HOMECOMING




Join me on my journey
as I take THE LONG WAY HOME
to 87 Gentle Street,
cradle of my memories...


A few months ago, I announced that I would be overhauling my OTHER blog's overall IMAGE, foregoing ponderous prose, (if that is at all possible), and coming out with a new format that is shorter, lighter, and truer to it's title, "The Long Way Home".

Since I was prone to long, rambling reminiscences anyway, I figured I'd channel all that long-windedness and enthusiasm into answering some seemingly simple questions which are actually quite complex: "What, exactly, is HOME ?", "Where is it located?" and "What are the things that bring you back there?"

Indeed, the more I think of it, the more I come to realize that my concept of home was transient way before I even left 87 Gentle Street to get married, some 14 years ago. Indeed, when I was still growing up, HOME for me and my sisters would sometimes shift to my grandparent's houses in Mindanao, where we spent our long lazy summers with my Lolo Pinong and Lola Luz.

And while The Long Way Home is a personal journey that eventually leads me to where it all began, (my childhood home at 87 Gentle Street), there are a host of other places along the way that were also HOME to me, at one time or another.

There's that tiny overpriced Westwood apartment in West L.A., my first home here in the U.S., and Lower Penthouse 12 at the Bay Club in North Miami Beach, FL, where I took my first-born son home. I would later take two more sons home, (although this time with a different husband), to a two-bedroom townhouse (also overpriced) in Milpitas, CA which we rented before buying our present home in Modesto.

And then there's that ranch-style house in Indian Hill, OH, where that first-born son frolicked in his playpen much like my first-born daughter does now, eleven years later, in a similar playpen, in that same house in Modesto we took her home to just twelve months ago.

Home was also the Sheraton in Toronto and the Forte Crest Apollo in Amsterdam, for the few months it took us to find real homes, in Yorkminster Rd. and Prins Mauritslaan, Haarlem respectively.

Back in the Philippines, there was the cavernous Persian Suite at the Mandarin Oriental in Makati, which my family occupied for two years, and cozy Suite 1702 at Traders Hotel in Manila, which I would call home for 478 days after that. We even occupied the Mandarin Suite, the Mandarin Oriental's Presidential Suite, for a few months. These suites were more like condo units than hotel rooms (except the Mandarin Suite, with its swimming pool and atrium, which was in a class by itself), and, given the length of time we stayed there, took on our personalities just like any real home would.

Last, and closest to my heart, is our love nest at Marbella 2 in Malate, 16 floors above Roxas Boulevard, overlooking Manila Bay on one side and the Makati and Ortigas skylines on the other. Where you could look out the balcony into rush-hour traffic and still feel serene and untouched by the urban sprawl, mesmerized by the wide expanse of beautiful Manila Bay.

At night, you could stay out there to feel the cool breeze while looking out at the harbor lights, listening to the sounds of the sea, now audible without traffic's extaneous noises, your reverie broken by the occasional roar of the big cats at Manila Zoo, just a kitty corner away (pun intended).

Of all the places I called home, I would like to go back there the most.

So, without further ado, I present to you "The Long Way Home". A collection of vignettes on the many sights, sounds, songs and recollections which bring me back to the many HOMES which were once mine.

You're invited to take the ride with me, now boarding at 87 GENTLE STREET.

Our first stop: LUNETA PARK. Our first date? LUNETA PARK!

All aboard!


(PLUGGING: The soft launch of our new matrimonial blog, SERENITY, and an update at Don Lorenzo de Modesto's blog, ONE DAY ISANG ARAW.)

SUNBEAMS, FOR LANCE




This poem won the Alice Minnie Hertz Heniger Prize in Literature for Children, awarded by the English Department at Lehman College, City University of New York, at the Bronx in New York.

It was written for my son, Lance , by his other lolo, my stepfather, IRA WOLLEN.


SUNBEAMS, For Lance
by Ira Wollen

Mister Sun is getting ready to say
Good Night,
He is heading far, far away, to the horizon,
taking the day and all its light along with him,
Now almost setting,

A while ago, he was like
a strange savage child,
running free around the house,
peeking in everywhere, touching everything,
Chasing shadows down the hall,
throwing dust high up on sunbeams,
fiercely hugging the child's colored ball,

Much cooler now, night comes to fall,

With one last twinkle
through a corner window sill,
Mister Sun still invites
the little colored ball
and all other toys,
come with me, ride for free to

tomorrow,
Clouds willing, we will play
once again, brightest light
warming your every color,
Little ball, however, smiles, hear it say

thank you,

I want to play in the shade today,
Enjoy your fun, but
not with my color,
I don't mind if I fade, please
Keep your heat and your unforgiving light,
Mister Sun, good night, You may (...yawn...) now
go away...



