by rossanahead | Jul 30, 2011 | children, family, parenting, woman
By Tina Arceo-Dumlao
The realization that I was truly and absolutely responsible for someone else’s life came without warning one quiet morning in 1996, a few days after my son, Miggy, was born.
My mother had left that day for work and left me home alone with my two brothers with the firm instruction that we should give Miggy – who was a little over a week old at that time – a nice, relaxing bath as soon as he woke up from his early morning nap.
She neglected, however, to tell us exactly how to do just that.
Because I delivered via caesarian section, it was my mother who had been giving Miggy a bath since we came home from the hospital, and I did not see for myself how she transformed the little life form into a sweet smelling baby since I was mostly in bed recovering from my operation. My husband, Jerome, who was an executive at that time in an office in Makati City, was not around to help because he had left early for work.
And so there we were, three siblings without any idea how to give a fragile, crying baby a refreshing bath.
We argued over options: Should we just put him in the tub? But he might drown! Do we just put him on the bath mat? But we might miss some spots! Should we use a sponge or a small towel? But it might hurt him. How much pressure do we apply? Will he get scratched?
There were too many questions and just us three loudly arguing over what is the right thing to do.
In the end, I took over and made the final decision. I was the mother after all and the call was mine and mine alone to make. Talk about responsibility on a young and first time mother’s shoulders.
And so I told my Kuya to carefully hold him over the bathtub while my younger brother and I took turns soaping then rinsing him.
Of course, it was the wrong and inefficient way to do it, but he did end up smelling like only newborns can – a faint mix of milk, baby powder, and baby soap. I came out feeling oh so proud of myself because I, who was 24 years old when my son was born on Feb. 2, 1996, had made my first major decision for the good of my son. I had become a mommy!
Armando Miguel Arceo Dumlao is 15 years old now and in his final year in high school at La Salle Green Hills, and it has been one decision after another since that time I gave him a bath for the first time.
Some do not require much brain activity: Mom, can I go to the party? No. Mom, can I stay overnight at a friend’s house? No. Mom, can I get a new pair of shoes? No. Others you have to agonize over: Mom, can I ask somebody to be my date to the prom? Ummm….Yes (Sigh). Mom, can I start driving soon? I’ll think about it.
But through everything, I was guided by the same overriding, singular thought that crowded my head that time that I was splashing water on my baby’s tiny, wriggling body: What is the best for my son?
My decisions are not right all the time, but I rest easy knowing that right or wrong, I tried to do what is best for him – always for him, not about myself. And that sacrifice, that heroic act of putting my son’s interest before my own (even if it kills me) is, for me, what motherhood is all about.
Tina Arceo Dumlao is a multi-awarded journalist and desk editor of the Philippine Daily Inquirer. She has a Journalism degree from the University of the Philippines.
by rossanahead | Jul 21, 2011 | career, children, family, Gina Abuyuan, parenting, woman
By Regina Abuyuan
Readers of this blog who are connected with me through Facebook have probably been keeping tabs on the latest adventure of my wonky life. With D and another friend, R, I recently opened a pub in Cubao X. It’s called Fred’s (after D’s grandfather, a drinking stalwart who was also into cigars; coincidentally, R’s and my maternal grandfathers were also named Fred, and both carried their drink and smokes more than well). It’s been weeks of very late nights (er, early mornings) for me, which had me behind the bar serving drinks, wiping down tables, and cleaning ashtrays. I have great respect for waitresses and barmaids now. Their job is exhausting and murder on the feet and legs.
For more than a week straight, I packed my kids off to my mom’s (God bless grandmas!), and prayed they wouldn’t be any trouble.
They were.
Well, at least my twins were. My daughter behaved as she always does—responsible, quiet, obedient. My absence had taken its toll on the twins. My mom and her househelp tell me they frequently fight, watch too much TV, and fall asleep with the TV on. One day, when I had nicked enough time to drive by and check on them, they exasperatedly said, in unison: “Finally!”
When I got ready to leave again, Mateo handed me the piece of origami he had made (he likes making me these things; my bedside table is littered with them). “I made this for you, Mommy.”
My heart almost broke with guilt.
Their teachers have told me their behavior has changed in school, as well. Mateo’s on the verge of being a bully; Marco is his usual cool self—but probably more cool than expected, which is also reason for alarm.
I swore I would never allow myself to feel this way again, to let any situation let me feel this way again. But the universe likes to play jokes on us sometimes, and just as we think we’re free, an opportunity comes where we have to give up something to attain something. I feel especially guilty because the twins have gotten the brunt of these choices; the first was when I was putting up a new magazine when they were only three years old, and now, this.
Is it worth it, you may ask? I don’t know yet. But at least now, being part-owner of something I created, I also have the power to choose how much time I put in our venture, and how much control I’m willing to take—or give up.
I’ve not had a late night in the pub since Friday, and I attended the twins’ emergency preparedness workshop on Saturday (another advocacy I’m involved in). I’m trying to regain what I lost over the past weeks: Balance. It’s what all mothers strive for. It’s the law of the universe; the law of Mother Nature herself, who knows just how and when to tip the scales this way and that.
