity along with the gorgeous 3 inch torture chambers that try to blithely pass themselves off as shoes for work.

And the toddler-proof jeans and sneakers – the only thing that will allow me to run after that little ball of energy who is also known as Kiddo…and the love of my life.

Hyphens are also known to bind words that don’t make sense alone and give it meaning; words like --

Fuddy-duddy
Topsy-turvey.
Dilly-dally.

And yes, single-mother.

Because in the reality of my life, those words don’t make sense until they’re put together into my one person…albeit precariously held together by a hyphen.

Home A...Loan

2009-09-13T18:23:00.004+08:00

I sat there staring for a minute, hesitating before putting pen to paper.

I had wanted this moment for so long. The chance to call our tiny apartment ours.

I dreamed about it for so long, never daring to think about it becoming a reality.

It was one of those dreams held up high on a pedestal– the ones whose pristine state are not be altered by something as mundane as reality.

As I stared at the papers, there it was…our apartment described in detailed measurements and geographical location…and it could be mine as soon as I signed on the dotted line.

But what was this I was feeling? It was not the excitement I expected.

It was panic.

“Wait!”, I wanted to say. “Can I think about this for just a few more minutes?”

But the man before me was oblivious to my panic, going on and on about the minute details like the check, amounts and due dates.

“Terms and conditions”, he explained, catching my dazed look.

I shuddered. I shook it off in a visible motion and he noticed.

“Anything wrong?”, he asked casually.

How could he be so cold about the whole thing? So calculating and business-like? So mechanical?

Signing on that innocuous dotted line would set the terms and conditions of my life for the next 20 years.

“No, no problem at all.”, I say with a slightly defiant upturn of my nose.

I would not let him see my tattered nerves and the multitude of butterflies that were flying around in my stomach. No wonder Al Pacino said that pride was his favorite sin.

My palms were so clammy and cold – they didn’t feel like they belonged to me.

“Okay, then if you’ll just sign right here please.”

I gulped, steeled the pen in my hand and signed.

And signed.

And signed.

There were 3 copies and all pages had to be initialed.

And just like that, the little apartment Kiddo and I had been living in for the last three years was mine. It was ours for decorating as we pleased. We were no longer tenants.

It was ours….as long as I could keep up the mortgage payments for the next 20 years.

Twenty years. My god.

The last time I signed up for something that resembled “lifetime involvement” or “till death do us part”, I failed miserably.

What if I failed at this, too?

It seemed like another lifetime – these 20 years that this man so non-chalantly spoke about.

Kiddo would have moved out of the house, maybe would have gotten married and I’d still be paying for our apartment.

I was scared.

Who knows what will become of me 20 years from now?

What if I die? Who will continue paying for my mortgage? Where will Kiddo live?

Self-doubt began to creep in, emboldened by this fear.

Can I really do this on my own? Am I in over my head?

And for the first time in the 7 years since I had left my marriage, I wished I had someone – anyone -- at my side to hold my hand. I wished I had a co-pilot who could take over the wheel when I badly need some rest.

So I texted my best gay friend.

He’d be my husband by now, anyway, if only he weren’t gay.

He texted back immediately. “Don’t worry honey, the first dip is always the coldest.”

Yeah, I guess.

And as the man turned over my copy to me, I knew that I had already jumped and there was nothing to do but swim.

That was me 5 months ago.

The signing of my bank mortgage was followed by home renovation which in turn, brought on a series of events that tried my patience and grated my nerves like no other individual endeavor in my whole entire life.

It brought out a side of me that I never thought existed. People say that about love, about natural catastrophes, about having babies and other life-altering events. I’m saying it about money.

In those five months, I saw money change me. Not money per se, but the fear of running out of it, the constant threat of not having enough.

Many sleepless nights were spent going over the items that needed to be paid for and where to scrounge up the money to pay for it. In the middle of the day, I would be computing the running costs in my head. I was bargaining for pesos and cents with everyone from the contractor to the sales person at the hardware store. No amount was too small to be saved.

You know “Bridezilla” the monster bride?

What’s her equivalent when it comes to home improvement?

Someone who’s bitchy, demanding, irrational at times. Someone who’s a slave driving perfectionist.

Martha Stewart?

You could just as easily have used my name up there.

I thought that I was never the type to be consumed by money. There were times when I just threw in the towel and gritted my teeth with my losses, because I never wanted to cry over the proverbial spilled milk…

But here I was literally counting centavos.

It was tiring and counter productive, but I had no idea how else to handle a situation like this – where every ounce of success or failure would be attributed to me. I have never taken on so much on my own – alone.

More than the worries about money now, it was the ruminating and obsessing about where the money in the future was going to come from that was the source of my agony.

I did what I swore I wouldn’t do. I castigated myself for not saving enough and for my past financial mistakes.

It was a self-imposed whipping for my past sins of greed, selfishness and caprice when I could have and should have been saving for our home.

You see, I have never been good with money. I always seem to never have enough of it. Every payday, I am scrambling around for scraps of cash that may still be left in my ATM.

And renovating a house, like leaving Kiddo's father and starting a life on my own brought together two deadly sins – money and pride.

When I left my marriage, I swore that I would never let my daughter feel deprived of certain things just because she had a single mom and the other kids had two working parents and two times the disposable income.

But the core of it was I didn’t want to be pitied.

I had already failed at a marriage, I couldn’t damn well fail at life anymore.

That resulted in several years of retail therapy which wasn’t so much marked by ostentation, but more just that I was spending more than I could and buying what I didn’t need – just to prove to myself and others that I could.

And that resulted in a mound of credit card debt that I had only just recently finished paying off. And just when I did, I took on another debt – a twenty year mortgage.

I would like to think that I was able to turn a bad situation into a good one. I would like to think I was able to do better and be more because of this ardent need to show that tenacity and resilience were values that ran in my blood.

But I also know that if I had much simpler aspirations, managing my check book and credit card statement would also be simpler.

When can I live a life that is not ruled by money? Can anyone actually do that? At what point does money only drive ambition, rather than define it?

I don’t know the answer to that.

So in the meantime, I’ll just take it paycheck by paycheck. Mortgage payment after mortgage payment.

Note: Kiddo is now in the 2nd grade daughter isn’t old enough to move out or get married yet so she still lives with me. Our apartment was recently chosen to be featured in a home decorating TV show.

Letters From Your Momma

2009-07-18T15:36:00.001+08:00

As absurd as it may sound, I have been waiting for your Dad to find a girlfriend.

In the beginning, it was because I saw it as a sign that he was over any delusional ideas of us being a family again. Then it was just an act of magnanimity. I didn’t want him to grow old alone. I always thought that he was entitled to his own happiness and being with a person who could give that to him.

And now, I hear from you that you have met one of his woman friends and are becoming good friends with her daughter.

It was weird to hear that name. It was a name from my own past. She was a good friend. When we were in university, she taught me how to drive and her old beat up car was the first car that I ever drove. She met you even before you met her. She used to visit me in the condo that I used to share with your Dad. And when I left him, she was one of those I went to, shameless and vulnerable in my wretchedness; crying and bawling.

It is a name that I expected to hear again in one way or another, but certainly not in the context of you going out of town with your dad, her and her daughter.

Perhaps in the characteristic first stage of emotional unraveling, I was in denial. Jokingly telling myself that Manila is really just too small a city and how I was relieved that now he is with someone, it’s at least someone I know and someone I can trust to love you and treat you well.

But then, it hit me. This is someone I know. This is someone I trusted. And someone I thought of as my friend.

This was someone who witnessed my humiliation and knew all too well my suffering and anguish.

And that was when a new kind of pain set in. One of betrayal and plain and simple disbelief.

How could she do this to me? It was a mockery and a belittling of everything we went through in the decades that we had shared a deep friendship.

Old wounds that I thought were just old scars were torn open. And there it was again, torturous thoughts of the past and the unspeakable ordeal short of hell, that your Father and I put ourselves through. It was hard enough to get over the fact that he could be kind and everyone else except me, but my good friend to?

True, it has been some 5 or 6 years since I had seen or talked to her, but that did not erase that decades of friendship before that. It didn’t change that she is still someone I considered a friend.

And years of absence or no years of absence, isn’t there some kind of moral code or sense of delicadeza that is being violated here?

And even if there is, who am I allowed to cry out to? And am I not striped of any kind of right to voice an objection; to cry out my uneasiness about just how wrong the whole thing feels?

But then it would be pointless. I have no rights. I have no pretensions about my own need to have a life of my own and enjoy the liberty of finding relationships of my own.

But it hurts me and it feels empty and phony for me to say that I am happy.

Because I am not.

Once again, I am reminded that I can never be completely free of your Father and the cruelty that always marked our relationship. Once again, I grieve at the thought that while my life with him has long been buried in the annals of court room decisions, I still have to live through petty inconveniences such as the thought that someone I had trusted and believed to be my friend betrayed that trust and that friendship to be with your Father.

And yes, I continue to wish your Father happiness, but question again why, it seems to be happiness attained at my expense?

The Departed

2009-05-28T17:21:00.005+08:00

In my country, 4,500 women die every year from child-birth related complications. This means that everyday an estimated 11 Filipinas die while giving life.

A woman losing her life while giving life is an irony that is unheard of in other more developed countries around the world.

Factors like limited access to reproductive health information and services and the fact that more than half of the total annual childbirths are not attended by a health care professional aggravate this problem.

Last Mothers' Day, supporters of the Reproductive Health Bill lit a candle to commemorate the departed ones.

REPRODUCTIVE HEALTH ADVOCATES PROTEST AGAINST YEARLY DEATHS OF 4,500 MOTHERS

Thousands of reproductive health advocates and supporters all over the country gathered last May 13 in a symbolic protest against yearly deaths of an estimated 4,500 mothers due to maternal and childbirth related complications such as severe hemorrhage, hypertensive disorders, sepsis, and problems related to obstructed labor and abortion. The event was timed after Mothers' Day.

In an event dubbed, “Light a Candle, Save Mothers’ Lives: Support the Passage of Reproductive Health Bills,” national and local lawmakers, government officials, health workers, community folks, civil society and interfaith leaders lighted candles and offered flowers to commemorate the wasted lives of around 11 Filipino mothers who die everyday while giving life to an offspring.

“Reproductive health advocates from the cities of San Pablo, Laguna, Legazpi, Cebu, Davao, Iloilo, Tacloban, Sultan Kudarat and Quezon City conducted a simultaneous candle lighting ceremony to call the attention of our lawmakers on the graveness of our maternal health condition,” said Beth Angsioco, Secretary General of the Reproductive Health Advocacy Network (RHAN). “Its heart wrenching to note that 11 lives of mothers are wasted everyday while giving birth to an offspring and three out of four women who die each day are in the prime of their lives, aged 15-19, and come from poor families,” Angsioco lamented.

“We hope to remind all of us that flowers and gifts during Mothers’ Day are not enough. A law that will make pregnancies and childbirths safe is needed. We call on our legislators to truly honor Filipino mothers by immediately passing the Reproductive Health Bill into law,” Angsioco stressed.

Meanwhile, Ramon San Pascual, Executive Director of the Philippine Legislators Committee on Population and Development Foundation, Inc. (PLCPD) has expressed hope that reproductive health bill will pass this congress. “We are positive that this time, the reproductive health bill will see the light despite the deliberate delaying tactics of the anti-RH legislators in the House of Representatives,” San Pascual added.

San Pascual elaborates: “As of today, there are already 118 co-authors in the House of Representatives, and with the new entrants, the number is still growing. There are also legislators who said they would vote for the bill come voting period. “On the other hand, the Senate deliberation has been going on smoothly and even Sen. Aquilino Pimentel who is known to have anti-RH position has expressed his amendments so that the bill will be more acceptable even to his co-religionists,” San Pascual said.

RH Advocates staged the simultaneous nationwide candle lighting ceremonies to dramatize the call for an immediate passage of Senate Bill 3122 and House Bill 5043, titled “Reproductive Health and Population and Development Act of 2009.” Both houses are conducting plenary interpellations of the measure.

Letters from Your Momma (The One About Marriage)

2009-05-10T12:35:00.000+08:00

Dear Kiddo,

At some point along this road of life, you may find yourself wishing that your mother (that’s me, by the way) had somehow prepared for the little bumps and curves.

I know I did.

So let’s take it one bump and curve at a time and start with marriage. Kiddo, here are the things that I wish my mother had told me about getting married.

At least now, you won’t be able to say that I didn’t tell you so.

The whole marriage thing is a bit overrated, but the wedding is not.

There is something absolutely magical about donning a resplendent gown made just for you, walking down the aisle to meet the love of your life anxiously waiting for you. You feel like and are treated like a queen. There is a glow radiating from within you. The people invited to the wedding are well-wishers who share in this wondrous feeling of hope and happiness.

So yeah, that much is true – a wedding is really magical.

In fact, if I could, and if it weren’t going to be taken as an affront to the institution of marriage, I would put up a business that would allow women to be “bride for a day”. They would have everything from the gown, to the make-up, the professional photography, to the entourage of friends -- everything but the groom.

Don’t laugh, someone once told me that there is a certain church where weddings were booked were made by brides who didn’t have grooms in tow.

Now, wouldn’t my idea be much less trouble?

Marriage can be really bland.

I first heard this at a friend’s wedding. The mother of the groom, who was married for a good number of decades before her husband passed away, shared this piece of advice and I thought it was so…real.

When it comes to marriage, people always have something to say. They may tell you that it’s good, but only in the beginning. They may tell you that it’s hard and not worth it. These are the highs and lows of marriage and of life, in general. But hardly anyone will tell you about the in-betweens; the plateaus which can be long, agonizing and just as torturous and…bland.

There’s a difference between the wedding and the marriage.

I once went to a very elaborate and obviously well-planned wedding and remarked, “Wow, all this preparation for just one night.”

My then boss who was also a guest, looked at me incredulously and said, “It’s the start of a lifetime together.”

Uh, yeah she was right. The wedding is just a ceremony, whereas the marriage is really the rest of your life. The marriage has to be prepared for as much as the wedding.
Many get so caught up in the details of the grand ceremony that they forget to prepare for the grander scheme of things which is really life after the marriage.

Marriage is not for everyone and that’s okay.

Doing what’s expected can’t be expected of everyone. While most girls do dream of marriage and their own happy ever after ending, it just isn’t in everyone’s cards. Some people look for security and certainty of marriage.

Others are suffocated by these very things and view it more as monotony rather than security. Others will look for the companionship, but without the formality of documentation.

Bottom line, it’s not the marriage document and ceremonial act that is important, but the love, respect and companionship. Don’t let societal norms dictate the version of happiness that you want to have. Love takes on many forms. Find yours and be happy with it.

Which is really just fancy speak for ‘whatever toots your horn’.

And the best piece of advice about marriage – the golden rule, the gold standard that all other rules should be set against…do not settle. Repeat after me – DO NOT SETTLE. Whenever you feel that you want to give in and marry Mr. Right Now instead of Mr. Right, repeat this mantra to yourself over and over again. Make it into a chant if you have to, and repeat it until you are hypnotized.

Don’t be tempted by the prospect of a “good buy” or a “sale” where you buy something that you don’t really want simply because it’s 50% off. Remember, there is such a thing as buyer’s remorse and in a sale, there is a strict “no return, no exchange policy”.

17 Again

2009-04-21T17:52:00.002+08:00

One of my friends asked why there didn’t exist a relationship status like: “It’s simple”. Like there doesn't exist a "simple relationship".

Actually, until my friend even mentioned it, I didn’t think there was a choice other than “complicated”.

I didn’t think relationships were anything but cumbersome obligations. This may largely have something to do with the fact that my very first real relationship was already a serious one, from practically Day 2. Day 1 being the day that we agreed to be in a relationship and Day 2 being the day that my then boyfriend started ruminating out loud about a “future”.

I was barely out of college when he then progressed to the idea of marriage and the need to plan the road map to get to that destination.

Rather than be giddy with anticipation and excitement, I freaked out.

I was 21, brimming with plans, dreams and ambitions. I was still wide-eyed at the prospect of a career and making it big. And on the practical side, my four figure salary was barely enough to cover my own expenses for transportation and lunch. I couldn’t imagine how it could possibly fund a marriage.

But my then boyfriend was relentless. He would take every opportunity to dream about what a life together would be like. He would wish aloud that he didn’t have to take me home after a date, saying that he couldn’t wait to start a life where we could go home together.

I was not so easy to impress. I would deflect these pronouncements with shots of reality about how we would probably have to go home to each other’s parents as we didn’t have the resources to live on our own.

A year or two into the relationship, he proposed.

I suppose it was a marriage proposal many girls would kill for (sans the small engagement ring).

The glorious sunset and white sand that my country is famous for was the background to the a story of how grandma and grandpa got engaged; a story sure to regale many future generations of grandchildren.

The tears of joy that I imagined such an occasion would bring didn’t come. Instead, I was able to give a feeble, “Okay.”, which I quickly qualified with: “We can get married, but just not now.”

But yeah, I was flattered. (C’mon, I’m not cast in stone!)

It was flattering, but at the same time, it also brought so much expectation and anxiety.

All of a sudden, little flaws were viewed through the “My god, this is what I am going to have to live with for the rest of my life?” microscope. There was so much pressure to make it work and work everything out. And soon, the relationship became, well, like 'work'.

I wondered what it would be like to be in a relationship that was stress-free, one that didn’t always beg an answer to the question, “Where is this going?” and “When are we going to get there?”.

I wondered what it was like to be in a relationship where my own only worry was homework, beating curfew, and believable alibis -- rather than saving up enough to put in a joint bank account.

He complained that all his other friends’ girlfriends were giving ultimatums and making veiled threats about a marriage proposal, hurrying to beat the clock before 30, whilst my attitude on marriage was cavalier and detached.

Well, not so detached apparently as I eventually gave in to the whole marriage thing. It seemed like I would never know what it was like to just “date”.

Of course, at the way that my life unraveled, dating again became pretty much a necessity, a mandatory chore to signal starting over again.