My stepfather, Ira Wollen is one of the most talented people I know. Before Macular Degeneration impaired his sight, he used to paint and sculpt, creating beautiful pieces of art. One of the nicest things he's made for me was a metal sculpture of a cat he made out of keys and other common household articles.

Ira started dabbling in poetry a few years ago, and his verbal creations were no less beautiful and personal than his other works of art. For his BIRTHDAY last year, I set up my stepfather with a blog of his own, "Ira's Poetry", to showcase his prodigious talent for stringing words together to form beautiful pearls of poetry.

This time, I decided to change his Blogger template as an early Father's Day present. I chose Blogger's "Harbor" design, by Douglas Bowman, to reflect Ira's deep love for sailing. He used to take my Mom out to sail on his 35-foot sailboat, The Gull, which unfortunately met a fiery end on July 4th weekend in 1997.

It was all over the news, I was told. Ira and some family friends were on their way to a raft-up at Sandy Hook when the fire started. Since The Gull was already out past Coney Island, he and the rest of the party actually had to jump into the waters of Lower New York Bay, treading water for 20 minutes before the rescue helicopter came. It's a good thing my Mom was visiting with us in Toronto when it happened, otherwise she would've joined the party.

These days, Ira busies himself with less daring pursuits, like writing award-winning poetry. You can check out his latest work at IRA'S POETRY, and don't hesitate to drop him a line if a poem touches you in any way. I'm sure he'd love to hear from you.

And thanks to BING for the mini-tutorial on changing font sizes. Ira can't see too well due to his M.D., so I'm trying to increase the font size on his template. So far, I've had success at making the letters appear larger, but for some reason, his whole sidebar slides down to the very bottom of the page when I preview it.

I'm still in the process of tweaking his template, and would appreciate any help or input on the matter.

Happy Advanced Father's Day, Ira!


(PLUGGING: "Me and Christina", Ira's latest poem in IRA'S POETRY. Also, at long last, my husband, Don Lorenzo de Modesto, FINALLY updated his blog, ONE DAY ISANG ARAW. Check it out and TELL YOUR FRIENDS!)

MASKED MENACE




Since I already gave my two-cents worth I might as well go for broke.

I've been giving this little TEMPEST IN A TEAPOT a lot of thought and I've decided I have more to say on the matter.

I have to admit that I, myself, bristled at some of the things BING said in her post, which I felt were judgmental in nature. Of course, she exacerbated matters by generalizing her subjects, lumping them into one unsavory-sounding bunch she referred to as POPULAR BLOGGERS. It wasn't surprising that she ended up stepping on many veteran blogger's toes.

But when push came to shove, she took full responsibility for her actions. And this is where Bing differs from people like "Melinda" and "a so-called popular blogger", who posted their comments in her blog anonymously.

I don't know if "Melinda" and "a so-called popular blogger" are one and the same person, but the comments were written in the same flawless English, and delivered in the same condescending manner. Obviously, these people were articulate, and fully able to choose their words with care if they wanted to; talking to, instead of down to people, negating the need for anonymity.

Was it plain laziness on their part, not wanting to bother with the niceties of common etiquette? Or maybe it was pure callousness, not really caring if they hurt other people's feelings? Indeed, it's easy to be mean and spiteful when you know the other person is shadow-boxing while blindfolded.

The sad part was that they had a valid point, and maybe people would have rallied behind them, nodding in agreement, saying yes, some of Bing's remarks were irresponsibly made. But their insensitive comments, coupled with their anonymous identities, rendered their whole message useless.

Anonymity and accountability are mutually exclusive of each other. When you post a comment anonymously, you refuse to take responsibility for the things you say, putting the other person at an unfair disadvantage. It is no wonder that people who post rude, anonymous comments are reviled by their peers. They are spineless, gutless people hiding in the dark underbelly of the blogosphere, surfacing in the sunlight when it is safe again, assuming the form of their mild-mannered alter-egos, hiding their rotten identities behind fake smiles.

And yet these aren't the REAL bottom-dwellers. For in fact, the lowest reaches of blogging Hades is populated by a lower, baser form of life: the identity thief.

These creatures thrive on malice. They delight in sowing discord among their fellow-bloggers, posting rude, offensive comments using another person's identity. They are warmongers. The pyromaniacs of the blogging world, lighting little incendiary fires here and there and standing back to enjoy the fireworks. I can't imagine anyone in his rational mind doing this.

Indeed, I sometimes wonder if Tourette's Syndrome can extend from spoken to written word. "Oh, don't mind the rude remarks and vulgar language he posted. He can't help it. He's sick in the head."

I'll say!

