by rossanahead | May 5, 2011 | children, parenting, Ruth M. Floresca, woman
By Ruth Manimtim-Floresca
It’s weird (in a good way) how a lot of women, who have met for the first time, could easily click and bond with one another when they find out they’re all moms. Having children, after all, can immediately spawn dozens of stories in a heartbeat. This is more true when moms of kids with special needs meet. I have found so many kindred souls online who know exactly what I have gone, or are going, through with my son who has cerebral palsy. There are dozens of them I have yet to meet face-to-face but I feel this strong connection every time we exchange e-mails or comment on each other’s Facebook statuses. I always know they “get” me the same way I “get” them.
A forwarded e-mail in one of the e-groups I belong to affirmed that we are members of a very elite sorority. “Some of us were invited to join immediately, some not for months or even years. Some of us even tried to refuse membership, but to no avail,” wrote the anonymous author.
All of us have one thing in common – we are mothers of children with special needs. And regardless of how different those needs are, we have mutual respect and empathy for all the women who walk in our shoes. I found myself smiling when I read, “We are knowledgeable. We have educated ourselves with whatever materials we could find. We know ‘the’ specialists in the field, ‘the’ neurologists, ‘the’ hospitals, ‘the’ wonder drugs, ‘the’ treatments. Without formal education, we could become board certified in neurology, endocrinology, and physiatry.” Indeed, I was once mistaken for a nurse after fluently explaining my son’s condition to a new doctor.
Since our journey began, we’ve greeted each morning wondering how we’d make it through another day and rest each night not sure, but marveling, how we were able to do it.
As moms of special needs’ kids, we have learned to deal with anything life throws at us because we’ll never stop believing in miracles, that the potentials of our children know no bounds and that, with faith, we will always be given the strength to survive one day at a time.
by rossanahead | May 3, 2011 | children, parenting, woman
By Jennifer Lee-Bonto
She was expecting a baby any moment. The OB-Gyne told her that she should be in Manila two weeks before her due date. The doctor had more reasons to be worried than that though. Pope John Paul II was arriving in Manila and included in his hectic schedule was celebrating mass at the UST Grandstand, which is inside the compound of the University of Santo Tomas, the oldest university in the Philippines. Coincidentally, the UST Hospital, where she was scheduled to give birth, is also inside the UST compound, so there lay the paranoia.
She was, of course, hardheaded. The Pope was already in Manila and she was still in Laguna, finishing her company’s yearly assessment and planning. Until one night, she couldn’t sleep because of the contractions. She knew she was having contractions but she tried to hold it out because there was no bus ride to Manila that early in the morning. She’d rather not wake up the people in the neighborhood and be the center of attraction. She held out the contractions until 6 a.m. when she felt she could not breathe normally anymore.
As soon as she woke her husband, they gathered some clothes and hit the road. It was a simple choice of riding a bus or getting to the nearest Los Banos hospital. But they weren’t thinking anymore. They went for the first bus on sight. Fortunately, it was bound for Buendia. Throughout the ride, she kept herself from panicking. Husband and pregnant wife did not let go of each other’s hands. They just stared at the seat in front of them.
Every time the contractions came, she would close her eyes, squeeze her husband’s hands, and silently count her breaths. Her husband would bow down, squint his eyes, and silently endure the squeezing on his arm while the stupefied passenger beside them by the window held his breath. The rest of the passengers continued their sleep unaware of the silent drama in row four.
She knew that if she gave birth in an airplane, her baby would be a free flyer forever but she never heard anything about a free bus rider forever.
When they got down the bus terminal, she couldn’t keep her face from crumpling. She wasn’t shouting but during contractions, she had to stop her slow walk. The street food vendors knew what was happening and couldn’t help but be rattled, “Naku! Manganganak na ‘yung ale!” (Look! The woman is about the give birth!)
The first taxi was all run-down but it was no time to be picky. But like most of the taxis in the metropolis, run-down taxi drivers can be more picky than others.