And by that time, surprisingly, (well, not really), men were looking to settle down and have babies whereas I had already been there and done that.

It seemed like the idea of fun, carefree dating -- and all the giddiness that comes with it when you’re 17 -- would remain a concept that would elude me forever.

And then I met someone.

Someone who was just going to be in the country for a few months.

Admittedly, it was the thought that there was little time together that fueled the whole “we-have-to-make-the-most-out-of-what-we-have-and-relish-every-moment” feeling.

But I didn't mind. It was this feeling that allowed the relationship to develop in an easygoing and simple way. There was no future to speak of and everything was lived in the moment.

The answer to the question “where is this going?” was a restaurant or a movie. The future was next week, not 5 years later with kids and a mortgage.

It was exactly what I had imagined dating at 17 to be like -- hassle and concern-free. It was even better than I imagined because we had more than a meager allowance, no homework (but busy work schedules to contend with) and the best part, our own apartments.

Even some of our dates like the ones with Kiddo, were junvenile. We would hang out at the skating rink, the arcade and end up at a burger joint for dessert.

Luck was on our side for a while and he was able to say in the country, giving us more time to be together. And for two years, it was a relationship that I would describe as simple and yet happy.

But as it all good things, an end came and he had to go away. We knew it would come to, but even knowledge of the inevitable didn’t make it less painful.

We began to dream of being together again. Our easy going ways were replaced by hope and the management of time difference. There was pressure to keep things as they were so that the other would somehow remain a person of flesh and bone and not just a voice over the phone.

And just like that, it became a relationship with adult demands.

The 17-year-olds had to grow up -- fast.

Who knows if they will have the maturity, the patience and tenacity to see this through till they’re of legal age or at the very least, 18?

All I know is that I was given another chance. For what seems like an all too brief moment of two years, I lived and loved like I was 17 again.

The Lives of Others

2009-01-27T12:07:00.001+08:00

For as long I can remember, I have always wanted someone else’s life because I thought that it was better than my own.

In grade school, growing up overseas, I wanted the life of the ‘other’ girls. This was back when being a dark, pug nosed and straight haired Filipina was nothing even remotely close to being exotic. I wished I could be lighter, my nose taller (well, myself taller, too) and my hair wavier. I wished I didn’t have all these weird traditions and didn’t not have to go mass all the time, which I thought was just “baduy”. Culturally, belonging to a conservative traditional Filipino household in a country like the US was like being time-warped. There were so many things that I couldn’t do that the other girls could.

Moving back to the Philippines didn’t help because it overthrew everything I learned in the US and it bred another kind of envy. I went to a private school that I thought pretty much resembled a country club. Girls compared out of the country holidays, weekends at family owned resorts and the latest brand names in fashion – names that I didn’t own and had only read about in magazines. After being in a middle class US suburb where Americans are not exactly concerned about being fashion-forward, this fascination with name brands was completely new to me. But nonetheless, I found myself feeling envious. I found myself wanting to have that life. To see that that life existed and actually belonged to someone I knew and was being lived by someone my age was absolutely surreal.

Then in college, I went to a university where I thought I could finally feel like I belonged. But admidst the bunch of highly intellectual students, some of whom were already quite radical, I felt apathetic and aimless. I found myself wishing I had their drive, their ambition and certainty about what they wanted to do with their life. They all seemed to be on this certain path where they were destined to be someone successful. I, on the other hand, was marked with uncertainty. I didn’t know what to do with such freedom – academic and self expression wise. I just tight-roped and waded along.

My only dream then was to launch a corporate career as fast as I could. I was obsessed with making money. I thought this was the answer to making up for the years I spent in perceived deprivation. But when I started working, I felt like a bumbling corporate junior executive who didn’t know where to put herself and ended up just being silent and wanting to disappear during client meetings, perfectly happy to go unnoticed. I had all the wrong clothes, said all the wrong things and was still poor. I got into credit card debt in my desire to speed up the process of living the life and amassing material things that would make it look like I had made something of myself.

And now….here I am. Juggling three jobs and trying to make organizational sense out of being a writer, make-up artist and yes, being the corporate executive that I had always dreamed of being. And that’s just my professional life.

On top of all this, I still have my life as a single mom, which is really just to say that I have a life as a singleton and as a mother. I am someone who has two sets of clothes for a night out or a day at the arcade and two sets of friends from these two lives.

I am often asked how I do it and why I do it. I find myself wondering the same thing,

On the outside, I know what it looks like – chaotic and outright crazy. Like I am a headless chicken of a woman desperately trying to fit everything into one day, one life, and one outfit.

I know that to many, it may not seem like it is any better than any of my past lives filled with wanting. And yes, there are days when I wish I could throw my hands up in the air and just let everything go. But I don’t because I don’t want to…and that’s probably the funny thing.

Ironically, now with my life at its most frentic pace and everything in a tailspin – now, is the first time that I feel like I would not trade my life for anybody else’s.

Because now, though I am tired and weary from my office job, and still need to work on churning out articles, conceptualizing looks for photo shoots, I go home to a place where Kiddo comes running to the door shouting, “Mommy! Mommy!” when she hears my key in the lock.

Because now Kiddo writes me small notes saying, “I love you, Mommy. Your [you’re] the best Mom in the world”.

Because now, when I dared not hoped anymore, I found love.

Because now, I get messages from both people I know and don’t know thanking me for a writing a story that moved them or simply made them happy.

Because now, I know the answer to the question, “What is all this for?”

And now that I have the answer to that question, I have never felt the most happy and the most content, with my life.

(Well…maybe I wish I could sleep a bit more. But I believe that you can never have everything anyway.)

Look to the Future (Relationship Trends 2009)

2009-01-16T11:10:00.002+08:00

In the face of great financial uncertainty such as the world has not seen, where various world economies can now be likened to Venice and the Sunken Garden, I.e. all sinking or already sunk, we move to a more light-hearted subject and posit some theories on Relationship Trends for 2009.

Women will be bullish

Women will continue to occupy places of authority in the workplace and will transpose some of the power and energy previously focused on their careers to their personal life.

As a result, women be more inclined to take the bull by the horns rather than sit around waiting for some guy named (Prince) Eric, William or Harry to come along. After being out in what can only be described as a lethargic “meet” market, women will be more empowered to take matters into their own hands when it comes to dating and putting the ticking biological clock to rest.

More women will be seen taking initiative and asking men out AND paying for dinner, at that, strictly adhering to the policy “Whoever asks, pays” which is a universal rule regardless of race or gender…it is only age that can be an exception to this rule.

More women will explore and may even be emboldened enough to sign up for voluntary single parenthood by getting artificial insemination. Others who want to have children but still haven’t found a worthy sperm donor or lifetime partner (if it were the same person, it would be nice, but these days, it is not a deal breaker) will seriously consider the option of having their eggs harvested and frozen for later use. (yes, this is an actual viable medicine option provided by wonders of modern science).

Women will defect to the other camp much as legions of gay men had done years before

You know that very pretty young singer who is all woman except for small ounce of testosterone oozing from her body in a “proud-don’t-care-whatever-the-hell-everyone-thinks proclamation of “I kissed an girl and a even actually liking it”?

Urban legend has it that it this song fast became a national anthem in a lot of all-girl schools and you can only expect other girls to follow suit and pledge their allegiance.

Men may now have to start developing their own brand of gaydar to find out which team a chick is playing on. Either way, this is a relationship trend which will have either be a windfall or downfall for them.

Younger men and older women

It is the youth and gracefully maturing sector that will continue to infuse capital in the industries of sports, health and fitness, beauty and alternative lifestyle.

The twenty something men have adapted a healthy gym going lifestyle and are a lot more fit and are more confident than the twenty something men that were manufactured a few years ago. These new improved versions just breeze through the “boyish look” and leap right onto “masculine hunk”.

Meanwhile, the thirty something women are taking a cue from the women of Hollywood (Jennifer, Madonna, Demi, Susan) and investing in their own upkeep or self-preservation and are looking more glamorous and sophisticated.

It is inevitable that these two sectors of society will come together and form intimate unions. The law of attraction will dictate it and the law of supply and demand will simply necessitate it.

Expansion of the Foreign Exchange Market

For years, no, for centuries, white men have found themselves washed upon our shores. My favorite History teacher once summarized their reasons for coming to our land in 3G’s: Gold, God and Glory for their motherland through the conquest of a new domain.

I’d like to ask her what she thinks of the theory which stipulates that their modern day reason for setting foot on our soil can now be summarized into 3 W’s: work (the expats), wanderlust – their insatiable desire to explore territories outside of their own and of course, the women…oh, and the men. (this column does not discriminate against any gender).

Look all around you, there are more and more tourists or temporary settlers roaming our streets on a fairly regular basis nearly all year round and not just in their usual Makati domain. What is most notable (and a reason to rejoice, I tell you) is that they’re getting younger and younger and this may just be the tipping point that will wash away the old John Smith - heart-Pocahontas stereotype and give way to Foreign Affairs that are diplomatically more age compatible.

“No Great Depression”

As a popular bank slogan goes, in these economic times, markets bring not only bears, but they also bring bulls….or something like that -- you get it, don’t you. Simply said, when it comes to relationships, people will change, adapt, evolve and take every opportunity to avoid their own Great Depression.

The Ties That Bind

2009-01-04T23:27:00.004+08:00

When I think about my high school best friend, I don’t find myself nestling back into a sea of nostalgic memories filled with the good old days and how things used to be.

There is no playing of songs that were popular at the time in the background, no laughing images in soft focus, no fuzzy feelings over the little secret pacts that formed part of a history together.

Sometimes I don’t feel anything at all.

I think about those best friend years with detached recollection and indifference.

She was my best friend throughout high school and college. We were misfits who went through all the usual rites of passage everyone teenager goes through – from the mundane zits, clothes, boys -- to the potentially life threatening – weight gain, teachers and grades.

I can not remember much of the frivolity and lack of depth adolescent girls are allowed; the carefree abandon mixed with the you and me against the world (the “world” being our parents) battle cry we marched to.

I remember mostly only my feelings then.

How awkward I was. How wrongfully defiant I was in the face of all forms of authority. How rebellious and yet fearful I was of completely disobeying. My feeling of wanting to be anyone else but me.

I remember how I sensed that she had her own version of these same emotions and instead of projecting them, fed on my own to elevate herself. And how I would allow her to do so in the name of friendship.

Little personal achievements were pitted against each other to see whose was more significant; more impactful. Each slowly becoming self-absorbed with the need to outdo the other.

Maybe it was simply my own resentment that surfaced and fueled the venomous competition.

Ego. Competition. Envy. Jealousy. Resentment. Words that one would not normally use in conjunction with the words “best friends” formed the undercurrent in our oxymoron of a best friend relationship.

I never got to see if the years and the maturity that come with it would some how even out the jagged edges that marked our friendship.

We’re not friends anymore. I have not seen her, much less spoken to her for almost a decade. I had stopped shared important aspects of my life for an even a longer period.

Like many other relationships – ours was brought down by a boy. Her brother, whom I married and later became Kiddo’s Dad.

Deeper emotions of anger, blame and suspicion raged between us as we took sides that, in reality, we both had surreptitiously taken long before the break up of my marriage to her brother.

Perhaps the role of sisters-in-law, on top of the pretension of best friends, was too much to bear.

I thought of her today as I looked a photo of Kiddo that I received today. In the picture, Kiddo is in a loving embrace with little girl, a bit younger than her. Kiddo is hugging the little girl close to her and her eyes are squeezed tight from trying to convey as much emotion as a 7 year old can into a single embrace.

The little girl is Kiddo’s cousin and my former best friend’s daughter.

I looked at the photo and hoped that blood would bind our daughters together in a way that mere friendship could not for us.

Saying Anything

2008-03-25T00:11:00.002+08:00

A Conversation with God -- March 20, 2008

Nothing happens by chance and I don't think that You brought me here at this time, by accident.

This time, 6 years ago I walked out of a marriage.

And now, this time 6 years after, I walked out on another relationship and have again, found myself alone.

I used to be proud of the fact that I was alone -- proud that I didn't need anyone except Kiddo in my life. Often, I would look at others who needed to be in the companionship of another as needy and weak.

It turns out that I am no different from them. They were afraid of being alone. I was afraid of being with someone and what it would entail - giving of myself, opening myself, sharing my chaotic complicated life held together by my daughter - needing someone to share its happiness as well as its trials. I was afraid of being with someone again and needing them -- giving them a place in my life knowing that by doing so I would only give them the chance to hurt me, to take advantage of my vulnerability so carefully disguised as strength and yes, sometimes as defiance -- almost daring anyone to get close.

We were the same -- afraid.

I have been told that I am difficult to love.

But it is also true that I have difficulty loving. The part of me - whatever it is that is supposed to have feelings is encased in stone. I have become a cast iron bitch and was proud of it, not knowing it was driving some away. Not knowing that I had built my own defenses and programmed them in such a way that being with another was equivalent to coming face to face with my previous failures, acknowledging my inadequacies, looking at everything as an ending rather than as a beginning.

Perhaps I haven't really forgiven myself enough to give myself another chance. It was devastating to have already fallen, not really knowing if I could get up again. I don't know if I can risk the control, the independence that I worked so hard for. I have to think of Kiddo. I have already caused her pain. I would never again sacrifice her happiness for my own as I had when I walked out on her father.

But everything has a reason and often, lessons of forgiveness, of recognizing the good in others despite what has been done.

Yes, there is a reason for every single thing that happens in this lifetime. And absolutlely nothing happens by chance.

May I find my own peace, content and forgiveness in that.

10 Things I Learned About Life From Body Combat

2008-03-12T22:46:00.007+08:00

1. A good friend is like a good sports bra – provides ample support when needed,

will hold you up and will always stay in place through all the kicks and punches.

2. It can become demanding; grueling even, and quite intense. You just have to

inhale, hold your breath, grin and bear it, while never ever forgetting to breathe

and…slowly exhale.

3. Harness your own strength and believe that you can punch that hard, kick that

high – just about anything.

4. Unleash that angst. Release all that pent up energy. Sometimes you need to scream

and let it all out. Sssssshhhhhhhhooouuuuuuuuuttttttt!!! Ya, baby, these are the

things we're talking about.

5. When trying something (or someone!) new, always give yourself time to warm up to

it before dismissing it; then give it everything you’ve got.

6. Look both ways before you kick or jump. You have to make sure that your actions won’t

injure anybody.

7. You can be sweaty, with stray hairs plastered around your forehead and neck, your face

devoid of the prettifications that you usually wouldn’t go out in public without AND

still feel beautiful. It’s really all about how you feel about yourself.

8. Love your body. Take care of it. Embrace it and its perceived imperfections. Marvel at

what it can do. As the saying goes, it is the most incredible invention you will ever

own in this lifetime (well, the greatest invention for me will always be Kiddo, but I don’t

exactly own her.)

9. Believe in your own positive force. It is the secret to self-confidence and an honest,

yet humble acknowledgement of your own self-worth.

10. You body is power; your mind is focus. With the two in harmony, you don’t have to be

afraid of losing yourself in your zone. It is the key to achieving your goals – even

if it is to burn 600 calories in a just hour.

Always remember to cool down, stretch and give thanks for the natural high that working out gives you.

Go and live like a kick ass chick…because you are.

Less Than Perfect

2008-02-28T19:00:00.005+08:00

A colleague who is married with kids surprised me one day by asking me -- very tentively -- if being a single mother was as difficult as it seemed. She was very apologetic about asking such a question, possibly worried about the intrusion I would think she was making. Having thought about this a lot myself, it did not take long for me to answer: "Actually, no, I really like the autonomy it offers so I find it easier in a lot of ways." She immediately replied, "Yeah, you know, I would think so, too! You don't have to worry about another person meddling or countering the decisions you make!".

I studied my colleague carefully to see if she was one of those Mean Girls whose words of empathy were actually veiled attempts at condescension. Oddly enough, there seemed to be no patronizing disdain in her words, only factual declaration. Having been on my own for the last 6 years, I completely understood what she meant. I was, however, thrown by the emotions that accompanied her revelation. It was an emotion that I could not place and later, after much thought, could only begin to describe as...wistfulness, almost envy.

After more talking and sharing of parental woes, I found that my colleague was not under any major marital distress. She just suspected that her life would be a lot less complicated (on top of everything else she had to do) if she could make decisions on her own without having to worry about her husband all the time, making her feel like she was taking care of another child; albeit a grown one.

It was entirely new for me to have my life, do I dare say, admired? I had grown accustomed to being questioned about my choices and the way that I continued to live my life, precariously balancing the individual needs of both a mother and a woman.

The incident made me recall a conversation I had many years ago with a good friend of mine who is the total opposite of me. She was Tsinay or "La Chinoise", I was just Pinay. Her upbringing and subsequent value system was neo-traditional while mine was Western and liberal. Her tastes in music, clothes and reading were classic and timeless; mine were racy. She was married and having children on an on-going basis; I just had Kiddo. In fact, the only common denominator between us was parenthood. The Usual Suspects will always be My Core, but when it came down to the juice – yaya drama, the best grocery buys, discipline, even dealing with The Outlaws – La Chinoise was often my helpline. (The Usual Suspects just couldn’t cut it simply because they haven’t gone through it yet.) In a lot of ways, our lives were mirror images of each other, the way our personalities were.

La Chinoise speculated that it must be great to be able to make even the smallest of decisions on my own, and have them carried out without worrying about conflicting parenting styles or having to appease your partner. I told her that the autonomy also came with alot of pressure. It meant that I also had to take full responsibility for all the decisions I make, which is also no easy feat.

I remember sensing a tinge of envy in her voice back then, and quickly dismissing it. I thought she was only entertaining romantic illusions about being a single mom. I would often look at her life – her bright beautiful daughters, her easy-going husband, their realized dreams of a house attributed to their successful careers and wonder what it would be like to have that – everything which I had wanted when I first got married. (well, except of course for her husband).

These two generally happily married women shared the same feeling of wistfulness about my life. It’s not that either one would actively volunteer to a single mom… rather, I think what triggered this “single-mom-envy” was knowing someone who simply had the guts to be one.

