Unexpected Gifts

Life is going on the way it does. Work. Kids. Projects. Family. Life. It's up and downing, and sometimes, these days anyway, it seems like there's a bit more downing than upping. But thank goodness, I keep lucking into things to feel grateful for and happy about, even in the shadows that have been cast. There are small seemingly accidental but infinitely precious gifts that have been sprinkled in good measure into my everyday. Here are just a few that are currently top of mind to my mind, in no particular order.

I am grateful and happy about...

...the children growing up a little. Some parents tend to get emotional when their children make a milestone - oh no, he's growing up, it's all going too fast. I'm not like that. And when it comes to C, any time I see even a little bit of growing up, I want to sing out loud. C is waking up easily - there are no more fights in the morning. I no longer need to wrestle him out of bed. When I come back from my walk, he's sitting at the breakfast table, ready to go. Oh we still have our moments. But for these mornings of peace and loving goodwill, I am almost tearfully grateful.

...discovering Kundalini yoga. It is refreshing and soul connecting and just a wonderful release. I highly recommend it.

...a new writing project to be shared with T. Once there were two writers who fell in love in the day to day of working together. Then, although they came together, they began doing their own separate, different things. Well, now, they have been given an exciting opportunity to collaborate together and create something that is, hopefully, worthwhile. Whatever happens, I am certain it will be good fun and only the beginning of more.

...the blossoms on the trees. Due to its climate, spring in the conventional sense does not really come to Singapore. But somewhere in the second or third week of February, a springing of a kind does take place. The trees, in seemingly mad joy, flower. On my mornings out, my heart lifts at the sight of rosy pinks and creamy whites, warm orange corollas, yellow petals and crimson blooms. They're dusted all over the tops of trees and thick beneath, along every branch, overflowing enough to cascade onto the pavement beneath my running feet. And as I pass, striding across a carpet of these brightly colored blossoms, I feel a lilt of happiness. I am distracted for more than moments from whatever it is I'm mulling over, and I am moved to thank the good Lord for the majesty and the eloquence of his poetry that needs no words.

A boy of 10

I just realized that C was born in the first hour of February 8, 10 years ago. I was an old hand at labor then. I knew what to expect. The contractions came, dull aches but surprisingly regular after dinner, around seven. I told T, we have time. We put in a movie with Julia Roberts and Susan Sarandon and Ed Harris. I took a shower and used the toilet, determined not to have to "go" in the hospital. At 11pm, I said, "Let's go." And we drove to Cardinal Santos Hospital.

At the hospital, people greeted me - remembering me from the year before. "Pamangkin ni Dr. A."
In the lamaze room, CNN was playing. I settled on the bed to watch. My Uncle and my obstetrician showed up.
"Everything ok?" he asked.

"Everything's great."

Feeling a little bit uncomfortable, I stood to walk around, all the while watching the TV. On my second stroll around the room, my water bag broke with a little click followed by a whoosh of hot fluid all over my legs. And then I felt C bearing down.

"Ok, let's get ready,'' my uncle said. "Tell me when you want to push, and I'll..."

"Tito, I want to push now!" I said, hoisting myself back on the lamaze bed.

And in practically no time, C was out in blub blub blubbidy blup...

By one am, we were back in the room and I was nursing him...and absolutely ravenous.

We ordered pizza.

Sometimes you just don't know what to say

C has always been interested in Jose Rizal. He has a Jose Rizal T-shirt. He did a report on Jose Rizal for his third grade teacher. He is constantly asking us whether we are "related" to Jose Rizal. Or whether his Lolo "knew" Jose Rizal. It must be some kind of hero worship.

Last Friday, I picked him up from Tae Kwon Do, and he says,

"Mommy, Jose Rizal was called Pepe, right?"

"Right. That was his nickname."

"Why?"

"Because Pepe is short for Jose."

"I think," My son says, "I want you to call me Pepe."

"Really? Not Chewie? Not Choochie? Not Coby Wan Kenobi?"

"No, I want to be called what Joes Rizal was called..."

[beat]

"...except..." he continues after some thought.

"Except what?"

"Except pepe means vagina in Tagalog, right?"

[beat]

"Well, kinda."

"Why did Jose Rizal want to be called vagina?"

"I don't think he did."

[beat]

"On second thought, I don't think I want to be called Pepe."