NONE OF YOUR PEASWAX
Lance came to me recently looking quite disturbed. I asked him what the matter was and he answered me with a little voice:
"My ear hurts...", pointing to his right ear.
I wondered if he was coming down with an ear infection. I was quite puzzled about this, since I didn't remember any of my kids having colds recently. I decided to peek into his ear, just to be sure.
I thought I could see something white just barely in the shadows. Thinking it was impacted earwax, I got my trusty ear pick and had myself a look-see. The mass was hard and unyielding at first, but after some finessing and maneuvering I finally managed to to dislodge it.
It turned out to be a black-eyed pea.
A part of me wanted to deal with the situation the Old School way, using scare tactics handed down from generation to generation. I was SO ready to tell him that if he ever did it again, that pea would sprout and a great big tree would grow out of his ear.
And then I remembered MY irrational fears when I was Lance's age, brought about by people around me who thought the only way to make a kid do something was to scare him into submission. "Don't open that umbrella inside or snakes will rain on you." , or "Brush your teeth or ants will crawl into your mouth while you are sleeping."
Of all these, however, the scariest one by far was "Take a bath or the ipis will crawl on your head and lift you up by the hair and fly you out the window!"
It didn't matter that all our windows were screened-in at the time. I was so terrified of being borne away by cockroaches that I slept with one hand under the pillow to weigh me down. I have obviously been enlightened since then but up to the present, I still can't sleep without tucking an arm under my pillow. Force of habit, I guess.
I looked at my son, whose worried look softened my heart. I remember wearing the same worried look three decades ago, when I accidentally swallowed a santol seed for the first time. I frantically perused the contents of our commode for days after that, hoping to find the seed. I was afraid that if I failed to eliminate it, it would grow inside my stomach.
The memory strengthened my resolve. Little kids have enough irrational fears to deal with as it is. How quickly adults forget.
I smiled at Lance and saw his relief as he smiled in return. I briefly explained the dangers of putting foreign objects in his ear. No drama, no hysterics, yet I am confident it will never happen again. I think the painful experience convinced him more than any of my words ever could.
And you know the best part of it? Knowing I didn't have to scare my son for it to be effective. I couldn't find it in me anyway. That was Old School. This is now.
I had broken the cycle. The nightmares of my generation will never more be visited by the next.
And I, for one, am glad.
(PLUGGING: The plot takes a twist in "Day 4: Through The Gates At Last", the fourth installment in my ROYAL HOLIDAY series at 87 GENTLE STREET.)
TICKLE KEY ELMO
The Proud Mama in me is tickled pink again.
Thanks to my three-year-old, Troy. Troy loves to mimic his older brother, Lance, who's five.
Lance is in kindergarten. Whenever he has homework, Troy insists on doing some kind of activity too, so I usually tuck him away in a corner with a coloring book and a few crayons while I help Lance out with his letters and patterns.
When Lance started cutting things, Troy asked for a smaller pair of scissors so that he, too, could cut. When Lance would work with paints, Troy insisted on working beside him.
When Lance learned to quote our complete address and phone number, Troy wasn't that far behind. These days, when I am asked to supply this information I usually do it in chorus with my two boys. Lance would be the nasal tenor while Troy is that little falsetto you hear in the background.
It gets quite irritating, I know, but it's a safety precaution, in case they get lost.
Lance went off-track in March, which means he does not have school for an entire month. To keep him from being bored, I set up the computer for him so he could practice typing his whole name, "Lorenzo Sereno", and his "sight words", words he is expected to recognize without having to sound them out.
The first time we did it, I could see that Troy was a little jealous. He kept trying to catch my attention while I was explaining the keyboard basics to his kuya, asking me for a for a piece of paper so he could write while Lance was typing.
As expected, when Lance got bored with the computer, Troy jumped in front of it and asked if he could type his name too. I said "yes", expecting him to attack the keyboard and type all sorts of gibberish.
Instead, Troy started by saying "L...", looking at the letters with utmost concentration. I could see he was looking for the letter "L", so I pointed it out to him, and he hesitantly clicked on the key.
And then I said "O", and I was surprised at how quickly he located the letter. I resolved to let him find the next letters himself. He had a harder time finding "R", until I told him it was "right beside the E", and he located it immediately.
Of course, since "E" comes after "R" in Lorenzo, it didn't take him long to type that in as well. He had a little bit of a problem with the letter "N" (Lance had to come to his rescue for that one), but I could see he was gaining confidence.
After that, it was smooth sailing. Troy didn't have a hard time finding "Z" at all, and that last "O" was a breeze.