The easiest part was physically walking out of the marriage. Making a life for myself and Kiddo amidst sticking out like a third wheel at children's parties with the other "complete" families; guilt over wanting to party knowing full well that I had to take care of a baby; fear about job security when I had to watch Kiddo in the hospital instead of going to work – were the hardest to deal with; and which no one can ever really prepare you for.

From the outside, it may seem like my life is less than perfect, but like these two women reminded me, the great human equalizer lies in the fact that so is everyone else’s.

Kiddo Says the Darnedest Things: Reel 11

2007-12-24T20:09:00.001+08:00

Drama Queen Mom: Kiddo, I don't think I like the idea of you sleeping over at Sharkboy's house. You can play there, but I'll pick you up and you sleep here at home. Is that okay?

Kiddo: Okay, but can I go there in my pajamas so that we can, you know, (makes air quotes) "pretend" to sleep over?!

Love Actually

2007-12-24T13:59:00.000+08:00

Contrary to popular belief, I am not afraid of the day when Kiddo will fall in love.

While I may not exactly be the poster girl for long term relationships, I firmly believe that My Life need not be hers and that she will be able to find her own happiness learning from the curveballs that I have dodged, swung at and have been hit by.

In preparation for the day when Kiddo asks me what love is, I have compiled a list of lessons and truths above the thing called love which hopefully will enlighten her as much as it has enlightened me.

Love doesn’t actually complete you. You can’t look for someone to complete you. Before you can truly love another, you must first be whole and love yourself.

Love actually inspires you, which is different from changing you. Love brings out the best in you and makes you want to be a better person for the other.

Love doesn’t actually have to hurt. I have to admit that this is from Oprah’s School of Thought which says that if you really love someone, you would never do anything that would harm them intentionally. Sometimes you have to know when the hurting is the harmful kind and you need to love yourself more in the name of self-preservation.

Love actually isn’t blind. It sees everything about the other and chooses to accept and love anyway.

The test of true love is actually real everyday life. It is so easy to get caught up in the highs of romance, but it is equally challenging to have to stay together through the routinary, mundane inanities of everyday life like driving to work and paying the bills.

Love someone you can not only talk endlessly with, but also enjoy a comfortable silence with. Often, more is said in silence than in pleasant conversation.

Love is actually friendship on fire. Love is often best when served with equal portions of passion and friendship.

Love endures and actually lasts with space. Space isn’t a divider, it is a breather that allows you to still be your own person. While you are part of a couple, you are also an individual.

Love is actually a passing feeling that needs to be worked on. It isn’t exactly accurate to say that love is all you need because love isn’t much without respect, trust and forgiveness.

And what I learned from being Kiddo’s mom is a lesson on simplicity. Love need not be complicated -- you can actually love someone simply because they exist. Kiddo doesn’t have to be or do something special, she will always have my love simply because she is part of My Life.

50 Ex-dates

2007-05-11T02:42:00.000+08:00

I ‘m a serial dater.

I have a pattern of going out with the same kind of guy over and over again. It’s become a habit. I can pick them out with sickening precision that only other serial daters like me would understand. They were always the Bad Boys, the players with commitment issues, the ones with no future. It was easy to weed them out – if he was someone that I wouldn’t consider bringing home to meet Kiddo, he was someone I should date.

I approached each new victim with a methodology that was almost procedural. First, I would declare the existence of Kiddo. If unfazed by this revelation, the usual charms of flirtatious laughter, projected attentiveness and witty retorts -- would be employed to enchant and lure. Questions about Kiddo’s origin would inevitably follow. This was my cue to whip out the maiming tools that I always had handy. Bit by bit would come the disclosure of Kiddo’s Father and my legally intact matrimonial affiliation to him, the overly protective (or possessive, depending on whose side you're taking) gay boyfriends, my sporadic availability due to work and close friends, on top of the 5 year old who demanded my time.

Some would bravely try slathering on the compliments unaware that it was not me, but maybe Kiddo who had a deficiency when it came to attention. They talked too much and asked too many questions. (If I wanted to talk about my ‘feelings’, I would go out with a therapist, or go on a retreat).

Knowing that each already had a timetable, a pre-determined expiration date, I learned how to predict the telltale signs of waning interest. That would be start of their demise. I’d start preparing to add them (using their designated code name, of course) to my collection of ex-dates.

In a sadistic way, it was addicting to strategize how to capture their interest, see how long they would last and watch as they would gradually fade away or simply run. It was like clockwork.

Eventually, I got tired of the hunt, the subsequent entrapment and final kill. It was doing the same thing over and over again without really achieving anything. I envied the real serial killers, my equivalent in the criminal world, who were not only precise, but purposeful.

In an effort to mend my erring ways, I ventured out on a date with a new victim. He didn’t even flinch after getting a glimpse of my double life and all of its complications. Not even the most lethal of the maiming tools - my own Mean Girl streak - seemed to inflict the least bit of pain.

I found myself in unfamiliar territory when he outlived the usual shelf - life even after all that. It left me unguarded, exposed and...transparent -- like I was the victim. It was the most terrifying 5 minutes of my life. I wanted to bolt.

But thinking about the debt I had to re-pay society for my past transgressions, I thought it was time to hang up the baggage that marked my serial dating ways and do the unthinkable...go with the flow and just let things happen. I was told that it is what normal human beings who go out on dates do.

Now, I wouldn’t go so far as calling myself a reformed serial dater. Maybe just a slowly recovering one who is ready to rejoin society, as she no longer poses a threat to it…or to herself.

Kiddo Says the Darnedest Things, Reel 10

2007-05-06T06:53:00.000+08:00

In Jonah's, Boracay

Drama Queen Mom: "Kiddo, could you please ask the waiter for our bill so we can pay for our shakes?"

Kiddo: *sigh* "Okay...but I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

The Adventures of Sharkboy and Kiddo

2007-03-10T21:14:00.000+08:00

Kiddo has a boy friend. He’s the boy on the next floor.

She actually met him through me. His mom was someone I had to interview for an article that I was writing. We got around to talking and after finding out that we both had “only kids” who were of the same age (exactly 3 months apart), we agreed to schedule a play date.

We didn’t have to do anything much after that. Kiddo and her new friend, Sharkboy, became practically inseparable.

He came to that nickname because the only thing that they probably don’t do together is swim since Sharkboy is somewhat afraid of the water. It doesn’t stop him though from staying by the poolside and waiting patiently for Kiddo to finish swimming. That’s just how they are with each other. Sharkboy is extremely caring, always watching over Kiddo and it just completely endears him to her (and to me!).

Their display of genuine love and concern for each other, founded on an innocence only children can have, is both touching and extremely laughable. I marvel at it, my mother’s heart is warmed by it, and as a spectator, I am always entertained by it. Watching them together, how they are with each other, and sometimes how they fight is like being with an old married couple. There is never a dull moment. (well, maybe that also has something to do with them being two very energetic 5 year olds)

Their two and half years (half their lifetime!) of constant togetherness have been filled with many episodes of their own unique dramedy. Of the many adventures of my Kiddo and her Sharkboy, these are my personal favorites…

The one where Sharkboy is chivalrous

One play date with us mothers as chaperones, we took Kiddo and Sharkboy to a playground with inflatable slides where they had to take off their shoes and play only in their socks. After playing, Sharkboy picked up 2 pairs of sneakers from the shoe bin. Alarmed, Sharkboy’s mom stopped him thinking that he got another child’s shoes by mistake.

Sharkboy’s reply: “No, these are Kiddo’s shoes. I’m getting them for her.”

The one where they pulled a “Romeo & Juliet”

One day while going down the winding staircase of our building, Sharkboy saw Kiddo as she was leaving with her Dad. Sharkboy called out her name, frantically running after her. Restrained by his own yaya to keep him from tripping on the steps, he outstretched his arms behind the railings (making him look like he was behind bars) crying, begging Kiddo not to go.

Kiddo being a typical female relishing being pursued, nonchalantly said, “I have to go now -- my Dad’s here. Bye!”. If her hair were longer, I’m sure she flipped it over her shoulder, without giving Sharkboy so much as a second glance.

Apparently, girls will be girls, regardless of age.

The one where they started going to the same school

On Kiddo’s first day at Sharkboy’s school, he called her on the intercom and offered to pick her up so that they could walk to school together.

As classmates, they became even more inseparable, going straight to each other’s houses at dismissal to eat lunch together (with Kiddo making Sharkboy carry her bag for her), going home only at dinner time.

The one with the Care Bears

The day before we left for Hong Kong, Kiddo and Sharkboy made a pact. Kiddo asked Sharkboy to promise to wait for her. She left him one of the two Care Bears she owns, for Sharkboy to keep while we were away, while she brought the other Care Bear to Hong Kong with us.

And how loyal and true Sharkboy is! On the day of our arrival, Yaya # 5 said that he stayed in our house the whole afternoon, watching TV by himself, waiting for Kiddo. We got home really late that night so they didn’t get to see each other, but Yaya #5 said that he would have stayed, had his mom not looked for him and asked him to go home.

The one when Kiddo made herself part of Sharkboy’s family

At Sharkboy’s birthday party, Kiddo, without prompting, included herself in their family picture. She refused to extract herself so that they could have a ‘real’ family picture, no matter what I said. Well, not that Sharkboy wanted her to leave. They even have a picture where they’re not even looking at the camera, but at each other, their heads locked.

The one where another girl came into the picture

I knew that trouble was brewing when Kiddo asked me to help her make a letter for another boy in her class. When I asked her if we were also going to write to Sharkboy as well, she said “No”, explaining that Sharkboy had a ‘girlfriend’.

She didn’t know how to label it yet, but I could see it -- how she was trying to be brave when really, she was trying to deal with another girl’s presence in Sharkboy’s life. I could see right through her and her attempts to get Sharkboy’s attention and make him jealous. She even asked me to text Sharkboy’s mom to tell her about the new ‘girlfriend’.

So what was a mother to do? To show my support, I bought colored paper and envelopes to make cards for the ‘new boy’ and texted Sharkboy’s mom, as requested.

Sharkboys’ mom immediately texted back, assuring me of Sharkboy’s loyalty, saying that the other girl may have been just a passing fancy.

Sharkboy and “The Boys”

When there are other little boys around, Sharkboy becomes all macho, ignoring Kiddo, claiming that he’s not friends with Kiddo because she’s a girl. This of course, only makes Kiddo cry. It amuses me to see how he tries to look tough in front of the guys, refusing to comfort her, so that they won’t see how he looks after her and appear to be a ‘softie’. Amazing how boys are all the same, regardless of age.

Recently, Sharkboy started hanging out with another boy in our building, seeing less of Kiddo. The funny thing is Kiddo doesn’t seem to mind. She’ll ask Sharkboy if he can come to our house after he plays, and if he agrees, will wait for him. She seems to already understand the concept of giving a man space.

The one where Kiddo meets Sharkboy’s grandparents

Sharkboy’s grandparents were visiting from the province and Sharkboy, ever so formally, and with such pride, introduced Kiddo to them as his “girlfriend”.

The one where Kiddo starts hinting about the future

We were in a department store looking for dresses and passed by the little girls’ gown section. One gown on a mannequin caught Kiddo’s eye, and she told me, “Mom, I want that gown. I’ll wear that gown when I marry Sharkboy.”

I love to joke that I knew at some point, Kiddo would overtake me in the dating game. It just seems surreal to have it happen 10 years too soon.

As I am writing this, I am chaperoning Kiddo and Sharkboy on yet another play date. Watching over them, seeing them caught up in their own universe, laughing and playing, makes me feel so privileged to be part of Kiddo’s friendship with Sharkboy. I can only hope that I can be part of the other male relationships that she will have in the future, though I imagine to a much lesser degree.

As she grows up, there will be many other friends that she will have, and a lot of other boys who will come along, but I look forward to the day when I can tell Kiddo about her 1st best friend and how they grew up together, and laugh about how boy-girl relationships don't change, whether you’re 3 or 30.

Commercial: Kiddo Says the Darnedest Things, Reel 10

2006-11-11T22:28:00.000+08:00

Drama Queen Mom: "Come here, Kiddo, let me carry you."
Kiddo: "Carry?! Yehay!"
Drama Queen Mom: "I miss carrying you. When you were small, I used to carry you all the time."
Kiddo: "Why?"
Drama Queen Mom: "Because you couldn't walk yet.
Kiddo: "Huh??? I didn't have legs??"

Commercial: Priceless Moments, Reel 7

2006-10-30T02:05:00.000+08:00

1st children's book Kiddo picked out: P475
2nd children's book Kiddo picked out: P525

Cuddling with Kiddo to read a bedtime story: Priceless

The Family Day

2006-10-24T02:55:00.000+08:00

I read somewhere that one of the surprising joys of parenthood is realizing just how much more you could love your husband when you see how much he loves your child.

No one writes about what it’s like to see how much your ex-husband loves your child…maybe because no one can ever really prepare you for the raw, blinding nostalgic pain it brings.

Kiddo’s school recently had a Family Day which, as with all events that involve Kiddo, her Father and I both attended. It’s all part of our unspoken agreement to continue playing an active role in Kiddo’s life, so that apart from the glaring fact that we don’t live under one roof, Kiddo will not feel the absence of either parent. We’re there for her as her Mom and Dad, but there’s always one of us who ends up a bystander, watching from the sidelines and that Family Day was no different

Family Day…Family for a Day was more like it.

She stayed with him most of the time and I watched them from a comfortable distance. He stroked her hair as she sat on his lap, and Kiddo would look up at him with adoring eyes.

They joined the triathlon they’d spent weeks practicing for, and I rooted for them from the sidelines. I tried to ignore that it was a game designed for a family trio, as I seemed to be the only mother who busied herself with the videocam as her brood raced against the other teams. They won first place and I cheered as loud as I could. I was so proud. We congratulated Kiddo and praised her for a job well done. We stopped short after each giving her a kiss. The intensely emotional, triumphant moment suddenly became an awkward one.

I found myself wanting to say thank you for continuing to love and support my daughter despite everything. Instead, I muttered a ‘thank you’ for supporting my decision to transfer Kiddo to her new school despite the price differential.

I can not begin to tell you how hard it is to be so close – but only physically - during such tender moments. Being on guard so as not to let vulnerability set in, is exhausting. Outwardly, I am unaffected. I am stoic and strong. When really, I’m just a jumble of emotions.

Questions that I so carefully, so deliberately chose not to ask started racing through my head. I wanted to ask why we could love our daughter so much and not love each other; how we could be so good to Kiddo, but not to each other. I wanted to know why the 7 years between us, so long cast aside, and only acknowledged during these “Family for a Day” events could still re-open old wounds; why our joint presence was equal to getting a glimpse of what our life would have been like if we had chosen to stay together. And the question that really shook me to the core - would we have tried harder if we had foreseen moments like this when it would have been nice to really be a family? I was angry at myself for not letting the years that had gone by make it any easier.

I’ve been asked why I still invite Kiddo’s Father to such events since he has always made it clear that his presence is my prerogative. Admittedly, I could chose to not put myself through this turmoil which brings me to the brink of losing the sanity that I tried so hard to re-build. It would be easier not to have him there -- easier for me. And it’s just not about me anymore. It’s not about us. It’s about Kiddo, whom we love very much and whose life we want very much to be part of. It’s about Kiddo’s right to have both parents share in her life. We still respect each other enough to put aside the past and take part of her present.

One of Kiddo’s teachers was wearing a shirt with a definition of “family” printed on it. Her shirt read that "a family is a group of people who love and care for each other". I noted that the definition of a family didn’t specifically require the presence of a mother and father.

Kiddo’s Father and I have a lifetime of “joint events’ like this ahead of us and I’m sure that it won’t always be like this. At some point, one of us may be starting a new life with someone else, and Kiddo will find herself part of a bigger family. When or if that time comes, I hope that Kiddo will spare herself the angry questions and instead find an answer in the simple definition of a family as a group of people who love each other. May any doubts she may have, be laid to rest with the knowledge that as long as her Father and I love her and continue to be part of her life, she will always have a family.

Commercial: Kiddo Says the Darnedest Things, Reel 9

2006-10-10T07:04:00.000+08:00

Kiddo: "Mom, can I be a devil for Halloween?"

Drama Queen Mom: "Devil?! Oh, okay, sure... "

Kiddo: "Kasi diba, the Devil wears Pwada?"

Commercial: Kiddo Says the Darnedest Things, Reel 8

2006-07-30T10:03:00.000+08:00

Drama Queen Mom reviewing Kiddo's monthly Progress Report

Drama Queen Mom: "Hey, Kiddo, it says here that you can count from 1 to 20 already! Can you show me?"

Kiddo: "1, 2...20!"

The 10 Commandments of Single Motherhood

2006-07-18T10:07:00.000+08:00

He is, and always will be, Kiddo’s Father. Thou shalt not have strange men, posing as Father figures, before Kiddo.
Thou shalt not use thy Ex’s name in vain.
Remember to keep holy Kiddo’s designated Date Night.
Honor Kiddo’s time with her Father.
Thou shalt not kill, have killed, or maim any of thy outlaws. Thou shalt turn a deaf ear to anything and everything they say about you to others.
Thou shalt not steal or extort. Thou shalt take only what it rightfully and legally (read: court awarded) yours.
Thou shalt not commit adultery.
Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy Ex’s new girlfriend.
Thou shalt not envy thy Ex’s new girlfriend. Thou shalt turn a blind eye to how much better he treats her.
Thou shalt always convey to all that Kiddo’s Dad is a good father, for as long as he is continues to be one.

A General’s Daughter

2006-06-25T00:30:00.000+08:00

When people find out that my Father is a retired General, they readily assume that my sisters and I grew up living a life of power and privilege, surrounded by bodyguards, in full military style. They ask me what it’s like being a General's daughter, begging for stories about life on a military base. They’re always slightly disappointed when I tell them that I don’t have any to share.