Unfortunately, we will always have these sickos and undesirables among us. We'll just have to learn to deal with this new plague in a rational manner.

For instance, when you come across an uncharacteristically rude comment made by someone who normally doesn't write this way, give that person the benefit of the doubt and do some investigation first. That knee-jerk reaction might just come back to haunt you later.

It also pays to remember that you do NOT have to reply to these comments. You do NOT have to go down to their level. You have more power than you think: full control of your blog publishing tool. Just delete their posts and move on with your life.

And don't worry, it will catch up with them eventually.

People like these always get their comeuppance.


(PLUGGING: One last look at unseen pictures of our "Royal Holiday" in my BRAG BOOK, also "Day 7 and Epilogue: Present Perfect", the LAST installment in my "ROYAL HOLIDAY" series at 87 GENTLE STREET.)

AN OPEN COMMENT




I came across an interesting post about SOME POPULAR BLOGGERS in WARM STONE, which clearly touched a nerve, based on the comments it received.

Now, while I do not consider myself a "popular blogger", it made me wonder if I have inadvertently stepped on sensitive toes or offended anyone in the course of my blogging.

I am therefore publishing the comment I left with BING in the hopes that you, my reader, will know more about my main reasons and motivation for blogging.

This comment was originally written for her, but I guess it was also written with YOU in mind.


Hi Bing.

I found this post through SAM's blog and was quite amused at some of the comments you got. I, too, have encountered some sites reeking of arrogance, but I guess some people are just that way and I generally avoid returning to their blogs.

I think it is an honor to receive someone's comments and tags because it means that person cared enough to give a moment of his time to you. I also consider it an honor to be linked to other people's blogs, and generally reciprocate the favor.

I have always been a lady in my writing, and I find that people treat me with respect because of this. I guess this is what everything pretty much boils down to: treat people with respect and they will treat you the same.

I DO have a problem with anonymous comments. And while "a so called popular blogger" DID bring up some valid points (foremost of which was that you do not know these people personally and should therefore reserve judgment about them), the fact that she did not have the courage to reveal her identity negated it somewhat.

I am a full-time Mom with three small kids aged one to five. My main reason for blogging is to have a printed record of my family's special moments, so that I can preserve the sights, sounds, scents, and sensations before time dilutes them. Therefore, it is my goal to WRITE, and I do it for my family.

Given my busy schedule, I hardly have time to sit down and compose a post so when I finally have free time, I honestly would much rather write than bloghop.

I like sharing stories of my family with those who are interested enough to listen. And I DO try to return comments. But I honestly believe that a comment given should be given freely, with no thoughts of getting one in return.

So I guess my attitude to comments is "Thank you for taking time to read my blog, but just because you posted a comment doesn't mean I owe you one."

But, being the lady I try to be, I still try to reciprocate visits and return comments anyway, although not too promptly at times. Better late than never, I guess.

Just my two cents worth.


I guess it was THIS post which should've been entitled COMING CLEAN!


(PLUGGING: One last look at unseen pictures of our "Royal Holiday" in my BRAG BOOK, also "Day 7 and Epilogue: Present Perfect", the LAST installment in my "ROYAL HOLIDAY" series at 87 GENTLE STREET.)

ON COMING CLEAN




All's well that ends well.

This phrase pretty much sums up the conclusion to my "Royal Holiday" series at 87 GENTLE STREET. Yesterday, I posted my final entry, "Day 7 and Epilogue: Present Tense", with a great lightening of spirit.

Much like the trip itself, which ended up being longer than we initially expected, I started "ROYAL HOLIDAY" in January, not realizing it would take me all of four months to finish it.

Indeed, it was difficult, sometimes painful even, to recount certain segments of the story. Those who have been following "ROYAL HOLIDAY" would know exactly which parts I am referring to.

I am just happy I was able to come clean with the whole affair, since some people are obviously still in denial. Whatever. The important thing is that my husband and I can sleep well at night, knowing our collective conscience as a couple is clear. And with the end of "ROYAL HOLIDAY", I am putting the whole subject to rest, notching it up to another of life's bitter lessons.

C'est la vie.



AND COMING HOME




While we're on the subject of clearing consciences, Royal Holiday's conclusion is also clearing the way for 87 GENTLE STREET's new revamped format.

And while I am reluctant to discuss this new FORMAT at length (owed perhaps to the fact that I remain undecided as to what the new format will be), I am coming out with a sample post. A preview of the coming ride on "The Long Way Home".



VICTIMS

I am a genuine MTV Baby.

I was in High School when MTV first burst into the music scene during the eighties. And just like every impressionable teenager who wore Go-Go skirts and Madonna curls, I openly embraced the media revolution which would eventually change the music world as we knew it.