I looked at the perfect "Lorenzo" staring back at me from my monitor, and I couldn't help but be proud of my sweet little boy. Indeed, apart from demonstrating letter recognition, this little exercise also showcased admirable patience for a three-year-old, whose focus and concentration enabled him to single out individual letters from a busy keyboard in order to type them out.
And then I decided to go for broke. I asked Troy if he wanted to type in his last name too. My son was happy to take on the challenge. I dictated the first letter of "Sereno" to him, wondering if he would have a hard time with "S".
He found it in no time flat.
The rest of the name wasn't difficult for Troy, since he had already encountered the other letters while typing "LORENZO". I continued to spell our last name for him and sure enough, he was finding the letters faster the second time around.
You could see my son beaming upon seeing his name "LORENZO SERENO" boldly emblazoned on the computer screen. Troy was so proud of himself. I wasn't far from turning somersaults myself.
It's amazing how much knowledge a child can absorb in his day-to-day activities. They are perfect little sponges. And it is up to US to provide the right environment.
And if you are a mother of three, all of them five and under? Believe me...
Elmo is YOUR best friend.
THE WATER BOYS
Lance and Troy insisted on watering the plants today.
Oh, it was a messy affair and they were dripping all over my vestibule, but their hearts were in the right place.
I have automatic sprinklers in my front yard, so I don't really have to worry about my grass dying out. I also have a tightly wound hose perched neatly on my front porch column, but I had an over-active imagination as a child and I would sometimes dream of long garden hoses turning into squirming green snakes. I never trusted them since.
So there I was, standing in front of my house with an oversized pitcher of water, filling my boys' watering pots and watching them drizzle the flowers.
Lance saw a snail and asked me if he could crack its shell. I was quite disturbed at this uncharacteristic show of cruelty, until he told me he didn't like snails because they destroyed our plants.
I explained to him that snails were living things and they had to eat too. My son still looked doubtful, but he decided to leave the poor snail alone.
It didn't take long before Troy came running excitedly towards us. He was having the time of his life watering a small bush at the edge of our lawn, and he needed another refill.
"Mom, I need more water..." and then I heard a CRACK!
That wretched little snail didn't stand a chance.
Pretty soon, we could hear Reanna fussing inside. I looked at my watch. It was time for her lunch. I emptied the contents of my pitcher into my boys' pots, telling them to choose one last plant to water. Lance headed for my CALLA LILLIES while Troy chose big, setting his sight on the lone tree in my front yard. He emptied all his water on the tree trunk and stood back to admire his work.
There was something strangely familiar about that water mark, which went up to Troy's waist-level.
And then it hit me. Yup. I've seen that mark before, except sometimes Spot the Pit Bull would miss and spray a patch of dandelions instead. Once again, art imitates nature.
The crying inside the house intensifies. My litle girl will not be denied.
I rounded up my two boys and told them to go back in though the garage so they don't track mud into the house. They reluctantly turned in their pots and met me at my laundry room. I couldn't handle seeing their dejected little faces so I promised them they could water the plants again later that afternoon, but only if they ate well.
Lance and Troy beamed and headed straight for their snack table. Soon they were eating their lunch with great relish, and making a pretty good show of it.
I may not be MRS. GREEN THUMBS but there's hope for my boys yet.
(PLUGGING: "Day 3: Christmas in the Kingdom", the latest installment in my "ROYAL HOLIDAY" series at 87 GENTLE STREET.)
LOLO'S GIRL
It's my Daddy's birthday today.
He would've turned 65, had he not been taken from us so suddenly five years ago, just five months shy of his sixtieth birthday.
Yet, strangely, someone else has occupied my mind lately. Someone who's passing predated my father's by ten years.
His name and title was Atty. Manuel L. Gaerlan, but he was simply Lolo Maning to me, my Mom's Daddy. He passed away sixteen years ago, on March 1, 1989. He was 78 years old.
My Lolo was a man of uncommon kindness and grace. He came from a time when men were still courtly and women were still ladies.
Thanks to my new DVD of "The Notebook", which I watched this weekend, (emerging red-eyed from seeing it two nights in a row), I could picture my Lolo as he was in his prime: a tall, dashing, handsome young attorney who won his share of hearts with the beautiful young ladies of the time.
I was also reminded of how he was at the end, when Parkinson's Disease denied him all recollection of his family. It still pains me to remember how he was during those last months, knowing he didn't recognize me. I was his "ihang", his first grandchild. Out of all his apos, he should've remembered ME the most. But during those last days, we were all equals.