It brings to mind a conversation I once had with my Dad back when I was an obnoxious teenager who was of the opinion that the world owed her a favor. I accused him of being cruel and unjust because he didn’t give us the things my classmates had, or take us on trips to exotic destinations. I barraged him with questions about why we never lived on a base or were chauffer-driven by one of his young cadets.

I half expected him to joke that he wanted to keep his growing daughters as far away as possible from his junior cadets. Instead, he simply said he wouldn’t be able to stomach feeding us with the ill-gotten wealth needed to fund such a lifestyle. He pointed out that I was not less fortunate just because I did not have the clothes my other friends had, and ended by saying that someday, I would be able to get everything that I wanted and more, all on my own. Annoyed by the delayed gratification pep talk, my smart-assed mouth answered that I would be able to stomach whatever he fed me, as long as it looked and tasted good. (I was a Drama Queen, even then – just one devoid of morals.) I went on to grumble about my measly allowance and how unfair it was that the other daughters were not even allowed to commute, and were always chauffer-driven while I had to take the jeep to and from school.

When I joined the corporate world and began to acquire things that were previously beyond my reach, I recalled that conversation with less angst and more clarity. I began to understand what my Father meant and more importantly, what he was trying to teach me. I realized that as part of the Armed Forces Medical Corp, his was mainly a support function, which meant that a life of luxury would have to be acquired through less than respectable means.

Now, when Kiddo asks me to buy her a new expensive toy that her other friends have, I find myself echoing my Father, trying to explain to her the concept of delayed gratification and the importance of having to “earn” big acquisitions. When she sighs and puts on a crestfallen face, I gently tell her that I won’t be able to give her all the things that her other playmates have, and that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

As anybody with kids will tell you, when you deny your child of something in the name of moderation and teaching the value of hard work, it is actually more difficult for the parent. I think of it as the cost of doing ‘parenthood’. As a solo parent who is also the solo breadwinner and the formula for all expenses is: everything times 2 (or 3, if you count Yaya #5), divided by 1, I sometimes wonder if I could give Kiddo more if her Dad and I were still together.

Even with his help, I still have to do a budgeting act, careful not to materially overcompensate for the absence of a complete family, while making sure that she doesn’t go underground (i.e. through her grandparents or her Dad) to get what she wants. It’s juggling fairness and reward, precariously managing the temptation of taking the easy way out and just giving in.

I imagine this is how my Father felt when we had that conversation many years ago.

I’ll be the first to tell you that ours is not a father-daughter relationship that fuzzy commercials are made of, but if there is one thing that my Father impressed on me, it was the principle of integrity and the value of an honest day’s work. The resentful teenager grew up to realize that deprivation is power if you use it to drive your ambition; that the deepest satisfaction lies in looking back from where you are and knowing what you had to go through to get there.

As I’m writing this, I’m already bracing myself for the times to come when Kiddo will whine and bitch about not getting what she wants, while I stand resolute about not readily giving it to her. The reality of life is, she – like everyone else -- will not always get what she wants the minute she wants it. And you know what? I don’t need to apologize or feel guilty about that as long as I am able to give her everything she needs – which is far more difficult.

Passing on my Father’s legacy to Kiddo is my civilian duty, the accomplishment of which will be the equivalent of being awarded a medal of the highest honor. If I am able to do that, then I would have earned the right to stand tall and proud as I tell her that this is what it's like, this is what it means, to be a General’s daughter.

Heat

2006-06-13T01:56:00.000+08:00

“You’re sssoo hot!”

Was that a compliment…or a suggestion?
Here then, is a proposition

Would you like to know what’s between my…ears?
I’ll blow you away with wit, with humor
You’ll laugh and we can have a conversation –
One so good you’ll nearly forget your name
Grind me, ride me for my opinion
I’ll give it to you with sass and honesty
I’ve never been one to fake it.

Already imagining what I’m like?
Touch me, feel the stronger stuff I’m made of
Go down the depths of resilience laced with vulnerability
Their raw intensity may just bring you to your knees
Lose yourself in the heat of compassion
Dream with me while we’re both awake
Get to know me again, and again, and again

So you really think I’m hot?

Look harder. Go deeper...Dare to come inside.
See what makes me beautiful.

The Kiddo's Father

2006-05-08T13:06:00.000+08:00

I have often been asked how, after all that has happened, I can still be sincerely nice to my Ex whom I always refer to as “Kiddo’s Father”.

It wasn’t always like that. It wasn’t long ago that we couldn’t utter two sentences to each other without fighting. It would be the same arguments, the same potshots – which, because we knew exactly where to strike, would always hit their mark. Pain and remorse would ensue, and it was like we were back to living under one roof again.

Now, when I refer to him as “Kiddo’s Father” – I am simply declaring a statistical fact. There’s no incendiary emotion or connotation. I never call him “my Ex”. Using “my” as a prefix implies attachment, ownership or belonging. It alludes to a time when we were something to each other apart from being just Kiddo’s parents. It goes back to a period in my life that I will never deny, but do not wish to re-visit. It’s not out of anger, or bitterness, or anything in between. It’s more out of a need to compartmentalize. It’s to separate the man I was once married to and the man who is still the father of my child. I need for that man to be two people to me.

There is the man whose last name I still carry. When I married him, I’d known him more than half my life and had been in love with him for nearly as long.

That love, along with the part of me that belonged to him, has died. Its slow demise was debilitating and watching it wither away brought excruciating pain. I buried it and for years, mourned its loss. From time to time, I still pay my respects to it. It's often when I need to involve him in some major decision that will affect Kiddo -- what school she’ll go to, disciplinary measures and most importantly, for consistency’s sake, how to explain our situation to her.

That man will never be forgotten, but he is different from the man that my daughter calls “Daddy”. She has that man on a pedestal. I wish for him to be joyfully driven by the need to always be deserving of that pedestal. He worships the ground she walks on. I wish for her to bask in the love and devotion that only a father can give. I want her to know what it is like to be unconditionally cherished by a man. I want them to get to know each other as individuals, not just as a parent and child.

I am able to do that by thinking of him as “Kiddo’s Father”. It not only detaches, it simplifies. It limits his role in my life, while still acknowledging his role in hers. It latently reminds me that it’s not about us anymore. It does away with the need to assign blame and the tendency to vilify or malign. It files away my bad memories, honors the good ones, and paves the way for Kiddo to make her own, with the man who will always be her Father.

Enough

2006-04-10T01:23:00.000+08:00

The gym almost every day
Weights here, cardio there, stttrrreeeetttccchh
Heave…ho…What does the scale say?

No cake, no donuts and god forbid, chocolate
Chips are a sin and carbs are traitorous
Panting…Ranting…What does the scale say?

Nothing but salad, or protein, and only if it’s low fat
Gee, I might as well not eat at all
Huffing…Puffing …What does the scale say?

Get a body wrap, try the South Beach Diet
Maybe then I can be as thin as my wallet
Gasp…Groan…What does the scale say?

My tummy is growling, my mouth is watering
What I would give to have – oh, just a bit of…of… ice cream!
Grumbling…Mumbling…What does the scale say?

I can still pinch the bulges.
I can still feel a jiggle.
When will it be enough?

Sighing…Whimpering…

It all depends on what the scale says.

Flower Girl

2006-04-09T00:53:00.000+08:00

Kiddo was recently a Flower girl at the wedding of her Dad’s cousin.

Ever since she grew a full head of hair (she was practically bald the first two years of her life), I had always imagined what it would be like to see Kiddo all made up and in a gown, dressed like a princess. I think all mothers, Drama Queen or not, have this secret little wish.

Kiddo was all a flutter, regaling me with stories about her fitting and the color of her gown when it suddenly hit me. This was a family affair – her Dad’s family, the one which I had voluntarily estranged myself from and was now no longer a part of. It dawned on me that, by default, I was not going to be at this event.

Blacking out during my self-imposed oblivion and barely remembering parts of Kiddo’s babyhood is still something I have not totally forgiven myself for. I swore that I would never let myself become so self-absorbed that I would again miss out on any of her firsts. And yet, without my doing, it seemed that was exactly what was going to happen.

My Dear Sista tried to console me by saying that I could take Kiddo to the salon and take her pictures after she was made up, but that didn’t help. It wasn’t going to be the same. I wanted to be there on her big day when she’d take her first walk down the red carpet. I wanted to be the one to tell her when she’s grown up and didn’t remember, how she looked in her gown and how she cried or sashayed down the aisle. I wanted to be the stage mother taking all the pictures.

I stopped myself in mid-thought and realized that everything I wanted started with the word “I”. Unknowingly, I was again being self-absorbed and doing exactly what I swore not to do. My own misery was overshadowing Kiddo’s own excitement as she animatedly told me about her gown and her shoes, showing me how she would hold the basket of flowers that she was going to carry. In my selfish attempt to deflect the pain of being excluded from this event, I was depriving Kiddo of sharing it with me, in her own way.

Casting aside my own despair, I contented myself with asking Kiddo questions about the other flowergirls and practicing to walk down a pretend aisle with her while throwing flowers.

I had already accepted that I would have to settle for pictures to go with a second hand account of the wedding when I got an invitation. I couldn’t believe it. As if to erase any doubt in my mind that this was simply a gesture of courtesy, the Bride called me and invited me herself. I was deeply touched by her graciousness.

At the wedding, I was the only unofficial photographer hovering at the altar, but I didn’t care. Kiddo hammed it up, playing games, mischievously hiding from the camera, peeking from behind the Ring bearer and then snuggling up to the Bride. I found myself looking to Kiddo’s Dad to see how he was taking this all in. We caught each other’s eye and he laughed, shaking his head, saying about Kiddo’s display, ”Manang mana!”. I smiled in between my tears as pride filled my heart, and a melancholic nostalgia tugged at its corners.

I congratulated the Groom, kissed the Bride, and said, “Thank you” wishing that could convey my gratefulness over being allowed to witness this occasion, so memorable both to her and to me, for entirely different reasons.

As we were going home, I looked at Kiddo, the tired but-very-pleased-with-herself Flower girl. I thought about the many times like this that lay ahead…her first play, her first communion, her prom, even her own wedding and caught myself.

I’m not going to let the future, and all its possibilities, consume me. Not when everyday already brings simple, but incredibly intense moments of happiness.

Alot Like Me

2006-03-14T01:27:00.000+08:00

Kiddo looks just like her father. She is the spitting image, exact replica, carbon copy (or digital copy as it’s called nowadays) of him.

This was most evident in the early years, when she first graced this world with her presence. She hardly had any hair -- much like her father -- and was often mistaken for a boy. She was a Junior, her father’s Mini-Me.

In the beginning, this fact almost made me feel left out. My role was marginalized to carrying her around for 9 months. Like my services were no longer required and considered fully rendered when I had given birth to her.

When we split up, I took with me a daily reminder of him. Kiddo even took on some of his mannerisms, like his sleeping positions. Even in deep unconscious slumber, they mirrored each other.

As more hair sprouted on her head, the resemblance was downplayed, but only because she was now unmistakably a girl. As she started growing up, Kiddo begn adapting certain behaviors and displaying a distinct personality.

She took on a slight American twang, but could switch to crisp Tagalog in a snap. She showed a liking for indulgences that are instinctive to women like going to the salon and getting a hair cut or a kiddie foot spa. (I’m trying to delay the introduction to retail therapy for as long as I can.) She was a chatterbox, a social butterfly who liked being around people, whether it be my family to entertain or her friends to play with.

Alongside this, Kiddo’s other “qualities” also started to emerge – a willful, stubborn side which quietly (and sometimes, not so quietly) challenged rules. She defied warnings, pushing the envelope just far enough to incite a reprimand, but always ready to argue her defense with a smart-alecky response. She was irreverent, sometimes subversive to authority, deliberately doing what she’s specifically told not to do “just to see what happens”. She was theatrical, making mountains out of molehills – brandishing her own kind of drama. Just today, at her Moving Up Ceremony, she was given the "Big Imagination" award. According to her Teacher, it's because of the different characters she pretends to be and the mostly out-of-this-world endings that she makes up for the stories read in class. (The only 2 other girls in her class were awarded "Big Sister" and "Little Mommy" respectively). She was both easily pensive and withdrawn.

My life was proverbially flashing before my eyes. I saw myself as a curious child who couldn’t wait to grow up (my Mother tells me that I started getting my nails done at age 4); an outspoken adolescent who questioned the nuns about the importance given to “socialite” subjects if I was not going to marry rich and spend the rest of my life going to charity balls and throwing dinner parties; a rebellious, angst-ridden teenager who detested being told that she was too young to know anything about life; an opinionated reader who wrote letters to editors, columnists, almost anyone who would listen (my first letter was to President Reagan when I was 7).

God help me. Raising Kiddo will be an exercise in dealing with myself.

Yup, Kiddo is a lot like me…though she may not look it at all.

Commercial: Kiddo Says the Darnedest Things, Reel 8

2006-03-05T01:38:00.000+08:00

Ninang picks up the Drama Queen and Kiddo in her new car

Kiddo: Hey, Ninang, I like your wheels!!

Commercial: Priceless Moments, Reel 6

2006-03-05T01:26:00.000+08:00

Iced Toffee Nut Latte: 5x the price of regular iced coffee
Chocolate Frappuccino: 3x more than the price of an ordinary milkshake

Kiddo ordering her own drink and, for the time, spelling her name for the Barista: Priceless

Commercial: Kiddo Says the Darnedest Things, Reel 7

2006-02-21T00:37:00.000+08:00

Kiddo sees her Ninang taking a bubble bath

Kiddo: "Mom, can I take a bubble baf, too? "

Drama Queen Mom: "I don't think so, baby. You've got a cough and it just might get worse."

Kiddo: "But Mom, I want to relax!"

The Drama Queen’s Guide to the Galaxy

2006-02-01T01:38:00.000+08:00

A random collection of universal truths I’ve gathered from watching Oprah, loving Kiddo, and strutting around in my shoes.

Throw it back to the universe when you don’t know what else to do with it.

It is tempting to ruminate, to obsess, to analyze till you’re paralyzed, but at the end of the day, worrying really doesn’t accomplish much. Recognize when something is beyond your control. When that happens, throw it back to the universe. It isn’t equivalent to throwing in the towel. Rather, it is rooted on the faith and the belief that when you want something badly enough, all the forces in the universe will conspire to give it to you…in one way or another.

God is fair.

Ever wonder why most gorgeous, successfully brilliant and sensitive men are gay? Because God is fair. If they were straight, then they would probably be perfect, and that’s just not the way the Galaxy works. Imperfection levels the playing field and makes us all equal.

Gratitude, like patience, is a virtue.

Some people have, some people don’t. The grass isn’t always as green as it seems on the other side of the fence. Know that for all the things that you think are lacking in your life, there are many other things to be thankful for. When you find yourself asking, “Why do these things always happen to me?” answer you own question with the knowledge that things happen for a reason and that you are blessed in other ways.

The world IS round.

What goes around, comes around. The Galaxy revolves around an unwritten, but immutable code of poetic justice necessary to maintain balance. Even the simplest act of kindness will find its way back you. Unfortunately, the same goes for even the smallest acts of malevolence.

Hate the game, not the player.

Has someone you thought you knew so well ever done something totally out of character? It may cause you to re-assess your opinion of that person and everything you thought them to be. But things aren’t always black and white, and we almost never get both sides of the story. It’s easy to be compassionate and say that you understand, but what is truly commendable is to empathize and see things from that person’s perspective without judging or condemning.

Trust is like interest; it is earned over time and increases with deposits.

I try my best not to lie to Kiddo about anything. I think of this honesty policy as a trust fund that I can withdraw from when someday -- an explanation eludes me -- I tell her that she’ll just have to take my word for it. Hopefully, at the rate that I’m going, she’ll have no reason not to believe me since time and principle would have shown her that my word is something that she can bank on.

Well-behaved women never make history.

I got this from Maria Shriver whose blood line is obviously of the historic kind. As her mother had done, she is trying to raise her daughters with a conviction that a woman can stand up for her beliefs, challenge the norm, revel in her individuality and still be a “nice girl”.

The vain don’t complain.

When my foxy shoes start to pinch my feet or my calves hurt from walking around in 3 inch heels, I recite this mantra over and over: The vain don’t complain. I remind myself that I freely chose to wear these gorgeous torture chambers posing as shoes. I bought ‘em, so I should suck it up and walk the walk in ‘em. Either that or change into more comfortable shoes…which might not go with my outfit.

Life is beautiful.

Despite its being occasionally cold and hard, this Galaxy, this Life is beautiful…and for that matter, so are you. However, like everything else, staying beautiful requires a certain amount of effort. Thanks to scientific advances, effort can now be bought by the bottle -- in the form of moisturizer and sun block. Relatively inexpensive and widely available in every major department store, when used regularly, they are the best line of defense against wrinkles and pre-mature aging! It’s power, literally, at your fingertips – don’t be afraid to use it.

A Time to Heal

2006-01-29T22:07:00.000+08:00

It took me 7 years to finally decide to leave him. I found myself facing an uncertain future alone, with no husband and no father for my 16 month old daughter. I was so certain that we had exhausted all the options, but why didn’t my decision bring on the much longed for relief?

The decision to end a marriage often leaves you even more lost and confused. After finding the answer to the question, “Are we ever going to work this out ?”came the even bigger and scarier questions of “Now what?” and “How am I going to get through this?”

No matter what the circumstances are surrounding the break up of your marriage, there are certain truths that need to be adhered to and processes that you need to allow yourself in order to keep your sanity, and help heal your broken heart.

Give yourself time to mourn

With the end of a marriage comes the realization that you will not be living what earlier seemed to be a simple dream of a complete family that would grow up and grow old to together. Give yourself time to mourn and cry about those unfulfilled dreams. Allow yourself to grieve over the death of a love that you thought would see you through your old age. When you allow yourself the comfort of this solace, you will be able to better help those around you who are equally affected by this war – your children.

Reacquaint yourself with your children

Rarely does a marriage break up over night. Most couples go through numerous attempts to try and work things out -- whether it’s through counseling or therapy or just plain hanging on and hoping for the best. The bottom line is, it takes a while before you both reach the decision to call it quits.