During that time warp when LP's were getting passe and CD's were largely unknown to the general public, I amassed quite a compilation of cassettes from groups like, well, General Public! Of course I had the standard-issue Duran Duran, Tears for Fears, DePeche Mode, Thompson Twins, and Howard Jones, among many others. But my personal favorite was far removed from the cookie-cutter British invader: Culture Club.

Indeed, the band, particularly their lead singer, Boy George (nee George O'Dowd) was so unique that it couldn't be pigeonholed into any single genre. Okay, so I confess to being a true-blue Boy George junkie in High School, still innocent of the fact that Boy George, even then, was already a junkie.

The first song I really liked from them was "Time (Clock of the Heart)" from their "Kissing to be Clever" CD (oops, I keep forgetting they were called LP's back then!), which received heavy airplay from the popular mobile DJ's at the time.

Ironically, it was through my involvement with one particular mobile outfit that I was able to convince them to play a rarely-heard song, "Victims", the obscure last track on the B-side of Culture Club's "Color By Numbers" CD. It was one of the rare ballads tthat would come from the group.

I can still remember slow-dancing to it on our Graduation Ball, with someone who would eventually be my first serious boyfriend. Listening to its haunting melody and Boy George's plaintive singing, it's no wonder a spell was cast upon us that night, within the dark, strobe-lit confines of the ballroom at the Valle Verde Country Club.

Listening to the lyrics now, the song's dark undertones of obsession and unrequited love are quite obvious. Even the title "Victims", should've clued me in at the very beginning. But I was bright-eyed, bushy-browed and barely out of High School, and did I mention infatuated with a cross-dressing British pop icon who was obviously misunderstood and heterosexual to boot?

Little did I know back then that my beloved song, that romantic ballad which would eventually become our theme song, was written by Boy George specifically for his on-again-off-again lover, the group's drummer, Jon Moss.

Oh shattered innocence of youth.



Victims

The victims we know so well
They shine in your eyes when they kiss and tell
Strange places we've never seen
But you're always there like a ghost in my dream

And I keep on telling you
Please don't do the things you do.
When you do those things
Pull my puppet strings
I've the strangest void for you.

Oh...hmmm...

Pull the strings of emotion
Take a ride into unknown pleasure
Feel like a child on a dark night
Wishing there was some kind of heaven

Oh I could be warm with you smiling
Hold out your hands for a while
The victims we know them so well.
So well.

We love and we never tell
What chases our hearts to the wishing well
Love leads us into the stream
And it's sink or swim like it's always been

And I keep on loving you
It's the only thing to do
When the angels sing
There are greater things
Can I give them all to you?

Oh...hmmm...

Pull the strings of emotion
Take a ride into unknown pleasure
Feel like a child on a dark night
Wishing we could spend it together

Oh I could be warm with you smiling
Hold out your hands for a while
The victims we know them so well.
So well.


So there you have it. A passing glance at what to expect from my new blog, "The Long Way Home".

Coming soon at 87 GENTLE STREET.


(PLUGGING: One last look at unseen pictures of our "Royal Holiday" in my BRAG BOOK, also "Day 7 and Epilogue: Present Perfect", the LAST installment in my "ROYAL HOLIDAY" series at 87 GENTLE STREET.)

SISTER ACT
(Birthday Girl 2)




Today I will be talking about another BIRTHDAY GIRL, my baby sister, Haya.

Haya is turning 29 today, yet in my heart, she will always be my baby sister. She was born when I was eight, on May 19, 1976. That also happened to be the day Super typhoon Didang hit the Philippines. While waiting for my Dad to return from the hospital, my grandmother joked that my new baby sister would be named "Didang", after the storm. I must've grimaced, because my Lola later changed it to "Candida", which was certainly more palatable than "Didang" to my young ears.

Good thing my father is much better at naming babies than my maternal grandmother. When he picked us up to go to the hospital, he told us our new baby sister was named "Ria Haya Aurora". "Haya" in Arabic, meant "life", while Aurora was the goddess of the dawn (since she was born very early in the morning). So Haya's name, in essence, meant "Life at Dawn", but Daddy said we could still call her "Ria" if we wanted to.

Now, DADDY may be good at naming babies, but his research skills were not up to par. Later that day, he informed us that he was dropping the name "Ria" from my sister's whole name, because he just discovered it meant "rat" in some obscure language elsewhere in the world. Too late. It was already entered in my sister's birth certificate.

Haya was quite simply the most beautiful baby I'd ever seen at the time. She had a perfect pair of Shirley Temple dimples, and her hair grew into cute little baby curls which eventually straightened as she grew older.