I tried to change this by giving him a framed photograph of the two of us, on what was to be his last Christmas. It was a candid shot of me when I was four or five, sitting on his lap. He was tickling me and I was laughing out, flashing my bungal smile at the camera.
He opened this present in front of me and beamed, his smile not quite reaching is eyes. I told him it was a picture of us when I was younger, placing it on his nightstand. And then I told him I loved him.
Lolo Maning was a stable presence in my life when I was growing up. He became my surrogate father after my parents split up and my Mom went to work on her PhD at the University of Hawaii.
He liked to freak out his grandchildren by catching giant bullfrogs at my grandmother's garden and bringing them into the house, their long legs thrashing. He called my Lola "sweetheart" and "darling" and was a whiz at repairing her underwear, changing garters in less than five minutes using the trusty old Singer upstairs. At three o'clock every afternoon, he would come down for a snack, usually a sandwich and a cup of Nescafe or Blend 45, inviting us to join with him with a friendly "Cafe tayo?"
Late in the evenings, he would come down to check if all the doors were locked. He used to catch me, still awake, sometimes doing my homework, sometimes listening to the radio, but most of the time just making telebabad with my boyriend. Sometimes he would chide me for being on the phone too long, but most of the time, he wouldn't say anything, which I appreciated. He was cool that way.
Once during the holiday season, he came down to find me still awake, wrapping Christmas presents. He went back upstairs and returned with a men's wallet, still in its box, asking if I could add it to the batch. It was for the Exchange Gifts at the annual Christmas pary of the BIR (the Bureau of Internal Revenue, the Philippine version of the IRS, where he worked until his retirement). My Lolo faithfully went every year, looking forward to these annual reunions with his former colleagues.
I wrapped Lolo's present extra nicely and gave it to him, blushing when he praised my work. And then I went down to finish the rest of my gifts. A few days later, Lolo Maning returned from his Christmas party looking for me. He held a gaily-wrapped parcel in his hand, telling me, "Heto yung nabunot ko sa Exchange Gifts. Buksan mo na!" He and I huddled together smiling while I excitedly opened his present. I don't even remember what it was off-hand, but it was a moment that we shared alone together, and I will always treasure it.
Soon after, I started working as a radio newscaster for NU-107 FM in Makati. Since I was busy juggling both job and school, shuttling back and forth between UP Diliman and Makati, I didn't get to spend as much time with my Lolo. His health started failing around this time, after he had an operation to take a pin out of his leg. He never recovered from it, living in constant pain until he developed what was later diagnosed to be Parkinson's Disease.
It was painful to see his condition deteriorate. At the beginning, I would still see him walking in the morning for exercise. Eventually he became too weak for that. But he would still answer the phone and come looking for me if the call was mine.
When I started hearing about his memory loss, I made it a point to go to his room to see him more often. It was difficult and painful to have to ask him if he remembered me, and he seemed taken aback and quite offended at this, so I resolved never to ask him again. The part of me that was in denial was easily appeased by this show of spirit. Unfortunately, by the time I saw him next, he had withrawn farther into his own little world and there was no denying it. We were losing him.
He was eventually taken in his sleep, while confined at the Lung Center. It was ironic that my grandfather, who had never smoked a cigarette in his life, succumbed to emphysema. I had a few moments alone with him before he was loaded on to the hearse. I knew it would be the last time I could hold him so I hugged him, there in the hospital morgue, feeling his lifeless body, kissing his cold cheek. And then I told him I loved him one last time.
Even though his passing was already expected, I still wasn't ready for goodbye. I remember desperately looking for a piece of scotch tape and running it across the top of his head, collecting a few white hairs before he was wheeled out. It may sound morbid now, but I wanted something tangible from him. Something to remind me that he was still there, and would always BE there for me.
Today, the scotch tape is gone, but Lolo Maning remains with me still, in my heart and in my memories, sometimes in my dreams...
Just like my Daddy, whose birthday it was TODAY.
(PLUGGING: "Day 3: Christmas in the Kingdom", the latest in my "ROYAL HOLIDAY" series at 87 GENTLE STREET.)
SHANGHAI SURPRISE
Lumpia is one of life's little ironies.
At least for me. See, I love eating lumpia, but I dare not make it.
This is because lumpia is a deep-fried food and the whole process of deep-frying terrifies me. Somewhere buried within my psyche is the deep-seated fear of being disfigured in a freak deep-frying accident.
I have managed to avoid deep-frying all my adult life. I rationalized this by using cholesterol as a convenient excuse. Indeed, I cannot imagine myself pouring a whole jugful of oil into a single cooking pan without developing a nervous tic.