Unfortunately, it’s during this state of uncertainty – in between trying to work it out and ending it – that the children usually end up as collateral damage. Like you, they too are walking on eggshells, and are a part of all the fights, though as onlookers. While this was all happening, you may have found yourself so physically and emotionally drained that you were unable to comfort them.

Now that you can, use this time to reacquaint yourself with your children. You may find that you are in a better state to explain the situation to your kids and reassure them that none of this is their fault. Not having to see mom always crying or shouting it out with dad shows your kids a stronger and calmer parent – one that they know they can depend on to help them ease their own pain.

Don’t be afraid to ask for help from your family

If there’s one good thing that can come out of a situation like this, it’s re-discovering the unwavering support of your family. Whether it’s to share in child care responsibilities or just hold your hand, you will find that your family will be there for you. You’ll be surprised at how your mother will know what to do without you having to say a word. You’ll be grateful for your sister’s show of a deep compassion that is not based on pity.

Forget the past, but remember to learn from it

Though you may not be able to help yourself, do not dwell in the past. It is not healthy to indulge in the “what if’s” and “if only’s” while thinking about the gorgeous wedding that people still talk about, the honeymoon in Paris and even more painful, the everyday moments when you looked forward to coming home and having someone to talk to about your day.

Be thankful that you had many happy memories with someone you loved. Like many other memories, they are part of your personal history and have made you who you are. It is also a part of your children’s lives and has made them who they are as well.

Forgive yourself

It may take awhile before you and your husband can forgive each other, and you will find that before you can actually do that, you must first forgive yourself. Stop blaming yourself for the things that went wrong. Yes, it is devastating to find out that sometimes in reality, love just isn’t enough. Yes, it is humbling to find out that you made a mistake, but it does not make you a failure. Nor does it make you inadequate.

Rest your doubts and fears on the immutable truth that everything happens for a higher reason.

Move on and hope

After all that has been said and done, the one thing left to do is move on. Raise your children the best way you know how and love them with everything you have.

More importantly, don’t forget to hope. Like everything else, this too shall pass. Life, while sometimes cruel and unjust, is filled with second chances.

//Re-printed from MWM, June 2003

Commercial: Priceless Moments, Reel 5

2005-12-18T18:12:00.000+08:00

Christmas Tree: 20% of Christmas Bonus
Decorations: 10% of Christmas Bonus
Gifts to put under the tree: What was left of Christmas Bonus

Kiddo putting her arms around the Christmas Tree saying, "I love you, Twee!": Priceless

31 Candles

2005-12-18T17:45:00.000+08:00

Does everyone see each birthday that passes as an opportunity to look back on the year that was or is that just me being a Drama Queen?

I turned 31 recently and as I thought about the past year, I felt something that I haven’t felt in a long time - a sense of peace and lucidity. My 30th year was marked by the closure of unfinished chapters in my life, allowing me to finally turn the page and work on my own version of a happy ending.

I ran into an old flame recently. I have always wondered what it would be like to see him again especially since our last encounter X number of years ago (which also involved an X of a different kind -- if you know what I mean), was memorable for all the wrong reasons. We made small talk about what transpired in our individual lives since we had last seen each other. He was a complete gentleman, glossing over the more unpleasant parts of our history. As we talked, I thought back to the person I was immediately after our brief affair had ended – confused and again doubtful of her self – worth. It seemed like a lifetime ago. As our conversation came to an end and he kissed me good bye on the cheek, I walked away with the knowledge that though he may have bruised my ego, he at least didn’t break my heart.

I thought about the other X-Men encounters and couldn’t help thinking about Kiddo’s Dad. Seeing other people signified both a beginning and a finality. It was the “official” ending of our marriage, dissolving any rights we once had over each other, even without the court’s say on the matter. It was letting go to start a different life, separate from each other, with Kiddo being the only indication that we once had one together. From time to time, I still find myself whispering a silent apology to him for the way things turned out. I have long since forgiven him; the harder thing to do was to forgive myself. I wish him nothing less than his own happiness and a similar sense of peace.

I was at last exonerated from the memories of the past. I was liberated. There was no more rancor or regret, only lessons to be learned and profound thankfulness for the absolution.

As if on cue, to celebrate this freeing of my once broken spirit, my two best gay boyfriends decided to throw me a party the weekend before D-Day. The last time I remember having a party thrown in my honor was my 18th birthday – again, a lifetime ago. I always threw my own birthday parties so it was entirely new to me to have one planned for me. It felt good to be taken care of.

Four days of festivities followed as the different people integral in my life threw small celebrations for me -- my friends, my family, even my officemates.

Not to be outdone, Kiddo also threw me a party. About 2 weeks before the day itself, Kiddo already started greeting me happy birthday. Then one night, she invited me to have a picnic with her to dine on the imaginary birthday cake she baked with her “cookers”. We set the table and I sat there, sipping tea from miniature teacups with Kiddo, Yaya No. 5, Winnie the Pooh, Eeyore, Piglet and Tigger. She had me wear a plastic crown from one of her costumes, making me feel like I was on top of the world.

When Kiddo took out the imaginary birthday cake that she baked for me, clapped her hands and for the first time sang, “Happy Birthday, Mommy”, I felt my heart burst as it sang right along with her.

I couldn’t ask for anything more.

Commercial: Kiddo Says the Darnedest Things, Reel 6

2005-12-02T23:32:00.000+08:00

Kiddo: “Mommy, thanks for the Winnie the Pooh stuffed animals. I really like them.”

Drama Queen Mom: “Oh, you’re welcome, honey. Anything for you.”

Kiddo: “Anything??!! What about light? Or a car? Or a house?”

Drama Queen Mom: “Okay, well, maybe not anything.”

Just Married

2005-11-12T09:12:00.000+08:00

I sometimes get this wistful feeling when I find myself in certain situations with Kiddo’s Dad. It’s not remorse or nostalgia. It’s just….a sense of wistfulness.

I usually get this feeling when we have to make arrangements about our “time sharing”. The conversation usually turns to side stories about Kiddo and we both marvel at her funny little quips.

At first, the feeling caught me off guard. Sharing a very personal moment about my daughter with him would leave me feeling vulnerable. Then I would remind myself that she’s his daughter, too. Somewhere in the past, a promise was made to a Higher Power and to each other, and that covenant was benevolently blessed with Kiddo. The sincerity and depth of our laughter over her little achievements would…move me. When I share one of Kiddo’s Amazing Stories with my dear Sista, my mom or my friends, it’s somehow not the same. The only one who can mirror my pride and joy and know exactly the way that I am feeling is her father – the one person that I am also so far removed from.

This feeling of wistfulness was even more pronounced during Kiddo’s 4th birthday which we celebrated with a party at her school. She had on her best outfit and looked so grown up. She smiled from ear to ear while her classmates sang happy birthday to her and she waited to blow her candles. I’m sure it was a kick for her to instruct her other classmates not to blow her candles as she was the only one allowed to do that. As she became slightly moody and withdrawn during the celebration, I wondered if she could sense the air of polite, though restrained distance between me and her Father.

Unlike her past birthday parties that were major production numbers, the flurry of activity made for a convenient civil wall. Entertaining the numerous guests was enough to diffuse any tension and prevent the surfacing of raw emotions during an otherwise intense proud parent moment. This time, it was limited to immediate family and a room full of lively toddlers. And in the midst of it all were two people whose previous union gave cause for this birthday celebration.

It’s ironic that I no longer share anything with this person except my daughter -- the one person who means the world to me. But not even this bond or this commonality is enough to close the distance between us. It brings us together on special occasions which we are both a part of, but can never really share. It gives us profound pride and joy that we can only show, but can not express with the usual gestures like a hug or a meaningful look.

In my mind, I tell myself that we are now friends, but I know that with our history and the life that we once built around one another, we can never be just friends in the same way that we can’t be anything more.

I simplify things and downplay their importance in an effort to lessen the force of its impact, the gravity of its meaning -- thinking that only by doing so could I move on.

What was once a joining of two people filled with dreams of starting a life together becomes just a wedding. A sacred vow is reduced to just a contract whose separation clause had to be evoked. A joyous celebration witnessed by God, family and friends, is relegated to an event documented with pretty pictures.

I used to question why were blessed with Kiddo if we weren’t meant to last. I used to agonize over the “what ifs” and “if onlys”.

I don’t anymore.

While not all stories that start off as fairytales have a happy ending, they do have good times in between. And undeniably, there are happy memories to be grateful for. Kiddo’s presence in our lives is a constant reminder of that. If it weren’t for her, we would have been just married.

Bad Boys

2005-10-31T23:59:00.000+08:00

Almost 12 years have passed, but I still remember every detail of our first encounter.

I was riding one of those big tourist busses that used to ply EDSA during the weekdays on my way to class at UP. The tourist bus had a TV and was playing an old Tagalog movie. Having nothing else to do, I found myself watching the movie and surprisingly, immediately engrossed in it. I laughed aloud in several scenes, causing some of the passengers to look in my direction.

If I wasn’t going to be late for class, I would have deliberately passed my stop just to watch the ending. As I got off the bus, I felt a buzz in my head. For my then teenage heart, it was puppy love. And the object of my affection was none other than Robin Padilla.

As far as other men were concerned, Binoy kind of set “The Bar” for me after that. Only men with Bad Boy traits would pique my interest. I would instinctively look for the haughty, unpolished, impish manner, under which usually lay a surprisingly chivalrous nature. The embodiment of delicious unpredictability and wild adventure wasn’t just plain sexy or intriguing. For me, the irresistible danger of a Bad Boy would make my heart flutter and my blood course through my veins at pulsating speed.

I could go on and on about what I love about Bad Boys, but let me be the first to tell you that I have notoriously “eccentric” taste in men. When I tell any of my friends that I find a certain guy cute, someone else in the group has to be asked for a second opinion. Seriously! Friends, with my gay boyfriend leading the pack, have diagnosed me as having terminally impaired taste buds. They claim that my liking for Bad Boys is a feeble attempt on my part to glamorize my peculiar preference in men.

Despite their valiant efforts, no cure has been found for my ailing taste buds. The best they could do was try to understand what (or who) makes my taste buds drool over certain a speci-“men”. Their research and observation have found that men who ignite my taste buds are of a certain character. Specifically they all had an “ER” factor generally found in messeng-ERs, driv-ERs, farm-ERs and labor-ERs.

Further progress was made with the construction of The “ER” scale. I like to think of it as compassionate recognition that beauty is truly in the eyes of the beholder. But who am I kidding? The “ER" Scale was developed to classify and categorize the different kinds of Bad Boys that cause my taste buds to salivate (or malfunction, depending on the who’s giving the prognosis).

Common-ER: Most basic, run of the mill, everyday “ER”

General appearance:
Earthy. Home-grown. Scruffy.

Choice words:
‘Tol. Brad.

Skin tone:
Sun-tanned. Skin is a shade of dark brown, suggesting overexposure to the sun and an irreverence for the power of Sunscreen.

Manner:
Very respectful. Sentences are appropriately punctuated with “po” and “opo”. May even address you as “Ma’am”.

Body Type:
Lean. Almost no fat, mostly due to lifting heavy weights necessary in their line of work, i.e. steel bars, crates, etc.

Typical Date:
Outdoor, nature trip, filled with fresh air and lots of walking.

Speed at which your blood will course through your veins:
Equivalent to a leisure walk in the park.

Famous Common-ERs:
Romnick Sarmienta, Gardo Versoza, Ian de Leon, Julia Diaz
50 cent, Snoop Dog, Kanye West

Medioc-ER: Neither here nor there, but can always move up or down the “ER” scale with certain aesthetic enhancements.

General appearance:
Average. Possesses border line “ER” traits in all aspects – skin tone, manner and body type.

Choice words:
Pare. Bro.

Manner:
Has enough of an aloof and stand-offish manner to differentiate him from the Common-ER, but doesn’t quite have enough of it to bring him to the next “ER” level

Skin tone:
Pool tanned. Consistently oven toaster brown all throughout the year.

Body Type:
May have a slight tummy or flat stomach (no abs) if he occasionally goes to the gym. Body is untouched and in its original state -- little or no exercise. Food intake is not monitored by a personal trainer or nutritionist. May also be just plain lanky, due to genetics.

Typical Date:
The usual. Movies and dinner or coffee after. Expect an action flick as opposed to a chick flick.

Speed at which your blood will course through your veins:
Equivalent to a jog along the UP oval.

Famous Medioc-ERs:
Jomari Yllana, Kempee De Leon
Martin Lawrence, Chris Rock

Topnotch-ER: Grade A, prime “ER”. Crème de la crème. The demi-god of “ERs”.

General appearance:
Brooding look of unapologetic, unadulterated arrogance.

Manner:
Effortlessly cool and mischievous. Unfazed and unaffected. Suave.

Choice words:
Dude, Man

Skin tone:
Beach tanned. Sun-kissed golden brown with rosy highlights in strategic places like cheek bones and nose indicating use of a SunBlock with a different SPF level for the face vs. the body.

Body type:
Defined biceps, with 4-6 packs abs from working out at the gym at least 3 times a week.

Typical Date:
All night-ER. Will take you for a spin in his ride and then back to his crib to party with his homeys.

Speed at which your blood will course through your veins:
Adrenaline rush equivalent to laps around a Formula 1 race track.

Famous Topnotch-ERs:
Cesar Montano, Borgy Manotoc
P. Diddy, Blair Underwood, Will Smith

Obviously, there is something more than just physical appearance that attracts me to a man, Bad Boy or otherwise. A friend once said that I simply took to heart the saying that beauty is only skin deep…I will continue to think that she meant that as a compliment.

This post goes out to all the jeepney driv-ERs and conduct-ERs who gave me complimentary rides and kept me company during long traffic jams the 4 something years that I studied at UP. They taught me the humble virtue of smiling through life’s difficulties and the importance of being grateful for even the most simple blessings.

Now that I don’t have to take public transportation anymore, I still get preferential service from wait-ERs and have graduated from free jeepney rides to discounted parking fees from Security Guards. Whatta you know? I guess like begets like. Or in this case, “ER” begets “ER”. I am, after all, a Moth-ER.

Raising Kiddo

2005-10-09T18:48:00.000+08:00

The other day, Kiddo told me that she wanted to live with her Dad.

Being the Drama Queen that I am, I somehow envisioned that the coming of this day would be marked by full fanfare and theatrics. The scenario would be me not allowing Kiddo to go to a party with her friends or out on a date with a Bad Boy (hey, I was of legal age when I went out with a Bad Boy, she should wait her turn as well!). I imagined Kiddo raising her voice in her efforts to reason with me and make me see her way, and me refusing to budge on my decision. The scene would come to a climactic, emotionally-charged ending where Kiddo would walk out on me, slam the door to her room and start packing her things, threatening to go off and live with her Dad.

Instead, it happened on a very ordinary day while we were going home from one of our dates. She just quietly said, “I want to live with Daddy na.” My heart caught in my throat with this declaration. I wasn’t at all prepared for this. This was supposed to happen at least 10 years from now – not when she’s just 4 years old! I found myself thinking aloud and asking, “Who will live with Mommy?” She immediately responded by saying, “You stay with us, too.” The moment of silence I took before answering this felt like an eternity. “You want to live with Daddy na?” I repeated, not knowing what else to say. “Yes. I miss him na, e.” was her heart-wrenching reply.

It took me a few days to compose myself and think about how to best address this situation. Again, I thought that I wouldn’t have to go through this until a few years down the road, when I would at least have enough time to write a proper script and rehearse my lines.

The Glamazon and I caught up with each other at the gym, and I told her about this incident to help me process my thoughts. We ended up having a crying session at the Member’s Lounge in our sweats which weren’t put to much use that day. At least we were able to come up with dialogue appropriate for the various possible endings.

I detached myself from the situation and tried looking at it from Kiddo’s point of view. I figured that Kiddo voicing out her thoughts was her way of saying that she wished she could spend more time with her Dad. So I talked him to discuss enhancing our current “time sharing” arrangement. Apparently, Kiddo has also been asking him to live in our house. When her Dad tried reasoning with her by saying that he would have no place to sleep, her ready reply was that he could sleep on the floor while she would sleep on the bed with me. I’m telling you, the depth of her reasoning at age 4 amazes me.

We agreed that we would slowly start explaining to her that Mommy and Daddy have separate houses, but that just meant that we didn’t live together. We worked on a schedule where they could be together mid-week as a weekly interval might be too much for Kiddo to bear. We also talked about the possibility of her spending some time with him during school breaks.

I realize that perhaps Kiddo doesn't want to live with one parent over another, but to instead have them both living together. However, given the realities, I simply continue to be thankful that despite the separation, Kiddo’s Dad still voluntarily plays an active and constant role in her life. More importantly, he shares the responsibility of raising Kiddo. I don’t think we can ever really share anything else outside of the love that we have for our daughter, but he is and will always be her father. And that despite the complexities of the situation, as my dear Sista pointed out, it could be a lot worse. There would be a lot more explaining to do if say, I had a boyfriend or if a sibling that did not come from Mommy’s belly came into the scene.

Kiddo mentioned living with her Dad again last night. This time, making more of a plea out of it, saying,“Can Daddy live in my house? Please, please, please Mommy.” Being a bit more prepared this time, I decided to talk to her in a sensible manner. I told her that while Mommy and Daddy have different houses and don’t live together, it didn’t mean that we loved her differently. I explained that there are some kids whose Mommy and Daddy live together, but there are also kids like her, whose Mommy and Daddy live apart. I tried to reassure her by saying that her Dad and I both loved her and would continue to raise her together as best we could.

In typical Kiddo manner, she once again threw me by saying, “But I want Daddy to live in my house – so you won’t cry na, Mommy.” I have always tried to keep Kiddo from seeing me sad for fear that the feeling would somehow transfer itself to her, so I had no idea where she got this. She claimed that she saw me crying when I was on the phone talking to her Ninang Glamazon. This, of course, was not true, but it wasn’t far from what actually happened at the gym either. (My god, was she somehow there with us??!!) Overcoming my initial shock, I ended by asking if it was okay if she continued to live with me. It seemed simple enough for her and she agreed to this arrangement before happily going off to play.