When she was big enough to travel, the whole family went to Mindanao to show her to my paternal grandparents, who had just bought a house in Iligan. I remember an incident when we went back to the old house at the MSU campus in Marawi. Haya had rolled out of the bed and fallen on the wooden floor. She was obviously shaken but unhurt, and was crying more out of fear than pain, but I was so terrified that I would lose my baby sister that day.

I have so many fond memories of Haya growing up. I still remember her as a little girl, donning a full Igorot costume and gamely posing for pictures during a trip to Baguio. And then there was the Manobo Dance, which she learned when she was a nursery student at UP-CDC (Child Development Center). I used to make her dance this on cue. All I needed was a gong to bang on (which we had a lot of, thanks to our Muslim forebears), and Haya would be swaying and showing us the Manobo tribe's ceremonial dance, sometimes stopping to scold me for playing the gong badly.

She was also terrified of the color violet when she was younger. My second sister, Maya, who was just five years her senior and therefore more prone to picking on her, used to chase Haya around the house brandishing a Violet Crumble chocolate bar. I kid you not.

Haya also dreaded it whenever Maya got a "singaw" (canker sore) in her mouth. Why? Because she knew the cure for singaw was Gentian Violet and her Ate Maya would be making her cry again, running after her with her mouth agape, showing off her vivid violet "singaw" the minute my Mom turned the other way.

She also developed a self-deprecating sense of humor, perhaps in anticipation of her Ate Maya's kakulitan (Maya was really maldita back then). When she was younger, she had a semi-addiction to Yakult, which made her chubby in a cute sort of way, but she would grumble that she looked like Mr. Weatherbee. She also compared herself to a Christmas tree once, but of course, I couldn't see the resemblance anywhere.

See, in MY eyes, she looked like Punky Brewster. She even dressed in the same adorable way.

As she got older, she would be told she looked like Amy Perez and later, Rica Peralejo, but one thing remained constant through the years. To this day, Haya still declares that her foot looks like Cherie Gil.

Yes, she can be weird that way. And don't ask me which foot, left or right. I just know one of them does.

I used to visit Haya in kindergarten when I was a senior in High School. I even read my Creative Writing in English picture book to her class, one of my last requirements before graduating to college. I was proud to be accepted to the third most difficult quota course to get into in UP Diliman, B.A.A. (Business Administration and Accountancy), but my baby sister managed to one-up me on this achievement. See, Haya got accepted into the HARDEST quota course to get into: Intarmed, the accelerated seven-year medical course.

But Haya wisely chose to forego Intarmed, electing to stick to her second choice, another quota course, Psychology. She obviously didn't stray from her original goal, because she still went on to medical school after that. But she did it on her own terms, having a lot of fun along the way.

One of the things Haya did in college was to follow our footsteps, eventually joining the UP Delta Lambda Sigma Sorority. I'm not sure if she felt pressured into doing this, but it was almost an unspoken expectation of her, since both Maya and I were Deltans. But Haya dealt with it in her usual non-confrontational manner, vaguely hinting that she was considering joining our rival sorority instead, causing much trepidation on her Ate Maya's part.

Finally, it was payback time.




I can never forget the day of Haya's graduation from UP. Later that day, I had an appointment with my OB-Gyn in Makati Med, confirming the fact that I was pregnant (with Lance). The countdown to my departure had begun. In another six months, Lorenzo and I would board a plane, leaving the Philippines for good to start a family abroad.

I remember those last days in Manila, knowing I would be leaving my family again. We couldn't seem to get enough of each other: Daddy, Maya, Haya and me. Despite the difficulties of adjusting to Med proper, Haya gamely joined us whenever she could. I could see her studies were taking a toll on her. She was losing weight and her allergic rhinitis was flaring up really bad. It seemed she was literally allergic to exams, her attacks coinciding with her test days.

Once, when Lorenzo and I took her out, she started sneezing uncontrollably. The following conversation took place. You can have my husband's word for it:

Haya: Ah-CHOO!!!
Lorenzo: Allergies?
Haya: Ano'ng araw ngayon?
Lorenzo: Tuesday.
Haya: Oo, allergies nga 'to.

It may be non sequitur, but guess who's the doctor now?

Oh, I can tell you many more strange and wonderful stories about my baby sister, but I won't. It is, after all, her birthday.

As it is, the poor dear is celebrating while on duty at St. Luke's. I tried to catch her at home, but her maid just advised me to call around Saturday morning Manila time, when she is scheduled to return from her resident duties.

I miss my sister. I miss the fun we have whenever we're together, just laughing at our shared experiences growing up. I miss staying up late, singing karaoke with her and my MOM, belting out old jologs tunes we would never dare attempt elsewhere. But most of all I miss knowing she is just in the next room reading a book, or downstairs listening to the radio, playing with any of the series of Siamese cats we had, from Gus to Chloe to Rama 2 (ironically, the original Rama died of pneumonia after getting wet during Typhoon Didang).