Wish me luck!
by rossanahead | May 12, 2011 | children, family, Jing Lejano, parenting, woman
By Jing Lejano
On the way home with V the other night, she asked, “You don’t wake your kids up in the morning?” “No.” “Who wakes them up? “They wake up by themselves.” “Who makes their breakfast?” “They’re old enough to make their own breakfast.”
V gave me a look of utter surprise, as if I belonged to some other planet. She goes on to tell me that her mom still wakes her up in the mornings and fixes everybody breakfast. V is in her twenties.
D, who is in his thirties, also once told me that his mother makes sure that breakfast is ready for everybody. And I gave him a look of utter surprise, as if he belonged to some other planet.
Well, apparently, I am the one who belongs to a galaxy far, far away.
I don’t wake my kids up in the morning, but I can stay up with them all night. I don’t do breakfast, but I can cook Lasagna, Sisig, Pata Beans, and Chicken Pickle whenever I have the time and the inclination. I don’t do the laundry, but I work–although my work is on such a crazy schedule that it might see me wracking my brains one day and sleeping all day the next. I may not be able to attend each and every school-related activity but when I do, I am my child’s loudest cheer leader—much to his consternation. I may not be able to help them with all their schoolwork, but I hyperventilate whenever they get sick, and could hardly sleep unless something happens in the middle of the night. I can’t iron but hey, I can sing and I can dance.
There are all sorts of ways of being a mommy; this is mine.
by rossanahead | May 10, 2011 | children, family, Lyra Pore, parenting
By Lyra Pore
It had been a long drive. My young family had just spent seven hours on the road; and we were relieved to have finally arrived at the Twelve Apostles, one of the most popular tourist destinations in Victoria, Australia. Getting a glimpse of the famed rock formations would be a fitting highlight to our road trip after the scenic drive along the Great Ocean Road. My children, however, thought otherwise.
My six-year-old asked, “Is this all we’ve travelled seven hours for? To see rocks in the water? And, look, they’re not even twelve.”
“The drive is part of the experience,” I’d told the girls earlier. But dizzy as they were from the twists and turns on the zigzag coastal road, they completely missed the point. To them, the fun part was getting off the car, running on the beach, and picking up pebbles and shells they could take home.
Earlier that week, my husband and I had taken them on a sightseeing trip to the Melbourne City Center. It would be fun, I figured, to ride the tram that went around the city and hop on and off to check out different tourist spots. But my girls didn’t even bother to look out the windows. They took out their Nintendo DSi games and played with them the whole time we were in the tram. The Melbourne day-out would have been a complete disaster had we not stumbled upon a sand pit where they were happy enough to play with shovels and pails.
I picked up some brochures at the visitor information centre to find other places we could visit. Ballarat, a gold rush town with lovely 19th century architecture, would be interesting–not to the children though. They sat at the back of the car with this bored look on their young faces unable to appreciate what could be so fascinating about those brick houses that were built over a hundred years ago.
“Can we swim in the pool when we get back?”
To them, the highlight of the day was heading back to the resort and frolicking in the pool. Last weekend, a family friend suggested we go on a family holiday in New Zealand. We would see things there, he said, that we wouldn’t find in Australia.
“We’re not ready for it,” I said to my husband, memories of our trip to Victoria still fresh on my mind. “The children aren’t interested in sightseeing.” It wouldn’t really matter to them where they went. Their idea of a great holiday was simple: just let them play.
by rossanahead | May 6, 2011 | children, family, Mari-an Santos, parenting
By Mari-An Santos
I attended a children’s party the other day. It was the birthday of a friend’s son. After greeting friends and acquaintances, I settled at a corner table and observed the revelry.
Children playing. Adults chatting. When it was time to eat, I was amazed at how the moms coaxed their still playing children to sit and eat while carrying on conversations with their friends, who were also moms trying to get their kids to sit and eat. The boys could not be bothered to look up from their PSPs and iPods to get a bite of fried chicken or spaghetti. But somehow, in the course of engaging us in conversation and pushing the plates of food towards the kids, when I looked again, the dishes were clean and the kids were running off to the play area.
Motherhood is indeed amazing. I pride myself in being able to multi-task. I think I have my hands full, juggling different projects, but having other lives in my hands, I don’t have to take on that challenge! Just to get through a children’s party like that, for example, a mother would have had to rouse her child from sleep. She would have had to convince her child to take a bath rather than stay in bed playing video games all day.
Assuming that the child got out of bed and took a bath, his mother would still need to get him dressed in proper, presentable clothes. Which, as I have witnessed, is a feat in itself! Even with bribes of games, prizes, food, and company of other children to play with, this does not guarantee that the family will get to the party in time. When they arrive, there is the added pressure to be sociable while still taking care of the child. From being wife and mother, she becomes wife, mother, and friend.
I visualize a cartoon where a mother tries to feed her child with one hand while cleaning the house or working with the other. If only her feet could do the same things as her hands!
And so I ask: Why do we celebrate Mother’s Day for just one day? Why not make it Mother’s Week? Or Mother’s Month? A day is not enough to let our mothers rest their weary heads and muscles to rejuvenate them for the rest of the 364 days of the year. Nevertheless, I send a tight and lingering embrace to generations of mothers. It may not be much, but I know that mothers have such huge hearts that they will value every thoughtful gesture that comes their way.
