Christmas Party List

Christmas Party List

By Maridol Ranoa-Bismark

“Mom, my classmates want to hold a Christmas party at our house,” my son told me in a voice that was half-pleading, half-threatening.

Uh-oh, I told myself. Time to make a list in between deadlines. The good news is I won’t be doing any of the entertaining and my son’s friends wisely thought of going potluck. The bad news is I will have to coordinate a couple of things that my son is too busy with school to do. I scrounged around for the telephone number of the chair and table rental company and called the nice lady who owned the home-based business.

December is party season, she told me, so she might not be able to deliver the goods at my doorstep. I tried to calm my nerves and begged her to please send her delivery truck since I lived only five minutes away. Besides I’m a faithful customer, entitled to certain privileges; problem solved.

Next, I checked for paper plates, napkins, and drinking cups. Finding our supply running low, I sent someone to get these party musts for me. I then asked the help to resurrect our neglected water jug and wash it clean. The plastic tablemats also had to be washed clean and wiped dry the day before the party, so that it won’t smell “ugh.”

Then I checked the powder room. Is there a bar of soap in the sink? Is the toilet free from cobwebs and other signs of non-use? Is the roll of toilet paper enough? Is the bathroom mirror smudge-free?

Oh, and the dogs! Since we have three, I asked the house help to keep them in the cage and curtail their master-given rights to roam the house in the meantime. It’s the height of bad manners to set them loose and scare the wits out of our young guests.

D-day. The tables and chairs arrived as expected but what’s unexpected was their condition. The delivery guys already left when I discovered that the white monoblock chairs had smudges from a previous party! I turned to the tablecloths. I was shocked all over again when I saw food stains and wrinkles. Obviously, the tablecloths haven’t been tossed inside a washing machine! Thank heavens I had enough time to call the chair rental company and ask for a clean set of chairs and tablecloths before the guests arrived.

One last word: Going potluck means guests have the license to take over your kitchen. So make sure your supply of cooking gas is enough to last until your guests’ kitchen adventures are over. Mine did. And I heaved a sigh of relief.

You think your job is done when the guests are bidding you goodbye? Not quite! Your guests being kids, you have to make sure that they can get to their respective homes safe and sound. When they’re gone, you can pat yourself on the back for a job well done.

Now, where is that mop to clean the floors full of smudged footprints?

Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

The Lonely Commute

By Julie Javellana-Santos

Without my daughter, the 40-minute commute to work seemed longer than usual this morning. I felt lonely and deserted traversing the kilometers between my home and the school where I work and she studies. Up until last June, however, I had been going to work alone. It was only when she began going to the college where I worked that we “bonded” while commuting.

The long (not that long) train ride was most conducive to chatting about inconsequential and mundane things. Things like the state of her wardrobe, how her blockmates annoyed her, the books she wanted to buy and the fast food she wanted to sample on a daily basis.

Our conversations inevitably turned to more serious matters — how she was getting low scores in Math but which she vowed to make up for with higher scores in English and Literature and how she was enjoying college.

It was during those times that we talked about my health too, and how I felt about my job.

There were also times when nary a word was spoken by either of us. The only sound she made would be the rustling of the innumerable papers she had to read for class.

Midway through the train ride, she would always lean her head on my shoulder to take a short nap and catch up on her sleep. By virtue of her larger size, this sometimes made my back ache, but what the heck, anything for my “baby.”

My “baby” is now living temporarily with my sister, whose house is closer to her college. As school is not far away, she hopefully will have more time to study. And I, I will just have to learn to live with commuting alone, having these conversations in my mind.

Time has flown so fast from when she was a babe in my arms to one stumbling through her first steps. I realize that soon enough I will have to say goodbye on a more permanent basis so this temporary separation is a “dry run.”

Yesterday she dropped by my office because she had forgotten her vitamins at home and it was all I could do to keep myself from hugging her.  I now understand why my mother visited me often at my own flat.

My feelings are also silly because she will only be away to study for her final exams next week.

The week after, she will be back home for her semestral vacation. And then the new semester will start, and we will be commuting together again, taking those long train rides together again and chatting about inconsequential things again.

Bonding Over Harry Potter

By Lyra Pore

Hogwarts. Quidditch. Wands and spells. The first time the Harry Potter series hit bookstores back in the late ‘90s, I couldn’t stand the books.

“I’m too old for this.”  I dismissed Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone after just a few pages of reading the book.  If the series had been published when I was in high school, I would have loved it.  But I was by then a new mom to a baby girl my world was filled with diapers and formula, not owls, wizards and some fictional beings misguided by a Nazi-like obsession with the purity of species.

Last Christmas, however, my baby girl who had since turned ten received the children’s edition of the complete Harry Potter set for Christmas. Keen to find some bonding moments with her, I picked up the Philosopher’s Stone and tried reading it again.

I couldn’t have chosen a more auspicious time to take up Harry Potter. My daughter, just like Harry in the first book, was turning 11 in a few days.  And like Percy Weasley, Ron’s older brother, she’d just been elected school prefect.

Over the next two months, the two of us would explore the Harry Potter world together.  It would soon become a family affair too, as my husband and our other children would join us in watching the film adaptation each time we finished a book. Not only did we form a mother-daughter book club, we’d also organized family Friday Night Movies.  We’d all sit on the couch on Fridays, watch the Harry Potter DVD and talk about how the movie differed from the book.

“It wasn’t Neville Longbottom who gave Harry the gillyweed in Goblet of Fire. It was Dobby!”

“How come the other elf Winky wasn’t in any of the movies?”