Now she has her Boron, the longest feline denizen at 87 Gentle Street (also Siamese), to greet her weary doctor heart when she gets home. And I have my three Prada babies, my loving husband, and my loyal pit bull to warm mine. But bridging both worlds temporally separated by time and space are two hearts, beating like gongs to the same primeval rhythm, and two minds, brimming sweetly with the same familial memories.

And so we smile as one.




Happy Birthday, Haya. I love you and I am so proud of you.

Your loving sister,
Ate Rima


(ONE LAST LOOK: unseen pictures of our "Royal Holiday" in my BRAG BOOK, also "Day 7 and Epilogue: Present Perfect", the last installment in my "ROYAL HOLIDAY" series at 87 GENTLE STREET.)

BIRTHDAY GIRL




What a wonderful weekend it was.

Reanna, my precious daughter, celebrated her first birthday last Saturday at HOPPERZ, a new indoor playland here in Modesto. But the fun and festivities didn't end there. In fact, the party atmosphere lasted well into Sunday night.

With Reanna's BABY DEDICATION CEREMONY taking place barely three weeks before, I wanted something fairly simple for her birthday. I had heard about Hopperz from my niece, Christa, who couldn't say enough nice things about the place. I checked it out and found out Hopperz was an indoor playground which catered only to private parties. Their brochure promised a lot of fun with a minimum of fuss. It was just the thing I was looking for.

Indeed, all I had to bring was a birthday cake (I chose an ice cream cake for even less fuss) and a huge bowl of fresh fruit. Hopperz provided the rest. Oh, and my responsibility also went so far as to ensure that all my guests wore socks, or at least those who were planning to do some serious hopping.

So at 4:45 PM on Saturday, the guests checked in to my party, the parents turning in signed waivers for their children. The kids took off their shoes, watching a brief introductory video touching on rules and safety before bursting into the first hopping zone. And there, rising above the air hockey tables and video consoles was a giant inflatable slide, and something which I can best describe as a "bungee gauntlet", where two people can race forward and see how far they can go before a bungee cord pulls them back in.



The kids took over the giant inflatable structures and the adults weren't that far behind. It seemed like the 35 minutes alloted to the room went by in no time. Soon our party attendant, Danielle, materialized to herd the noisy mob to Hopping Zone 2, which featured a formidable inflatable obstacle course, a giant bounce house and a large indoor playground.

The most popular atttraction to my guests was the obstacle course, which was made even more challenging by a wall-climbing section inside. It was a bit too advanced for the younger kids, but they had the bounce house and indoor playground to keep them happy.



Meanwhile, the Dads, led by Lorenzo himself, were getting in on the action. It was great to see them indulge the inner child within as they raced through the obstacle course. Even the bounce house wasn't spared when the Daddies decided to attack!



We had the second room to ourselves for another 35 minutes. I didn't think this would be enough, but with both kids and adults taking full advantage of the giant inflatables, everyone was tired and hungry even before the time elapsed.

Soon the party was slowing down. Many of the kids were thirsty and the adults were starting to feel their age. At the end of 35 minutes, we were ushered into the Party Pad and we descended upon the food. Good thing I ordered six large pizzas from them. They were good pizzas too, from Mountain Mike's, and within minutes, they were history. My package also included three bottomless pitchers of soda to chase everything down, and once the ballast was in place, my summer fruit bowl provided a sweet ending to the repast.



But something sweeter was yet to come, Reanna's Strawberry Shortcake birthday cake, done in luscious moist chocolate and filled with delicious strawberry ice cream. I chose a Strawberry Shortcake theme for my party favors too. But my baby only had eyes for her cake. She was so fascinated with the pink creation, she reached for it with her toes!




I passed out the party hats and we sang "Happy Birthday" for Reanna. Then Danielle and the staff sliced and distributed the cake among the guests while I chased down the kids to give them their loot bags.



The party was winding down, but it was not necessariily over. In fact, after we left Hopperz, most of the people ended up in my house, where the kids hung out and watched DVDs late into the night while Lorenzo played the role of chef, whipping up a monster batch of hot dogs which mysteriously disappeared overnight. The party atmosphere continued on to the next day, when everyone descended upon the pool while I took over chefly duties in the kitchen.

It was getting quite boisterous out there, which usually happens when all the cousins get together. Soon, everyone was throwing everyone else into the pool, including Spot the Pit Bull!