I have no idea if this formula will work. I just feel that apart from love, the best way to raise Kiddo is with honesty and consideration for her feelings -- never belittling them by thinking that she won’t be able to comprehend just because she’s a still a child. I believe that this is the only way to raise an extremely perceptive child like my Kiddo. She may be only 4, but her sensitivity and understanding can’t seem to keep up with her age.

The Divine Secrets of the Yaya Sisterhood

2005-10-05T08:07:00.000+08:00

Aside from Kiddo, there is one person that I truly can not live without -- Yaya No. 5.

I’m sure that most working mothers will agree with me when I say that a Yaya can make or break you. The truth behind that statement is probably raised to the nth power for a single working mom like me.

I need to put a number to qualify Yaya No. 5 because of the number of other Yayas that we had to go through before finding her. By the time that Kiddo turned 2, we had gone through four different Yayas. This kind of yaya exposure is not without its own share of horror stories. Let me give you a rundown of the close encounters we had with various Yayas, most of which were not at all kind…

Yaya No.1 was extremely competent and took very good care of Kiddo. The problem was she felt that only she could take care of Kiddo properly and had no qualms about making me and others know it. At times it seemed like Yaya No. 1 took a perverse joy in intimidating a first time mother like me and magnifying the little mistakes I made as a neophyte mom. I felt like I was the one who had to walk on eggshells to avoid upsetting her and getting a taste of her scathing side comments. Things came to an abrupt end when she got pregnant, hurriedly got married and left us to become a 1st time mother herself. I sometimes wonder if her own version of a Yaya No.1 has come into her life -- like in the form of a meddling mother-in-law maybe??

Yaya No. 2 was the most short-lived, staying with us for less than a week after being thoroughly scared off by Yaya No. 1 during their turn over ceremony.

Yaya No. 3 was the Gossip Monger Yaya who treated my situation with Kiddo’s Dad like a real-life soap opera. To me, she was nice and completely understanding of our set-up which required shuttling between 2 houses twice a week, all the while lugging along Kiddo’s things. Unknown to me, she took a different side when in front of the other camp. She would complain about her responsibilities, comment on my parenting and share many embellished details of my private life with Kiddo’s Dad and family. The worst was finding out about Yaya No. 3’s doings only after she left us without warning. She never came back from her Day Off and texted me 4 days after saying that she had decided to elope with her boyfriend. Her text claimed that she was sorry and knew that I must be really upset with her, but well, there wasn’t much I could do about it.

The ultimate worst had to be Yaya No. 4. She was the naïve 18 year old who hardly had any experience with children -- painfully evident in the way that she was winging it with Kiddo. Her “agent’, (who was referred to me by a trusted friend) gave her glowing credentials saying that she could personally vouch for Yaya No. 4. According to her “agent”, Yaya No. 4 was previously employed by her sister, serving as official Yaya on numerous family travels, both here and abroad. It didn’t take long to see that these claims were just too good to be true and that the “agent” made it all up to get her Finder’s Fee.

That was our life Pre-Yaya No. 5. It was a worrisome trial and error period that I hope never to re-live. It was a hopeless and desperate time for me when I felt I that would never be able to find someone whom I could trust to really take care of and love Kiddo. For Kiddo, I’m sure it was a confusing period of passing faces, of various people taking care of her for short periods of time, only to unexpectedly leave. Yaya No. 5 was like the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

Yaya No. 5 is the daughter of our household help who had been with our family for more than 8 years. (Yaya No. 5’s mom, whom Kiddo also calls Nanay, recently retired and went home to the province to take care of her grandchild.) Yaya No. 5 was only 19 when she started working for us. Traumatized by my past Yaya experiences, I was a bit apprehensive about her being so young and her only experience with children being taking care of her younger brothers and sisters. I decided to give her a try on the strength of Nanay’s long standing relationship with our family.

As it turned out, her youth and relative inexperience worked in my favor. She was receptive to my household and childcare rules. She listened to me and looked at me as the unquestionable authority on my daughter. She was quiet, unassuming, responsible and, for someone so young, didn't fall prey to the usual trappings of flirting with the village guards, gossiping with the other Yayas or texting like there is no tomorrow.

Among Yaya No. 5’s exemplary qualities are her remarkable patience in enduring the 30 minutes to 1 hour that it takes to feed Kiddo, and her diligence about accomplishing even the most difficult tasks like making Kiddo drink her vitamins or brush her teeth. (This is a daily ordeal where Kiddo would start screaming “Oh God, no! Help me! Help me!” when seeing one of us approaching her with a toothbrush.) She treats Kiddo like a younger sister, playing and reading to her, sometimes spoiling her and giving in to her more than I would. She worries as much as I do when Kiddo is sick and is very precise when administering Kiddo’s medication.

Amazingly, she also took it upon herself to look after my needs and take care of me as well. She cleans the house each morning, fixes my lunch and makes me breakfast before I go to work. She’s very solicitous when the Fantastic 4 are in the house, never making them or me feel like their presence is added work for her. The job scope that she has voluntarily taken on doesn’t end there. After a garage sale (I have one ever year to sell off Kiddo’s old clothes and shoes and fund the purchase of new ones), Yaya No. 5 would take the initiative to try and dispose of the unsold items by asking the other yayas or tenants in the condo if they’re interested in buying. (Yup, she has a direct selling streak)

In appreciation of her kindness and genuine concern for our well-being, I constantly remind Kiddo what a gem Yaya No. 5 is, and how a gem like her should be treated. Hopefully, Kiddo won’t fall into the trap of getting used to having an ‘assistant’ around to carry her things or clean up after her. So during our weekly dates when it’s just me and Kiddo, we make it a practice to buy Yaya No. 5 pasalubong. When we come home, Kiddo gives her a kiss along with her pasalubong announcing in a sing-song fashion, “Yaya, I have something for you.”. When we leave the house, Kiddo makes sure that she tells Yaya No. 5 where she’s going. Recently, Kiddo has become a bit of a hostess when friends and family come over, asking them with pen and paper in her hand, “What do you want to order?”, we make sure that Kiddo doesn’t forget to get Yaya No. 5's order as well.

When Yaya No. 5 went home to the province for a 2 week vacation, I took a leave from work to take care of Kiddo. I actually found myself a bit rattled as I realized that there are a lot of things in the house that I do not know the location of. Without me saying anything, she came back a day earlier (no small feat considering that travel to her province is a 24 ride each by boat and by bus) because she missed Kiddo. I was touched at her sincere devotion to Kiddo and was once again reminded of how lucky we are to have her.

Yaya No. 5 recently celebrated her 21st birthday. Kiddo and I surprised her with a birthday lunch at Shakey’s with close family and friends in attendance. It wasn’t much, but I hope that it made her feel special and see how much Kiddo and I appreciate the somewhat selfless way she’s been looking after us.

It’s so easy to be just a Yaya. Anyone can take on the role of a hired hand, a mercenary who needs to keep watch over her ward. But as I have learned with Yaya No. 5, it is nothing short of divine to have a complete stranger come into your home, look after your child with the deep affection and love of a dutiful older sister and in the end, become like family to you both.

Commercial: Kiddo Says the Darnedest Things, Reel 5

2005-10-04T23:46:00.000+08:00

Drama Queen Mom talking to her Gay Boyfriend/Kiddo’s Ninong on the phone

Kiddo: “Mommy, who’s that you’re talking?”
Drama Queen Mom: “It’s Ninong, honey. His cellphone was stolen last night.”
Kiddo: “Oh no! Let’s buy him a new one!”
Drama Queen Mom: “Wow, you want to buy Ninong a new cellphone???”
Kiddo: “Yes, yun color pink…yung…yung…may hearts!”

Drama Queen Mom’s thought bubble: Gee, you really knew what I was talking about when I said that Ninong is gay.

Womb Raider

2005-09-17T02:13:00.000+08:00

I gained about 50 pounds when I was pregnant with Kiddo. To put that into perspective, I should mention that I’m barely 5 feet tall. You do the math.

About 10 of those pounds went directly to my nose. At the height of my pregnancy, it seemed as if I was a nose that a face just happened to be attached to. (Think Neozep “Ilong Ranger” commercial.)

Other “infanticipating” women spoke of having a pregnancy glow; of an indescribable happiness at having Life grow inside of you. In my case, my nose was the only thing growing faster than my belly. I never felt so fat and ugly in my entire life.

My only consolation was that except for the exponential weight gain and engorgement of my nose, I had a pretty smooth pregnancy. Kiddo consistently passed the “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” monthly checklist, indicating that her progress was on track according to fetal development standards. I had no morning sickness or nausea. The only pain that I experienced was when Kiddo would kick so hard that either her elbow or her foot would jut out of my belly. I just felt really icky, ugly…and fat.

When D-Day finally came around, I thought that, like my pregnancy, it would be a breeze. I even put on make-up before I went into the Labor Room. (The Higher Powers must have known that it was more difficult for me to deal with the aesthetic difficulties of pregnancy, rather than the physical ones.)

I couldn’t have been more mistaken in thinking that my uneventful pregnancy would be indicative of what labor, actual delivery and life with Kiddo would be like.

The anesthesia that was administered to me knocked me out right before I gave birth to Kiddo. You know those incredibly emotional Mommy-Baby scenes you see on television? The ones where the baby comes out and is immediately placed on Mommy’s chest for the first time? My first introduction to Kiddo was so not like that. I didn’t hear Kiddo’s first cry nor did I see her right after she was pulled out of my belly.

My first post-pregnancy memory was waking up in the Recovery Room, alone, not knowing the outcome of my delivery. I became a bit hysterical hearing the screaming and groaning of the other women around me as I waited to be released.

As I was wheeled into my room, the pediatrician informed me that Kiddo was only 4.9 pounds. Her respiratory rate was higher than normal so the pediatrician decided to give her oxygen to regulate her breathing. Since she was so small, despite my carrying her full term, she had to be hooked up to an IV and put in an incubator.

When I went to the Nursery and saw her skinny frame for the first time locked inside an incubator, an intense sadness washed over me. I looked wistfully at the other babies, who averaged about 6 pounds and were significantly fuller than Kiddo. To make myself feel better, I joked that already she had the makings of a supermodel.

We were finally discharged from the hospital after a full week’s stay. (Friends would gently remind me that it was a hospital, not a resort) After being home for just 2 days, Kiddo had to be re-confined as she was diagnosed with Jaundice. In lay man’s terms, she was too yellow.

Being purely breastfed, Kiddo quickly put on weight and became stronger. I was her personal milking cow at her beck and call, but I lost 20 pounds within the first month after I had given birth. My face, at last, was visible under my nose.

It seemed though that after my womb, Kiddo’s alternative place of residence was the hospital -- for the first year of her life, she was in and out of them. Kiddo even celebrated her 1st birthday in the hospital, recovering from pneumonia.

Life thankfully settled down a bit after that first year as adventure started to come in the form of Kiddo’s little antics and quirks, rather than hospital confinements.

When she was barely 2 years old and enrolled in The Little Gym, she would go around waving “Hi!” to all the parents. Her teachers called her a beauty pageant contestant in training. In the playground, she introduces herself to the other kids (even to those who are quite bigger than her) and asks them if they want to play.

Now that she’s almost 4 and stands at 3 feet 6 inches, she is taller than most of the boys in her class. She likes soccer, basketball, and baseball. She conned her way into getting a skateboard and roller-skates, which she likes to play with or try on for a few minutes before saying that she’s tired already. Being the only girl in her class has not made her lose touch with her feminine side, though. Case in point, one time, while we were playing soccer in the playground, she stopped in the middle of it and said “Wait, Mom, I have to put on make up”.

My little Womb Raider has come a long way from that tiny fragile baby that first came into this world. (There is no doubt in my mind that she will grow up kicking some serious ass.)

Only the stretch marks remain as a lasting reminder of my pregnancy. They are not just my battlescars, they are the indelible mark of my Womb Raider’s strength and proof that she is not just a fighter -- she’s a survivor.

Commercial: Kiddo Says the Darnedest Things, Reel 4

2005-09-13T19:21:00.000+08:00

Kiddo as a Guest at a Children's Party playing "Bring Me"

Host: "Can someone bring me Mommy or Daddy's ATM Card?!"

Kiddo races to the stage first.

Host: "Congratulations! You get a prize for bringing this ATM Card. Gusto mo bang manalo ng isa pang prize?"
Kiddo: "Yes!"
Host: "I'll give you another prize pag masabi mo yun PIN!"
Without missing a beat
Kiddo: "PIN!!"

Laughter from the audience/party guests.

Drama Queen Mom: "Anak ko yan!!"

Irreconcilable Differences

2005-08-30T01:18:00.000+08:00

“I have always known that I was different. Instead of hiding it, I chose to celebrate it.”

That was my other gay boyfriend’s response when asked when he first realized that he was gay.

I have always been drawn to gay men. Since my first ever job as a Production Assistant for a fashion show, I have been surrounded by gay men, in one way or another. Their language, their brilliance, panache and sensitivity both fascinated me and endeared them to me. They were just so different. As proud non-conformists who refused to be subjected to the cookie-cutter standards of society, they always stood out, not as outsiders, but as unique individuals.

I have been joked as having a “golden touch” -- everything (or every man) I touch turns to gay. Considering that I am constantly on the guest list for coming out parties, there may be some truth to that.

As I acquired more and more gay friends, another title followed: “The Most Sought After Woman in the Gay Community”. (yeah, all two of them). The mushy “Love you” texts (or more accurately, “Labia!”) and the gift of candy colored thongs that let me know that they’re rooting for me in case I get lucky are testament to the kind of lovin’ that I enjoy in the hands of gay men.

It’s really a no-brainer when I think about why I love gay men. I’ve started to wonder, though, why they gravitate towards me. What gives me the privilege of being a faghag? Or is that simply my birthright?

Maybe it’s because in a lot of ways, I'm different, too. From the clothes, to the views on life in general, to the accent that is a by-product of American colonization, convent breeding, lumped together with the vernacular. Recently, I added “Fluent in Swardspeak” in my resume hoping that it would be recognized as my third language. Deliberately choosing to be a single parent in the face of a society that valued all that is traditional only seemed to underscore my oddball nature.

The choice to be different is not an easy one to make and is even harder to live out. Often, it is synonymous to being misunderstood. Presumptions are made. Labels are formed and efforts are made to break you up in parts that are more aligned to the norm.

I guess that’s why I have always felt at home with gay men. Like me, their life choices have made them different. Maybe it is this commonality that allows for the feeling of belonging. There is no need for posturing or pretending to be somebody that I’m not. No justification or apologies for the way I live my life are required. Their friendship has taught that outward manifestations of one's personality such as sexual orientation does not define one’s character. Neither is it indicative of one’s sense of humanity.

I could choose to conform. To reconcile the differences that set me apart from most people. Or I could choose to celebrate the different pieces of my being and relish in its raw honesty. Because it not only makes me different, it makes me who I am. And I am so much more than a tickbox beside civil status.

After all, it’s easy being like everyone else. It’s being yourself that’s the harder part.

Commercial: Kiddo Says the Darnedest Things, Reel 3

2005-08-21T14:01:00.000+08:00

Kiddo on the phone with her Ninang

Kiddo: "Ninang, come to my house, please."
Ninang: "I can't, Kiddo. It's raining and I don't have an umbrella."
Kiddo: "You come here and I lend you my umbwella."

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotted Heart

2005-08-20T15:14:00.000+08:00

To Kiddo, for…

…the many days and sleepness nights of breastfeeding when literally, I was all that you needed. There are no words to describe the awesome feeling of being so needed by another person

…the time when you saw me crying, you kissed me and said, “Don’t cry, Mommy. I’m sowee.” You were just a little over a year old then, but you knew exactly what to say to comfort me

…every night that you ask me to put you to sleep. You’ll have to move to your own bed soon, but for now, I’ll savor the feeling of your arm and leg wrapped around me as you sleep soundly

…the noises you blow into my belly in an effort to tickle me and make me laugh. I will always remember the sound of your laughter as a baby even when you are no longer one

…the first time that you said, “I love you, Mommy” for no reason at all. I now know what it is like to be loved unconditionally, and without question

…your cries of, “Ayaw iwan!” when I have to leave the house. Pretty soon I’ll be the one asking you to stay home and spend some time with me

…the mornings that you barge into the shower and say, “Mommy, I want to take a baf with you”. You’re starting to want to do things by yourself, but it’s good to know that you still want to have a certain bonding time that we can call our own

…the stories that you ask me to read to you while you snuggle up to me or sit across my back. You know some of the stories so well already that you end up reading bits of it to me

…the look of uncertainty on your face when you say, “Mommy, I can’t. You have to hold me.” before each higher step you take on the playground slide. I will always be at the sidelines, ready to hold your hand and keep you from falling even when you think you’re sure you can handle things on your own

…the Sunday mornings when you wake me up by literally peeling back my eyelids and saying, “Time to wake up, Mommy!”. I’m not always able to get up right away, but you always patiently wait until I do

…each time you ask me to rub noses with you. I will always long for your affection, and your cute and funny ways of showing it

...each new secret identity that you assume -- from Spiderman to Batman, to Winnie the Pooh. I am so sure that you will grow up to be whoever you want and dream to be

...every new pet name that you give me -- from Mommy Crocodile, to Mommy Kanga to Mommy Mouse. I may go by many names, but only you can call me Mommy

You’re growing up so fast. Too fast. Before I know it, you’ll prefer to be with your friends rather than me. You’ll start asserting your independence and answering back. (you may not even want to be seen with me!) You may even possibly hate me when I don’t like a particular boy that you will bring home. The time will come when you won’t need me in your life as much.

But I will always have these memories that I can look back on to remind me of a simpler time when all you wanted was me, and I was enough to make it all better.

Thank you, Kiddo, for these memories. They, as are you, are like an eternal ray of sunshine that thawed out the hardened spot that was my heart, lighting it with enough love and warmth to last me until my old age.