And then there's the business of heating the oil up to boiling point. This would be my cue to excuse myself and flee to the next county.
I admit I am a coward. I jump uncomfortably at the tiniest sizzle and startle nervously at the smallest spatter. I marvel at people who courageously deep-fry their food, dropping perfectly breaded pieces of meat in scalding oil, their hands perched oh-so-casually millimeters above the bubbling liquid.
But I knew I had to face my fear sooner or later. And sure enough, the perfect opportunity came when my mother-in-law prepared a monster batch of lumpia, both regular and shanghai, which she sent to all her daughters-in-law in two neat, ready-to-cook packets.
And so the hour of reckoning came. I readied my smallest saucepan, knowing it wouldn't take as much oil to fill it up. This helped marvelously in the tic department. I was off to a good start.
Then I turned the heat to medium and let the pan languish on the stove until the oil was hot enough. The first batch that went in was the smaller shanghai. I figured the kids would prefer these over the regular ones since they could eat it with ketchup. My kids love ANYTHING that goes with ketchup.
My initial foray into deep-frying turned out beautifully. My lumpiang shanghai looked just like the ones you would see in a cook book: picture-perfect in a uniform shade of golden-brown. I served the little lumpias to their diminutive counterparts, who consumed them with gusto, stopping every so often to ask for more rice and refills of ketchup.
Pretty soon, my boys were full. I gave them their bedtime bath and put them to sleep. Lance had a minimum day in school the next day, which meant he had to get up earlier than usual.
I tackled the rest of the lumpia later that evening. Unfortunately, the regular ones didn't turn out as nice-looking as their smaller Chinese counterparts. I suspect it had something to do with the temperature of the oil. Rookie mistake. Noted.
Pretty soon, my husband was home, tired and hungry. He tucked into the lumpia, eating more of the regular ones, telling me he was leaving the shanghai for the two boys to eat tomorrow.
I served up the rest of the lumpia for breakfast the next day, knowing it had limited shelf life. By the time Lorenzo and Lance were done, all that was left were a few lonely sticks of regular lumpia.
Troy woke up hungry later that morning. I could hear him scampering down the steps while I was nursing Reanna in my bedroom. He must've headed straight for the kitchen, hoping to find some more lumpiang shanghai. I could imagine his disappointment at seeing just the regular kind, and prepared myself for the sight of his dejected face at my door.
Instead, I heard an excited patter of steps coming back up the stairs. My boy burst into the room, his eyes wide as saucers.
"Mom", he said breathlessly, "the lumpia grew BIGGER!"
(PLUGGING: "Day 3: Christmas in the Kingdom", the latest installment in my "ROYAL HOLIDAY" series at 87 GENTLE STREET.)
ODE TO SPRING
The calla lily must be the hardiest plant in the planet.
The specimen in this picture is located at the front of my house. Since we moved here in 2001, I have never watered it. I wouldn't even dare step close, since it seems to attract all the eligible snails in and around Stanislaus County. Yet every year, at around this time, it starts blooming virginal white.
Yes, spring is in the air. My plant is but one of many harbingers of the season, showing up uninvited at the end of winter's party. Yet everywhere else in the Northern Hemisphere, these gate-crashers are welcomed warmly and with great fanfare.
Like in New York, for instance, where my winter-weary STEPFATHER wrote THIS with great anticipation:
YELLOW!
by Ira Wollen
Don't let the snow you see falling
mislead you into imagining
that everythng is the same as it was yesterday,
It is not.
The snow is miserly,
and will not leave
even a slight patch of white promise
To match an idle minute of nostalgia
But, look! A clandestine army approaches
With not a single sound,
and if you take a walk with me
Just 'round the rise,
Where one tree
challenges the swirl of the wind,
We will see the first signs
of imminent, inescapable color,
Yellow!
Worry not, rejoice rather
that soon the world of Drab
Will have been overwhelmed by a vast armada,
commanding that we surrender
Frost reddened eyes to the
Brightest of the primaries, yellow!
Forsythia have conquered!
and joining to watch the expanding view,
we need not feel threatened, nor bow to restraint,
Instead, eyes and hearts coming together,
We dance to the yellow of Springtime taint,
The beginning of life anew.
If you liked this poem, please let Ira know by visiting his site, "Ira's Poetry" at http://irawollen.blogspot.com. I'm sure he'll be happy to hear from you.
(PLUGGING: "Sunbeams for Lance", Ira's latest poem at IRA'S POETRY, and "Day 3: Christmas in the Kingdom", the latest in my "ROYAL HOLIDAY" series at 87 GENTLE STREET. Yup. Another update.)
(Oops!)