You can imagine the huge appetites the kids worked up. I served up a batch of curried Dungeness crabs in coconut milk, which kept them busy for a while. Then everyone got ready to leave. We made a detour to my brother-in-law Simon's house to see Lorenzo's parents, who came down from the Bay Area. After eating even more food, which thankfully included my sister-in-law's famous pancit palabok, my family waddled out of there to take my stepsons, Joey and Chris, home.



We were happy they could join us for their baby sister's first birthday party.

It was the end of a wonderful weekend, one that would see another milestone tucked under our belts. We had raised our first daughter for a full year.



And that was cause for celebration.


(PLUGGING: more unseen pictures of Reanna's birthday party in my BRAG BOOK, also "Day 6: The Pilgrims' Progress", the latest installment in my "ROYAL HOLIDAY" series at 87 GENTLE STREET.)

THE DAY YOU WERE BORN




Dear Reanna,

Today you turn one year old.

Last night, your ninang and I took you to the mall to have your pictures taken in your Dedication dress and bonnet. You were so well-behaved and cooperative and I was so proud of you. The pictures came out wonderfully too. With such a beautiful subject, how could they turn out otherwise?

It's hard to believe a whole year has passed since the day you were born. I only regret that I never really blogged about your birth in earnest. Things were so hectic when we brought you home that I never found the chance to write about that very special day. Until now.




I still remember when they first brought you to me, all swaddled up, still covered in the waxy residue which protected you from the liquid environment of your home for the past nine months.

I gave you a kiss on the forehead, goo and all, and held you close to admire God's handiwork. Within seconds, you flashed your deep dimple at Daddy and me, and I thanked the Lord for making you so beautiful.

We spent the next precious moments together, the three of us, while the nursing staff scrambled to find me a room. It was a full house at Doctor's Medical Center that night, but we didn't mind the wait. It meant more precious bonding time for us and we weren't about to complain.

After a few minutes, the nurse appeared with a wheelchair. They didn't have any regular rooms available so I would be bunking in at LDR (Labor and Delivery Room) 1 for the night. I held you in my arms for a few moments more before reluctantly relinquishing possession of you. It was hospital policy that all babies be wheeled in their bassinets.

When we got to my temporary quarters for the night, the nurse let the three of us bond for a few more moments before wheeling you out to the nursery. There you would be cleaned and bathed, washing away the final vestiges of your physical bond to me. Your Daddy asked me if it was okay to leave me alone so he could join you. I said yes, feeling the first pangs of hunger and fatigue.

I gave you one last kiss, knowing you were in good hands with your Daddy around. I watched them wheel you out of the room, listening as the sounds of your departure grew more and more faint. Then I wolfed down the lone turkey sandwich the night nurse found in the fridge and fell asleep soon after that.

In another part of the hospital, your Daddy was documenting every detail of what happened next. They wheeled you to the nursery, where they proceeded to give you your first bath. You weren't too happy about it. I don't blame you one bit.

And while the nurses were ministering to your ablutions, what would come on the radio but a familiar song, sung by Stevie Wonder to another precious girl, his newborn baby daughter, Aisha.

The timing was so apropos to the occasion, it could only be divine.

Isn't she lovely
Isn't she wonderfull
Isn't she precious
Less than one minute old
I never thought through love we'd be
Making one as lovely as she
But isn't she lovely made from love

Isn't she pretty
Truly the angel's best
Boy, I'm so happy
We have been heaven blessed
I can't believe what God has done
Through us he's given life to one
But isn't she lovely made from love

Isn't she lovely
Life and love are the same
Life is aisha
The meaning of her name
Londie, it could have not been done
Without you who conceived the one
That's so very lovely made from love

In all our years of hearing this sweet song, I don't think Lorenzo and I have ever appreciated the meaning behind it as much as we did that day.

Finally, after having five boys between us, The Lord blessed us with a girl.

And she is lovely indeed.



Happy birthday Reanna!


(PLUGGING: more pictures of Reanna's arrival in my BRAG BOOK, also "Day 6: The Pilgrims' Progress", the latest installment in my "ROYAL HOLIDAY" series at 87 GENTLE STREET.)

HOOKED, LINE AND SINKER




I have a new reason to look forward to Tuesday nights now.

Last year, it was "American Idol" which backoned me home on Tuesday night. Unfortunately, La Toya London's premature exit sort of killed it for me, so much that Lorenzo and I didn't even bother to watch a single AI episode this year. Then again, that whole Paula Abdul fiasco might be a reason for us to tune in late in the day, but I've always questioned the producers' choice of Paula as a judge anyway. She was obviously much better at dancing and choreography than she was at singing and choosing lovers.

But I digress. I wanted to share with you my new reason for staying home on Tuesday nights: "Deadliest Catch" on the Discovery Channel.