“Naku ser, may blockade na sa Nagtahan, hindi na tayo makakalusot. Sa Makati Medical na lang tayo,” (“Sir, there’s a blockade at Nagtahan. We can’t pass through. Let’s go to Makati Medical Center instead.”), the driver blurted out. The blockade at Nagtahan, a highway leading to UST, only confirmed that that morning was the same morning when the Pope would say mass at the grandstand.
She almost hear her OB’s voice reverberating in her eardrums, “I told you, hija! You have to be here before the Pope gets here!”
But they couldn’t afford Makati Medical Center and the OB was commissioned at UST, so they tried to get another cab. Luckily, the
next taxi driver not only took the maternity challenge, he was also driving a brand new Toyota Corolla. As soon as they got inside the cab, the driver put on his hazard lights. If the husband could have swallowed a siren, he would have opened his mouth as well.
Nagtahan was closed and the whole street was lined with onlookers and well-wishers. The Pope was going to pass through that same highway. Their taxicab approached the police barricade and signaled to the policeman that an emergency was at hand. It was the only time when she gave out shrieks of pain to the best of her overacting abilities. The kind policeman let them pass. The taxi got through.
They were the only vehicle in Nagtahan. That was how a VIP felt. The busy road was all to themselves, both sides. The well-wishers lined at the sides all knew that there was an emergency because the taxi didn’t have tinted windows.
In a few seconds, six by six trucks filled with army soldiers escorted them. It was the escort of the Pope and was supposed to be a few meters ahead of the Pope. It just so happened that the taxi was there and so it appeared that they were escorting the taxicab. Behind the cab, was the Pope mobile with no less than His Eminence Pope John Paul II himself waving at the crowd.
If they arrived in Nagtahan a little less than a minute, she would have given birth inside the taxi. They owed a lot to the Pope who was able to close Nagtahan for them and even allowed them to get ahead of him, a few meters ahead of him. It was more than enough meters of a miracle they needed.
While the Pope was saying mass at the UST Grandstand, she gave birth to a six-pound baby boy. Much to the dismay of a tabloid reporter, they named him Victor Boanerges which means “the victorious son of thunder.” And to make them grateful every day for that miraculous moment brought by Pope Paul, they nicknamed Victor, Popie.
A few years after, Popie got circumcised on the day that Pope John Paul II died, but that’s another story!
by rossanahead | May 2, 2011 | children, family, Karen Galarpe, parenting
By Karen Galarpe
It’s been a year since I went back to the gym, and throughout the past months, I get a kick whenever I would put on my special white shirt, hit the treadmill, and afterward lift those 5-pound dumbbells.
The special shirt is just a simple white tee given by my close friend Nancy, and it says “Super Mom.” It comes with its own S logo, much like the one in Superman’s costume.
Me, Super Mom? Yeah.
I’ll be the first to admit, though, that I’m no perfect mom.
I can’t cook well, nurture a plant, crochet, sew clothes, change a lightbulb, fix a leaking pipe, or patch a hole in the roof. I don’t even know how to make my own pesto sauce.
But I can make tacos (using taco seasoning mix), bring my son to school and pick him up when I can, workout beside him, try out new restaurants with him, and never leave his side at the hospital when he’s sick.
I can’t remember to buy all the things on my grocery list in my head, or remember the brand of batteries he prefers. But I can search for the perfect suit within our budget for prom night, and remember to have mosquito repellent and hand sanitizer available at all times.
I can’t teach him how to drive (he learned from others), but I can be there with him for any school activity: card-giving, PTC, program, family day, etc.
I can’t be all, or do all. But I can do some, and do it well.
I’m not perfect (only God is), but I’m one who would like to do her best (“be super”) in everything with God’s help.
I know many moms may feel the same way — we’re a bunch of Super Moms!
As Mother’s Day draws near, here’s a toast to all you Super Moms out there. We’re cool. We’re super!
by rossanahead | Apr 23, 2011 | children, family, Mari-an Santos, Uncategorized, woman
By Mari-An C. Santos
My mother turned 60 last month. But looking at her, you wouldn’t have guessed it. Her hair is still jet black and her face hardly has any wrinkles. Her voice is clear and she walks with sure-footed steps. I usually associate 60-year-olds with grandmothers. But my mother is not a grandmother. (Don’t remind her though–she might decide to take it up with me and my sister.) She is a wife, mother, sister, daughter, friend, aunt.