At times, our Harry Potter journey turned into a writing lesson.  My daughter, who was starting to develop an interest in fiction writing, would comment on J.K. Rowling’s style and how it differed from that of Rick Riordan, author of the Percy Jackson series.  I worked in publishing; I took delight in talking about books especially with my children.

The excitement over the release of Deathly Hallows 2 took over our household.  My husband would buy our girls Harry Potter souvenirs that were being sold with every purchase of a local newspaper.  The family also organized a weekend trip to an IMAX theatre to watch the movie in 3D.  Making a day of it, we set out at 9 a.m., picked up some friends who were also going to the movies with us, went to lunch at a restaurant just a short walk from the cinema, and spent the rest of the afternoon not just enjoying the last movie of the series but savouring gelato that IMAX moviegoers could get free for each scoop they bought.

“Lord Voldemort’s wand will be out with the Sunday newspaper,” I told them after dinner on Friday.  “I thought it was Dumbledore’s,” my husband replied. “Oh, you’re right.  It’s Dumbledore’s.  The newspaper says it is.”

Upstairs our two year-old daughter was fast asleep. She’d been playing the whole week with Harry’s wand, yelling “crucio!” and “stupefy!” at her older sisters.

The Sweetness of Pasalubong

By Karen Galarpe

On a media trip to Thailand last week, my fellow journalists and I made a beeline for the duty-free shops at the airport with less than an hour left before boarding time. Our agenda: buy homecoming gifts or pasalubong. We bought chocolates, tamarind candies, mango in sticky rice, and Thai curry in a box and headed to the gate with our loot.

Looking around, I see that rare is the Filipino who doesn’t buy pasalubong for folks back home. It’s more of an unwritten rule and a custom to bring home a souvenir for those who weren’t with us on the trip, in effect saying, “Wish you were with me” or “Thinking of you” or “Here’s a little gift to show you I care.”

It’s not really the grandness of the gift that matters, rather the thought that counts, and so little pasalubong items from chocolates to little trinkets are welcomed. This is an expression of the love language of gifts. In “The Five Love Languages of Teenagers”, author Gary Chapman writes, “Gifts are visible, tangible evidence of emotional love.”

My sister remembers hugging and carrying this big white stuffed bear on the plane back home to give to her kids. A friend of mine brought home in his hand luggage two heavy little sculptures from Bangkok to give to friends. And I remember checking out maybe about three stores in Akihabara in Tokyo looking for a specific anime action figure for my son.

There’s satisfaction in buying something for a loved one, or people you care about, and handing this over personally upon arrival from a trip. The smile on the recipients’ faces is worth it.

Traveling soon? Make room then for some strawberry jam and peanut brittle from Baguio, otap and danggit from Cebu, green tea from Japan, coffee from Seattle, wine from California, chocolates from Switzerland, tea from China, and yes, why not—some crocodile jerky from Australia. If it fits in the bag, it’s great pasalubong. Have a safe trip!

Choosing the Right High School

By Lyra Pore-Villafaña

My family has had a number of conversations lately about the best high school for our oldest daughter who’s now in Grade Six.

“I want to go to OLMC,” she declared last year. OLMC is an exclusive girls’ school run by the Sisters of Mercy in Australia.  It prides itself in educating Catholic girls in the Mercy tradition for over a hundred years.

My daughter has been particularly impressed by the breadth of extra-curricular opportunities that OLMC provides.  There’s a string ensemble, a cake decorating club, a debating team. Name any activity that will catch the fancy of teenage girls, and they probably have it.  They even have a strong swimming team that my child, who loves racing, is looking forward to joining.

We’ve already  made up our minds about OLMC that we’ve  enrolled her there one-and-a-half years before she’s due to go to high school.

Then a few weeks ago, my daughter received an offer from one of the government-run academic selective schools.  These are like the Australian equivalent of the Philippine Science High School system.  Each year, thousands of Grade Six students apply for admission to selective schools, but only a few get offers because places are limited.

While we are all extremely happy about her passing the test, the good news suddenly throws  our plans into disarray.  My daughter will have the opportunity to study in one of the best high schools in Australia at a very minimal cost to us. All we have to pay for are the school uniforms and supplies and a small contribution to educational resources. The decision to forego private schooling seems to be a no-brainer ― but it actually isn’t.

Yes, the quality of education in an academic selective school will be superior. Yes, it will save us a fortune. Foremost on our minds though is this:  Will she be happy in a highly competitive environment that these schools are known for? Will she thrive in a school where she’s constantly striving for good grades, leaving her with very little time to pursue other interests?

My husband and I have been in the workforce long enough to know that building a successful career isn’t all about having the brains to do the job. Don’t get me wrong. Having walked the grounds of the University of the Philippines in Diliman myself many years ago, I am all for academic excellence.

My experience in the “real world”, however, has also led me to appreciate that doing well in life doesn’t depend on intelligence alone. Equally important is one’s ability to build relationships, to bounce back from failure and rejection, to keep one’s focus even when the going gets tough.

What type of school will help a person build that character?  It depends. Some children excel in a highly competitive environment. Others blossom when allowed the time to  pursue arts, music, sports, and other co-curricular activities.

We decide to give our daughter room to weigh her options. Though she’s only 11 years old, we feel that she should have a say in the matter.  It’s her future after all.

“I’ll go selective,” she announces just a few days  after  mulling things over.  “And why is that?”  I ask, amazed at how quickly she has come to a decision.

“Well,” she begins.  “I checked out the school uniform, and I think I will look good in it.”

“And I have some friends who are going there too.”

So there.  I seem to be making things more complicated than they really are.  To an 11-year old girl, it’s all about the outfit and the friends.