"Deadliest Catch" is about the most dangerous job on earth, crab fishing. The series began with the Alaskan king crab season, which takes place in October. It gives its viewers a free berth in all of the six fishing boats featured, letting us in on the intimate details of the crab fishing industry.

Previously on "Deadliest Catch". they showed the Alaskan king crab season's biggest winners, the captain and crew of the "Norhtwestern", whose deck hands brought home $16,000 each for five days work. Not shabby at all.

Yesterday, "Deadliest Catch" moved on to the Opelio crab season, which takes place in January. This time around, the crab fishermen would be tackling the notoriously deadly Bering Sea in the dead of winter. The show's atmosphere was ominously darker this time, mirroring the weather. The reason for that soon unfolded. Barely into the first day of the "Opie" season, a ship sank, taking with it all but one of its six-man crew.

The tension was palpable, the fishermen's emotions spilling over to the viewers themselves. It was compelling television at its finest.

So I resolve to dedicate the rest of my Tuesday nights to this new series on the Discovery Channel. There's no doubt about it: I'm hooked. My enthusiasm, however, doesn't go so far as to embrace the show's theme song.

There's only so much I can take of Bon Jovi's abrasive rendition of "Wanted Dead or Alive", which comes on before every commercial break.

Note to the sponsors at Budweiser: that song won't send me scurrying to the fridge for an ice-cold Bud during the next commercial break.

I'd just as soon head for the nearest drugstore for some aspirin for me...

And a lozenge for Jon Bon Jovi.



ON BIRTHDAYS




Before May 11 ends here in California, I would like to greet my first cousin, Maita Barredo Gaerlan, Happy Birthday!

I still remember Maita as a pretty little toddler, always at the hand of her mother, my Tita Dina. She would've been my flower girl too but unfortunately, both of my weddings ended up taking place abroad.

Tomorrow, May 12, would've been the birthday of her late father and my Mom's brother, Maj. Gen. Felipe Gaerlan of the Philippine Air Force.

It's too bad my Uncle Pipes, as we fondly called him in the family, missed Maita's High School graduation this year, where she marched onstage as salutatorian of St. Paul's in Pasig.

And of course, the day after tomorrow, May 13, is Reanna's first birthday. That's three consecutive birthdays spanning three generations in the month of May.

Which isn't so unusual, unless the pattern is repeated within the same family.

See, July 11,12, and 13 (notice the same days in the month) also happen to be family birthdays: of my Uncle Butch (the 11th), my Lola Elvie (the 12th), and my cousin Malyn (the 13th). Take note that each of the three generations are also represented in the July celebrants.

Uncanny, isn't it?


(PLUGGING: "Day 6: The Pilgrims' Progress", the latest installment in my "ROYAL HOLIDAY" series at 87 GENTLE STREET. Also check out my recently resurrected BRAG BOOK, with updated family pictures.)

OPEN FOR BUSINESS

It's official. The Sereno family pool is now open for business.

The sun was out in full force today, with no sudden hailstorms looming in the horizon. The wind still had a slight chill to it, but the lure of the pool proved to be too strong for our two boys.



As soon as Lance got off the school bus, he asked me if he could go swimming. The breeze was still a bit too nippy for my comfort, but he was insistent. When we set foot in the house, Troy joined the lobbying. Little did I know that while I was waiting for his big brother at the school bus stop, Troy was already working on convincing his Daddy to let him swim outside.




Within minutes, our two boys were suited up and ready to go. Lance made a quick detour to our next-door neighbor's house to invite his friends, Lupe and Darlena to join him and Troy. The girls are no strangers to my swimming pool. In fact, Lupe even learned how to swim in my backyard.




Lupe is Troy's "girlfriend". She will be in Junior High next year, but Troy claims "she loves him and that is why she is his girlfriend". Lupe and Darlena, as well as their big sister Brenda, are surrogate sisters to my boys. They take care of them and fuss over them just like they were their little brothers.

The kids frolicked in the water while Spot and Reanna looked on. I could see that my daughter was curious about the water. She didn't know what she was missing but thought it was unfair, nevertheless. After all, even Spot got a hosedown from Daddy!




The sun was shining brightly but the breeze still had an edge to it. Pretty soon, Troy had to make a wardrobe change.



But even with the added coverage, there was no denying it was cold out there in the water. The kids bravely soldiered on (the way kids do), but soon their teeth were chattering uncontrollably. It was time to get out and wait for warmer weather.

Good thing that's a given, here in Modesto.


(PLUGGING: "Day 6: The Pilgrims' Progress", the latest installment in my "ROYAL HOLIDAY" series at 87 GENTLE STREET. Also check out my recently resurrected BRAG BOOK, with updated family pictures.)