Commercial: Kiddo Says the Darnedest Things, Reel 2

2005-08-13T09:07:00.000+08:00

Kiddo: "Mommy, why is it nighttime na?"
Drama Queen Mom: "Because honey, the sun is tired already so he's going to go to sleep."
Kiddo: "The sun is sleeping na?"
Drama Queen Mom: "Yes."
Thoughtful pause.
Kiddo: "Does he have a kumot?"

X-Men

2005-08-12T22:39:00.000+08:00

After some prodding from friends who convinced me that there is life the mourning after, I agreed to be set up on a blind date.

A blind date! I felt like I was a 17 year old who was a few years late for the prom. It might as well have been. I had no clue as to what the “meet market” was like or what changes had taken place since my last visit.

After a series of dates, (yes, maybe a date does beget a date!) and some strays that I picked up along the way, it became evident that during my period of abstinence, an evolution had taken place. A whole new breed of men had emerged, leading me to conclude that apart from the straight and the gay -- there are the mutants. The men whose genetic code is somehow altered, giving them extraordinary supernatural powers that make them different from the rest of humanity. The X-Men.

With the help of The Fantastic 4, we coined a secret identity for each of the X-Men that I encountered, based on his distinct mutant power. This also serves as a mneumonic device which has proven most effective in keeping track of the men that we date. Besides, as you will see, something as generic as their first name just doesn’t do them justice.

X-Men Identity: The Urban Legend

Mutant Power: Innate animal magnetism which he likes to share by sending out MMS messages of…himself.

The devil-may-care-attitude immediately caught my attention. He came across as eccentric, enigmatic.

It was 2 o’clock in the afternoon when I got the first MMS where he was lying down on what seemed like his bed, with a come-hither look. That MMS was to say good night to me…at 2 o’clock in the afternoon! On a Sunday! I was completely floored. Other MMS soon followed – him playing basketball since I couldn’t go to his game, him in costume to greet me Happy Holidays.

It was the 80s equivalent of giving someone your picture with a dedication at the back -- without them asking for one.

Other extreme mutant behavior was soon exhibited. He would ask me out for breakfast. He wanted to teach me Yoga. (In fact, one date that we had wasn’t over dinner, but over a Yoga session). He would call me late at night to ask if I felt like going out of town. Everything about him, everything he said (which I am, of course, constrained to edit here) made him amusingly different in an almost mythical way. When I told the Fantastic 4 about him, they half-jokingly asked if I was making all this up just so we would have something to talk about. Everything he said or did was just too “good” to be true.

In fact, if it weren’t for the MMS, the Fantastic 4 would challenge his existence as none of them have seen him in person. When the phone where those messages were sent was stolen, it only served to solidify his status as the one and only…Urban Legend.

Lasting Legacy: Entertainment. With a somewhat nostalgic laugh, the Fantastic 4 realized that his memory has been keeping us entertained for almost a year now. Yoga -- which up to now I still do.

X-Men Identity: The Charmer
Mutant Power: Ability to make you feel like your god’s gift to mankind

I honestly don’t know how he does it. He dishes out compliments not only with supernatural ease, but with a look of admiration that actually seems sincere. Oh yeah, he was a smooth one. Though I’m sure his lines have fallen on the ears of a lot of other girls, his mutant powers lie in making you feel like you’re the only girl he has ever said that to. The soft tone and dreamy look attached to each very specific compliment give it a tailor-made feel as opposed to an off-the-rack one. And no, he doesn’t sound cheesy.

I think his secret is that he genuinely likes women and everything about them. Whatever his secret is, I wish that his mutant charm gene could be passed on to other men. Every woman should experience what it is like to receive a continuous stream of compliments that make you feel like you are a goddess whose sole reason for existence is to be adored.

Lasting Legacy: Self – appreciation. Bringing out that inner goddess that I always hear people talk about, but didn’t know existed in me.

X-Men Identity: Velcro
Mutant Power: So sticky that he could probably stick to any surface

His abundance of bodily hair gave rise to the nickname Velcro, but he also went by other names such as Cling-On and Daisy -- short for Daisy Nuebe.

He was my 19-year-old neighbor who started chatting with me one day while Kiddo and I were swimming. When Kiddo wanted to have her picture taken, he quickly obliged by taking our picture with his phone. His sending the picture to my number was only the beginning (what is it with MMS??!!).

He started texting me every day to say good morning and make sure I didn’t forget to eat breakfast. Other texts throughout the day would follow. If I couldn’t answer his texts within a respectable grace period (maximum 5 minutes), he would call me. There were calls in the middle of the day telling me that he missed me and asking what time I would be home. Sometimes he would suggest that I not work too late so I could be with Kiddo. He was so sticky that he could probably put SupahGlue to shame.

I would be lying if I said that I didn’t enjoy the attention. At first, I did. I distinctly remember the intoxicating feeling and thinking to myself, “Well, well, well, you just might still have it, girlfriend!”.

I’m sure that if I had only been 10 years younger, I would be gushing with excitement. I would have been tickled pink at the youthfully over-confident lines that were thrown at me. (Example: “I’ve had 3 girlfriends and they’ve all been older than me. You’ll be the fourth.”)

But I’m 30 and all I could think was: “You’ve got to be kidding!”. (pun intended)

The Fantastic 4 had a field day joking about how Kiddo was barely out of her toddler years and already I decided to have another baby.

At the end of it, I told him that while I was flattered by all the attention, I would like us to just be friends. It was the only polite way I could think of telling him to pick on someone his own age.

Lasting Legacy: Tolerance for the folly of youth. Slight allergic reaction to daisies, the actual flower.

X-Men Identity: Romeo
Mutant Power: “Romantic” flair that leaves me…breathless

Blame it on text messaging whose perfect mix of anonymity and intimacy make you brazen enough to say things you wouldn’t normally say face to face.

Romeo was an old colleague whom I bumped into in the mall. Having previously worked closely together, I considered him an old friend. I had no idea that that chance encounter after years of not seeing each other would change everything.

He started sending me messages from out of the blue and at odd hours, the contents of which were so provocative that it would literally take my breath away. The flirtation was electrifying and the repertoire, titillating.

It was flirting -- Gen-X, mutant style. Just thinking of the thrilling text exchange and the ‘on air’ affair still makes me sigh. Romeo (the fabled one, at least) has not died. He simply reinvented himself to suit these modern times.

Lasting Legacy: Modernization of my flirting skills. Sharpening of my texting agility and eloquence.

I could say that I am destined to be surrounded by men who are either gay or mutant, but with all the animated fun I had with the X-Men, I would rather take a line from a legendary actress, and ‘mutate’ it a bit. Jeanne Moreau once said, “I look at the wrinkles on my face and I remember the men who put them there.”

Well, when I see the laugh lines that are now back on mine, I think of the uncanny X-Men whom I have to thank for putting them there.

30 Going on 30

2005-07-29T00:40:00.000+08:00

I was 27 when I re-singled myself to society. I guess you can say that I was advanced for my age.

The typical (late) twentysomething stage is usually highlighted with the realization of dreams; the first car you buy with your own money, the dream wedding, the start of a family, initial marital bliss. If you’re still single, you may have moved out of your parents’ home and started living the dream of total independence, financial and otherwise. Everything is punctuated by the drunken high of being young and invincible, of having the world at your feet.

My twentysomething stage started typically enough with the realization of those dreams. My bubble was just pre-maturely punctured by the reality of having a baby to raise, settling into another new home, and making ends meet. All with the sobering thought that I would have to do all this on my own. I refused to be thought of as weak, but I did know that I was extremely vulnerable.

Being a twentysomething prodigy was a bit disorienting, to say the least. I was patronized, quickly dismissed as being petty or simply looked down on for having the audacity to dishonor matrimonial vows.

I was a misfit. Neither here or there. An In-Between. Though I had people to lean on, I felt like I had no one to talk to who could understand.

The Singles were too caught up in their personal and professional success to comprehend the massive implications of domestic dilemmas such as losing a Yaya. The married folk didn’t want to be with me for fear that what I had was contagious (I had ‘separation anxiety’ of a different kind). My family, dealing with their own confusion, was torn between trying to get us back together and just doing the right thing.

Looking back at it now, I don’t know how I survived that stage. All I can remember is drowning myself in work. I felt like such a failure at the homefront so I concentrated on something I knew I could do well. I was starved for validation and tried to find it in my job.

I remember going out and partying with a determination surpassed only by my anguish and grief. Anything to numb the pain. Anything to keep the bitterness from eating away at what was left of me. The only thing I probably didn’t do was drink myself into a coma, but that’s only because I don’t drink. Not that it mattered. Whatever else I did at the time had the same effect.

I got what I so desperately longed for -- oblivion.

Unfortunately, the very nature of oblivion is to erase in an encompassing, non-selective way. My oblivion was like a black hole. While it gave me release from the bondage of the past, it also took away the joys of the present. Its price was missing out on certain milestones in Kiddo’s life. I only recall that I dreaded going home and having to face her, as I would be overwhelmed by the feelings of guilt and inadequacy. Looking at her was like coming face to face with self-doubt. I would inevitably start asking myself, “How am I going to get through this?”, “Did I do the right thing?”. Questions that only time could answer.

I remember approaching the big 3--0 with trepidation. I was barely out of my twentys and already had so much baggage, what if baggage was directly proportional to age?

Now I’m half way through it. Being 30,that it is.

It wasn’t at all what I thought it would be. Apart from the expected self-actualization, I found that surviving my tragedy built strength of character. A new sense of self-esteem, along with renewed courage and gratitude came with being 30.

I could look at myself in the mirror, flaws and all, and accept myself in spite of them. I could take pride in my achievements with only honesty, no arrogance, no false humility. I could look at Kiddo no longer with guilt, but with awe at seeing little bits of myself (and yes, her Dad) amazingly alive in her. No matter what else I may have done wrong, God must have still thought me worthy to be her Mother.

I stopped regretting and started living. I stopped punishing myself by thinking that I didn’t deserve to be happy.

I’m sure I will still encounter people who think it is their obligation to feel sorry for me and Kiddo, but the more important thing is that I don’t feel sorry for myself. I am not resigned to my fate, but am content being “happily separated”. It may have taken me awhile to get to this stage, but the only thing that matters is that I did.

If this makes me a 30-year-old prodigy, then maybe now I can start acting my age.

Fantastic 4

2005-07-23T02:03:00.000+08:00

Meet the….

The Glamazon

Statuesque. That’s how she was described as she was walking down the Boracay shoreline in a bikini. Considering that the observation came from an unbiased authority figure with nothing but the highest standards (who else, but an extremely stylish gay man?), there must have been some truth to it.

We first met in college back when we were, what we now fondly refer to as, “young, poor and insecure”. We had a crush on the same guy and would be all giddy over him. Deeper secrets were soon shared and a friendship was formed over cigarettes and long bus rides home.

Some odd years, countless cigarettes and individual cars later, she remains to be the extension of myself, my alter ego. My Best Friend.

I’m dramatic, she’s rational. I fall prey to obsessive compulsive analysis, she’s quick to simplify and evaluate. I love coffee anything, she only drinks the beverages that her company manufactures and which she tirelessly samples on us in the hopes of getting us to patronize them. Where I am jaded, she is optimistic. I dislike roughing it out in the great outdoors, she’s the diver/athlete whose testosterone level is equal only to her Glamazon quotient.

As my Best Friend it is her job to give me a strong dose of reality when I suffer from a hangover of depression or delusion. I know that she will give me the truth and nothing but the truth, so help her God, about my hair, my weight, my clothes, my career path, even my parenting style. As the Best Friend Code states, it is her right to tell it to my face, straight up. The license to do so is granted on the basis that only she can serve me a shot of cruelty and chase it down with kindness and concern.

As Kiddo’s Godmother, she makes it a point to spend time with her and get to know her. Without my having to say a word, she has made it her joyful duty to be more than a Birthday and Christmas Gift Giver to Kiddo.

When drafting my will, I asked if I could appoint her and my sister as Kiddo’s guardian. She asked me only one thing: where do I sign?

The Temptress in Sheep’s Clothing

I introduced her to her 1st boyfriend and somewhat had a hand in bringing them together.

That was back in her – and she will be the first to admit it – wimpy days.

She has definitely come a long way since then. Currently, she is the undisputed expert when it comes to men and the official consultant on the latest trends in sexual ethics. Her mantra: "Basta, you have to be professional!"

Her claim to fame is that all the men in her life have professed undying love for her in one way or another. Her problem has always been preventing them from getting too attached to her. It must be her girl next door aura mixed with the latent femme fatale quality that draws them to her -- they just never know what hit them. To them, she’s the best of both worlds.

It’s the same thing with us.

Free-spirited and generally of the opinion that public displays of affection are distasteful, she is surprisingly possessive and very protective of us. When something is frustrating and annoying, she’ll find a way to laugh it off. Her candor is sure to bring endless laughter to an otherwise ordinary occasion. Leave it to her to always find something funny or at the very least, smile about.

Her expertise on the male psyche enables her to give insight on all kinds of men: bad boys, shy types, ex-boyfriends, and extends to even those of the purely fictional type like Spongebob Squarepants, Squidward and Barney – the men that Kiddo and her 4 year old nephew are currently enamored with.

The Go-to-Guy

Quietly driven, self-made and just really kind. He is the undeniably nice guy my mother always told me about.

I don’t remember exactly how or when we first met. He probably doesn’t either. I just remember him always being there, the ever reliable one I could always go to.

When I need technical assistance with my laptop, my car, my remote control -- things that would emasculate my gay boyfriend –- I go to him. When I don’t feel like driving (and even when I do), I call him. When I’m done putting Kiddo to sleep, but still need to vent about a bad day, I go to his place, or he comes to mine. Never mind that it’s 1 o’clock in the morning.

He could play the stud card and win any girl over with his caring, sensitive nature, but he lacks the necessary chip to play that game. Though it would probably break our hearts a little bit when he does find a suitable girlfriend among the typical choir girls that he dates, he constantly reassures us that he needs our unique brand of spice to balance all their sugar.

Sensing Kiddo’s suspicion and initial hostility over his presence in my life, he made it a mission to win her over. It was somewhat a long courtship which was finally sealed one night over a cup of Haagen - Daaz. He has now become Kiddo’s Official Go-to-Guy for ice cream.

….Twelve years ago, the four of us went on a school retreat, bunked together in one room and stayed up the whole night just talking. We pretty much a foursome after that.

We lost touch a bit when The Temptress and I got involved in our own individual relationships. After that, we would pretty much see each other during parties, and when I decided to settle down; monumental occasions like my wedding, Kiddo’s baptism and succeeding birthdays.

When my marriage fell apart, and I could only take the security of old friends and close family, they were there for me. They did everything they could to help me get through that time. We’re closer than we’ve ever been since then.

We still stay up talking till morning like that night of 12 years ago. Only this time it’s mostly at my place, especially if I have to stay home with Kiddo. We don’t have to be out to be together anyway. I provide the drama, The Glamazon brings the rationale, The Temptress brings the laughter and The Go-to-Guy brings his sense and sensitivity for the long session of talking, reminiscing and imagining what the next 12 years are going to be like.

I look at the four of us and see that togetherness is not meant to substitute history, only enrich it. That polite restraint is a courtesy given to social friends, but the prerogative of honesty and freedom of speech are reserved for friends who have earned it through years of non-judgment and empathy. That moments of laughter are equal in weight to moments of comfortable silence. That the unspoken is sometimes a language only long time friends can understand.

But mostly, that it is not just blood that defines a family.

Commercial: Kiddo Says the Darnedest Things, Reel 1

2005-07-15T07:41:00.000+08:00

Drama Queen Mom: Time for bed, Kiddo. Let's say our prayers before going to sleep. Papa Jesus, Mama Mary, please bless...
Kiddo: Please bwess Mommy, Daddy, and...and... (looks up at Drama Queen Mom)
Drama Queen Mom: Who else do you want Papa Jesus and Mama Mary to bless?
Kiddo (tapping her forehead with her index finger): Uuuhh...Think, think, think...uhh...Darf Vader!
Drama Queen Mom: Huh? You want God to bless Darth Vader?!
Kiddo: Yes. Kasi ako si Obi Wan, diba?
Drama Queen Mom: Eh, who's Mommy?
Kiddo (tapping head with index finger again): Uhhh...uuuhh...YODA!

The Mask of Sorrow

2005-07-09T03:04:00.000+08:00

I decided to surprise Kiddo by picking her up from school the other day.

I was so excited. I scrambled to finish work and took off during lunchtime. When I got to her school, I peeped in the window, smiling to myself as I watched her play with her classmates. As the classroom doors opened and the kids started coming out one by one, I hid behind a tree. Finally, it was her turn to come out. Her face crumbled when she saw me. She said, “Where’s Daddy? I want Daddy to pick up me!”, then she burst into tears.

Struggling to appear unaffected, I tried to make her feel better by explaining that her Dad would pick her up from school on Friday as he usually does. This was only met with more wailing, along with a wretched repetition of, “But I want Daddy! I want Daddy!”.

Maybe she thought it was Friday already. Or maybe she missed him because since school started, her time with him had to be reduced to once a week. I really don’t know. I just know that I felt my heart break a little bit again as an old wound re-opened.

It wasn’t so much the hurt at her disappointment or the jealousy over her wanting her Dad more than me. It was the from-out-of-nowhere piercing reminder that while our war may be over, there still remains an innocent bystander caught in the cross fire.

Don’t get me wrong -- sharing Kiddo’s time has never been an issue with me and her Dad. I decided long ago that I wouldn’t deprive her of being with him simply because he’s as crazy about her as I am, and is very good to her. This act of fair judgment has enabled us to look beyond our differences and accept that no matter what we were before and what we are now, we will always be connected by Kiddo.

This fact didn’t make us forget, but it did compel us to forgive; to recognize that though we failed each other, there is still a chance for us not to fail Kiddo, the one good thing that came out of our marriage. I use this knowledge like a mild balm, which when applied to my conscience, soothes the guilt of earlier decisions.