Everyone says we look alike. I always say I got my looks from her but my temperament from my father.
Mama always worries about what to cook for the next meal, that I have a complete first aid kit for my trip, and that our balikbayan relatives have everything they need. Whenever I come home to Manila, we always have these long mother-daughter talks. Aside from telling me about the interesting things that happened around the household, she tells me about her past. That’s how I found out about the time when she went up to Baguio all by herself to meet my father. But since they didn’t talk about where and when they’d meet, Mama had to go to different places until they finally, literally, found each other.
She told me about the first time she came to Manila all the way from Zamboanga. Mama was a nurse and had come to the “big, bad city” to work. Save for her older sister, she did not know anyone in Manila. She stayed at a boarding house and worked the graveyard shift at a small hospital, treating people at odd hours for the most bizarre injuries.
These were revelations to me. My mother, who’s usually escorted by my father, commuting a very long distance for an undetermined date? My mother, who’s always with someone, alone?
I’ve known my mother all my life but it seems that I do not really know her. Listening to her stories, I realized that we have a lot more in common than I had previously thought.
I look forward to many more years of getting to know my Mama better.
by rossanahead | Apr 17, 2011 | career, children, Gina Abuyuan, parenting, woman
By Gina Abuyuan
I would probably now own a Mac Air, have a year’s worth of rent paid, and a lilac Gucci handbag made of the most sublime, buttery leather if I were paid a peso every time I’ve been told/asked:
* “I-feature mo naman ako,” (“Can you do a feature on me?”) when people learn I edit a magazine (well, when I did);
* “Masakit?” (“Did it hurt?”) when they see the tattoo on my wrist; and
* “May lahi kayo?” (“Is it in your genes?”) when people learn I have twins.
And I would probably be now driven around in a mini-van if I gave myself a peso every time I promised myself: “I will not get dramatic about my being a working mom”—and broke it.
Don’t get me wrong—I love being a working mother. I love the adrenaline and challenge it gives me; I love being paid for what I love to do. But sometimes, the stress gets the better of me. I retreat into my selfish, self-centered world and resent the fact that other people (my sister, for instance, who I love dearly, again please don’t get me wrong) have got it easy: their husbands bring home bacon (a full slab at that!), all they’ve got to worry about is the kids’ baon, bring them to and pick them up from school, and make sure dinner is ready when hubby arrives.
But is it really that easy? I once was left sans yaya, when my twin boys were still babies, and a whole day taking care of them left me more sapped than 48 hours putting my then-magazine to bed. I marvel at the energy of my partner’s ex-wife, B, who’s chosen to be a homemaker to her current husband and two daughters. She’s up at dawn, cooks the family’s meals, drives the kids to school, hangs out in the mall while waiting for them to get out of class, drives them back home, takes care of her husband, and drives them to extracurricular activities during the weekends.
One time, when we were corresponding about her son’s schooling and she had missed an e-mail or two, she was profuse in her apologies. She was so busy, she said, but probably not as busy as I was, an editor. I stopped her right there. No way, I told her. It’s OK. Nothing can be busier than a full-time mom and homemaker.
So, yes, I do get emotionally frayed sometimes, especially when deadlines are piling up, editorial assistants are calling, and texting non-stop to follow up on stories, book clients are asking (“but no pressure! Just asking!”) if the copy is ready, and public relations practitioners are requesting for interviews “at the most convenient time.”
But, as I remind myself, that just like B and my sister, I made a choice. I made a choice to be a working mother. Not just a 9 to 5 pencil-pusher, mind you, but the type of worker who needs to hustle and have the ability to speak/write/understand different voices. Sure, I can un-make that choice, but that will mean going against who I am, what I was meant to do, and what I’m happy doing–occasional dramatics notwithstanding.