That, and the years that have gone by have warranted a lifting of the veil of bereavement. But it’s seemingly simple moments like a picking up from school when you are unexpectedly jolted by the possibility that for Kiddo, the grief may have just started. No matter how much I shield her, she will get her own share of snide comments, and encounter her own set of callous people who will make her feel like a victim. And I can’t always make it all better with a kiss and a bottle of milk.

I can always tell her that there are no broken marriages or broken homes -- only broken people who in time, can be fixed. But that is something that she will have to come to believe on her own. I can only pray that she can forgive me, and rely on me to get through the bitterness and anger. I got over the sadness, I can only hope that she will allow me to be there to help her deal with hers. I can only fervently wish that someday, she too can take off the mask of sorrow and proudly face the world without one at all.

Wife or Something Like It

2005-07-04T17:29:00.000+08:00

He kind of had me at “Hello”. Had my ire, that is.

We had to work together for a project. When he finally tracked me down after a series of phone calls which I hadn’t gotten around to returning, he pointedly asked me if I was avoiding him or just really busy.

I should have known that he would be the demanding type, or at the very least, the clingy kind.

But the fact remained that we had to work together. Although grudgingly at first, we got to know each other. After a series of laughs indicating that he geniunely found my antics amusing, I came to a conclusion. I decided that despite the haughty way he crinkled his nose to show dislike, he wasn’t so bad. We spent more and more time together, long after the project that brought us together was finished.

Fate intervened before it could lead to anything more. He got a scholarship and went off to live overseas. I got married and went off to have Kiddo. The time difference allowed us to keep in touch while I breastfed during the wee hours of the morning and he stayed up studying (or partying). I became his long distance textmate. He became one of Kiddo’s godfathers.

He moved back to Manila. I moved out of the condo that I shared with Kiddo’s Dad.

The first year after, when my wedding anniversary came along, he took me on a honeymoon to Boracay so that I wouldn’t have to be alone. We’ve been celebrating my now defunct anniversary every year since, and have become totally inseparable.

He met my sister and all of my “Fantastic 4” friends and instantly won their approval. All my officemates and other friends who don’t know him personally, know of him because of my constant chatter about him saying this or him doing that. We consult each other about our careers and the poshness potential of various articles of clothing. Not a weekday goes by that we don’t call each other – several times during the day! -- when we’re bored or upset at work and need to take a breather from the day’s stress. (Actually, most of the time, we don't even need to talk, we just listen to each other typing, and after awhile, hang up). We publicly declare that we despise the clingy and needy, but know that secretly, we look for it in each other. We abhor whining and griping, but only when it's coming from others. We take pride in each other’s successes as if they were our own.

He was my Babe. I was his Honey.

When Kiddo and I went to one of his family functions and met his parents, we knew that it was time to formalize our relationship.

He made me his official girlfriend. I made him my official gay boyfriend.

Now that he answers his phone with “Hola!” and has a serious relationship, I have been bumped up to “wife”. He says that the upgrade allows me to still enjoy a distinct place in his life as the other half of our “Buy 1, Take 1” package. (And I thought that Kiddo and I were the only ones that came bundled together!)

And what an ideal wife I am, if I do say so myself. I’m self-supporting, willing to take on all the childcare responsibilities, and perfectly amenable to letting him pursue other extra-curricular activities on the side. Adequately funded, I even do all his Christmas shopping for him -- gifts are delivered to him for distribution, properly labelled and wrapped, with a list of who got what. So what if I can’t cook? Neither can he perform the uh, expected marital duties.

Maybe it’s exactly these deficiencies that make this “marriage” work, and what makes me his wife, or something like it.

Like Water for Chocolate

2005-07-04T12:26:00.000+08:00

“What do you do for sex?”

That’s probably the one question that the "Mean Girls" still haven’t gotten around to asking me. On the contrary, I get that question, or more appropriately, insinuation mostly from men.

Before images of a hot-blooded, deranged woman climbing up the walls start to come to play, let me tell you about a useful discovery. There is a generic unbranded substitute for almost everything in this world and it’s sometimes as good as, if not better than the brand name original – from medicine, to cooking ingredients, even sex.

All you need is a pinch of resourcefulness, a sprinkling of creativity, mix it in with a little imagination and viola! Instant “self-help” substitutes for sex. Plus, it’s been proven to be 100% effective at protecting you from pregnancy and STDs. Top that!

Ok, ok, so maybe they are feeble attempts to satisfy your hunger with water when what you really want is the luscious creaminess of chocolate, but hey, works for me. Besides I’m watching my weight and the vain aren’t allowed to complain.

If after reading this, you want to test these substitutes, by all means – “help yourself”.

When you want it white-hot, but with no strings attached
Generic substitute: Karaoke Bar

You know how it is when you hear a song and it transports you to another time, a distant memory? A song always has the power to put you in a certain mood. Now imagine singing that song. You won’t be able to keep from swinging your hips a little, holding out your hand, and closing your eyes as you mouth the lyrics. You savor each line. You relish singing the refrain again and again. And as the song reaches its crescendo, your toes start to curl and you give it all you’ve got. You belt out at the top of your lungs, and…and…it’s just orgasmic!

After a few songs, it’s all over, and you’re absolutely spent. You leave the Karaoke Bar a little hoarse, but ecstatic. You don’t know when there’ll be an occasion to go there again, and there are no promises of a return visit, but you know that you can always do the Karaoke bar the next time you have the urge to…sing.

(Some sureball song titles: “Red Light Special” by TLC, “Fallin’” by Alicia Keys, “Bitch”, “I Will Survive”, “Hit Me Baby One More Time” by Brittney Spears, “Come to my Window” by Melissa Etheridge and the all-time classic, “Say My Name, Say My Name” by Destiny’s Child, which is my own demented translation of “Who’s your mama?”)

When you want it wild and passionate combined with a slow, lazy 2nd round
Generic substitute: Body Combat

As is typical of most love affairs, mine with Body Combat started by accident. I just wanted to check it out. I had no idea that I would be so...smitten.

It all started innocently enough with a warm up. After which, the punches immediately started to build up to a feverish pitch and I became possessed. I lost myself in the zone, punching as hard as I could in time with the music. To keep up the momentum in the class, the instructor egged us on with commands like, “Power!”, Sigaw!” . You betcha I let out a shout! With the surround mirrors, the music, the energy, it was so intense that I swear, I nearly forgot my name!

Still panting, a recovery track was then put on to help me catch my breath. These slower, more choreographed punches were like a re-cap to the earlier, tear-your-clothes-off-frenzy. It all ended with a cool down, stretching track reminiscent of post coital cuddling.

I came out of the class with a warm fuzzy feeling and a happy after glow. Nothing could wipe the smile off my face.

Since that first time, I couldn't get enough. The mounting anticipation and longing were difficult to bear, and I would literally count the days till the next class. It is such a relief that there are a number of classes offered and I can get it 2-3x a week!

I’ve actually been contemplating telling people the truth when they ask me what the best sex I ever had was, but I’m not sure if they’ll be able to handle it.

When you want it quick
Generic substitute: Sexy, knock-out shoes

On the Oprah Show, I once heard Diane Keaton say that a nice pair of shoes is like a penis substitute. That was like a light bulb moment for me. No wonder, women are fixated on them and that they just have to have more than one of each kind and color.

Haven’t you ever been seduced by a pair of killer shoes? The kind of shoes that say to you: “C’mon! You just have to have me, and you know it!”. Surely, any hot – blooded woman knows what I am talking about. Try as hard as you can, you can’t fight the attraction between the two of you. You keep passing by the store to take a peek at them, to see if someone else has bought them. Each time, these shoes call out your name from the display window. Until finally, you relent.

Unable to resist, you pick them up, try them on and instantly imagine them exuding a “Come do me” message. You consummate the transaction (or attraction!) with a swipe of your credit card and the mounting flirtation is over, just like that. You go back to work or whatever it is that you were doing earlier as if nothing happened. Only your lopsided grin is an indication of the gratifying instant release that you just got from your new pair of knock - out shoes.

When you want it meaningful
Generic Substitute: Dinner date with your best Gay Boyfriends

Have you ever gone out on a great date with an even greater guy? You know, where the laughs just keep on coming, and you can’t seem to run out of things to talk about? The chemistry, the sincerity, and the lack of pretense make you so secure that you don’t need to worry about baring too much of yourself on a date.

It’s like the best kind of foreplay. You just know that the sex is going to be nothing short of mind-blowing, because you’re able to connect on a deeper level, and the sex just becomes a physical expression of your connection.

That’s how I feel when I’m with my two best gay boyfriends. Their company is the personification of open arms acceptance; their affection is a staunch affirmation of unwavering loyalty. It is, to date, the most meaningful substitute for other common forms of male companionship.

With them I have not one, but two! extremely successful, gorgeous hunks with nothing but the honorable intention of sincerely wanting to be with me and listening what I have to say… and after all that, will still love me just the way I am.

Mean Girls

2005-06-23T18:20:00.000+08:00

Why is it that some women are so mean and overly critical of other women?!

In the almost 4 years that I have been a single mom, I think I’ve heard it all; from unsolicited advice, to biting judgment, to the usual barrage of prying questions. While it’s true that some comments are innocent (though insensitive nonetheless), some are just downright malicious and uncalled for.

With great difficulty, I have learned to prevent a “piece of my mind” from coming out of my mouth, as most of the time, it's simply best to keep quiet. However, there are times when the women are just so catty, and the comments so nasty that they deserve a comeback. These are the times when I feel the need to fight fire...but not with fire, too, as I shouldn’t appear rude or affected. This is when I practice the art of diluting a snake’s venom, the art of being a mean girl without really seeming like one.

How is that possible?

Read on and check out the saccharine-coated comebacks in action. Delivered with a smile, my trademark arched eyebrow, and a look straight in the eye, I've found that you can sweeten your retorts, without anything being artificial about it.

The Office

Act 1, Scene 1: THE NAÏVE ONE

“Why do you need to get a bikini wax, e wala naman nakakakita nyan? Si Kiddo lang naman.” (laughs)

I SAY: “Don’t you get one before wearing a bikini? ….Oh, you’ve never worn one.”
I THINK: “Uh huh, and I can sure see why.”

Act 1, Scene 2: THE GOSSIP MONGER

“Why did your marriage break up? How long were you married? Are you friends? Does he give child support?”

I SAY: “O, easy lang! I’m starting to hear background music playing. Yun na lang kasi yun kulang at para na kong guest sa “The Buzz”, being interrogated by Kris Aquino and Boy Abunda.”
I THINK: “Close ba tayo?.”

Act 1, Scene 3: THE TACTLESS ONE

“Why don’t you start using your maiden name so that men will know that you’re available again?”

I SAY: “Does your dictionary say that “separated” and “available” mean the same thing? Because mine doesn’t.”
I THINK: “Maybe you should start minding your own business.”

Act 1, Scene 4: THE ‘BY THE RULES’, DO-GOODER

“Your skirt is too short. And I don’t think that sandals are allowed in the Dress Code.”

I SAY: “Aren’t you from IT? If you want to go around citing the Dress Code, you might want to move to HR first.”
I THINK: “You’re not exactly the Fashion Police, you know.”

Act 1, Scene 5: THE JUDGEMENTAL ONE

“Ano yun mga na da-date mo? May mga asawa din?”

I SAY: “Mga asawa?! Actually, I prefer that they don’t have one at all.”
I THINK: “Hello?!!!?”

Act 1, Scene 6: THE TRYING - TO - BE - HELPFUL ONE

“Hey, isn’t he also separated? Why don’t you date him?”

I SAY: “Because we've both taken a round trip to the altar, and I don't need the Frequent Flyer miles.”
I THINK: “Geez, if you like him so much, why don’t you ask him out? Maybe then you’d get a date.”

Act 1, Scene 7: THE INCREDULOUS ONE

“Do the guys you date even know that you have a kid?!”

I SAY: “Actually, I tell them that I need to moonlight as a 3 year old’s nanny to augment my income and support my shoe fetish.”
I THINK: “If you had half a brain to know any better, you would know that it’s not something you hide.”

The Relatives

Act 2, Scene 1: THE EX-SISTER-IN-LAW

“Kawawa naman si Kiddo. I feel so sorry for her, she’ll grow up without a father…kaya my husband and I always strive to work things out.”

I SAY: “Her father didn’t die, you know. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me?”
I THINK: “I feel sorry for you. You need other people to be unhappy to make you feel better about yourself.”

Act 2, Scene 2: THE EX-MOTHER-IN-LAW

“I look at children of broken homes and can’t help but feel sorry for them. They all grow up to be so dysfunctional.”

I SAY: “Not necessarily. I mean, you and your husband have managed to stay together, but look how your children turned out.”
I THINK: “If you’re trying to make me feel guilty with that one, you’re going to have to try harder.”

Act 2, Scene 3: THE INSENSITIVE TITA

“You were married for how long? Wow, you gave up pretty soon. Bakit? Hindi mo nakayanan?”

I SAY: “I’d really prefer not to talk about it. Besides, I think there’s a reason why a person’s private life is called private. Don’t you think so, too?”
I THINK: “Just because we’re related doesn’t mean you have access to my personal life.”

Commercial: Priceless Moments, Reel 4

2005-06-13T13:38:00.000+08:00

Dinner: PhP 400/person
Drinks: PhP 800 (at PhP 80/bottle)
Cigarettes: PhP 210 (at PhP 70/pack)

Re-living one “Remember when” story after another with longtime friends: Priceless

Commercial: Priceless Moments, Reel 3

2005-06-13T13:30:00.000+08:00

Gallon of Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream: PhP 500
Cigarettes: PhP 280 (at P 70/pack)
Box of tissues: PhP 90 (at P 30/box)

Knowing that your best friend will drop everything to make it all better: Priceless

Commercial: Priceless Moments, Reel 2

2005-06-11T15:43:00.000+08:00

Gas: PhP 30/liter
Parking: PhP 40 for the first 2 hours
Milkshake: PhP 110 each

Kiddo saying, “Mommy, hold my hand uli.” on the drive home from our weekly dates: Priceless

Commercial: Priceless Moments, Reel 1

2005-06-11T15:40:00.000+08:00

New suitcases: P 3,000
Plane tickets to Singapore: Half month’s salary
Pocket money: The other half month’s salary

Kiddo wide-eyed during take-off saying, “I’m like Buzz Lightyear, Mom. I’m riding a spaceship!”: Priceless

The Torn Identity

2005-06-11T00:27:00.000+08:00

Single Mother.

Two words, two concepts. One is a concept of individuality, of an independent and carefree existence. The other is a concept of self - sacrifice and complete responsibility for another person.

In my everyday life, “single mom” isn’t just two words - it’s two identities.

There’s the Singleton who drives a hot red car at diabolical speeds (or so she’s been told). She grew up on Alanis, still identifies with Avril’s angst, rocks with Linkin Park, dances to hip-hop and has nothing but the deepest reverence for Madonna. After clocking in a full day at work, she works out at the gym. She hangs out with her other single girlfriends, and great looking guys with sculpted bodies (mostly gay, of course). Her skirts defy gravity and her heels can turn into lethal weapons, if needed.

Then there’s the Parent who comes home to her daughter, reads to her and puts her to sleep. She knows the words to popular nursery songs and their corresponding ‘moves’. She has lunch with the other mothers, trading recipes, recounting their children’s milestones, laughing at silly anecdotes. She talks about the Power Puff Girls, Dora and Barney like she knows them personally. She’s seen at children’s parties, dressed in toddler–proof jeans and sneakers.

Two identities, one person.

How displaced these two identities sometimes make me feel. Sure, I’m single. I’m not married. I don’t have a boyfriend. But I’m not exactly like my other single friends who are answerable to no one but themselves, who have the luxury to splurge on mundane things, and can afford to be self-absorbed.

How do I deal with the oxymoron of being single and at the same time being a mother?

I don’t. I just live it.

I embrace it, knowing that while the Singleton identity may (or may not!) be a temporary one, being Kiddo’s mother is not. It’s a lifetime of having a little piece of my heart living and breathing outside of me.

So I may change my car, along with the speed at which I drive it. My taste in music may become more sedate. And I may not always be welcome at the Teen’s section when shopping for a skirt, but I will always be Kiddo’s mom. I will always belong to her. Nothing in the world can ever change that.

It’s the comfort of this thought that keeps me together amidst the demands and chaos of living this double life of mine.

Now, if only my shoes could console me as much…

Opening Night

2005-06-02T18:05:00.000+08:00

I’ve been a single mom for almost 4 years now. It wasn’t a role that I auditioned for, but was nonetheless cast in.

By far, it is probably the most demanding role that I have ever had. There are no scripts to read through, but I feel as if an invisible camera is always rolling, requiring me to give a stellar performance even without someone calling out, “ACTION!”. There are no rehearsals or numerous takes till I get it just right. I can’t yell “Cut!” when I make a mistake, or call it a wrap during the times when I just can’t take it anymore. It gives whole new meaning to the phrase “The show must go on”.

It’s a role made for a solo performer. I am not paired with a leading man to practice my scenes with, cue me when I forget my lines or help me overcome the occasional stage fright.

In his place, I have an extremely reliable Personal Assistant (a.k.a Yaya) plus a cast and crew of colorful characters. There are the main - stay good friends and close family, the supporting actors made up of well-meaning, though sometimes insensitive relatives; the expected antagonists played by prying officemates and tactless acquaintances. And of course, let’s not forget, the cameo appearances made by various men who come along the way.

Welcome to this show that I call my life. Each season of it has various episodes, some are funny, some are sad, some are down right outrageous. But it is my life, which my 3 year old daughter is the only constant, integral part of. When the spotlight is turned off and the curtains come to a close, she remains as the one critic whose opinion really matters. Her applause will be the one thing I hope to be deserving of.

She’s still deciding whether or not my performance is award – winning.

In the meantime, I’ll continue to play this role dressed in my signature short skirt and high heels, made up in tons of humor, accessorized with resilience and oh yes, all topped off with loads of drama.