Here we go again.
Another year's ending always brings people much reflection. I told myself I wouldn't do it this year and just let it all pass without much thought. But the thing about thoughts is that they are partly, if not mostly, unconscious so that before you realize it, you're thinking away without a moment's hesitation. And the tricky thing about thoughts is that when you tell yourself not to think about pink, flying elephants, for example, it becomes impossible because you've already done it.
Anyway, I'm not about to write New Year’s resolutions and other such stuff. I never get any of them done anyway so I've given up on resolutions a long time ago.
But heartbreaks... ah!
Now there's something we never get enough of. The good kind and the bad that comes with it.
Last year Promise grew up too fast for me. It's not something I could control, nor would I want to. But there it is, heart-breaking none the less, though I wouldn't have it any other way. This time last year she was solely dependent on my arms for transportation. Now she's off pretending to have a baby of her own when she sings her dolls to sleep. Now she's running off to play with her cousins all by herself and I'm becoming more and more paranoid every day.
We went home to Roxas City for the holidays and I always feel nostalgic when I'm at my parents’ house. But this time, the horror that crept into my throat when I remembered the games my brothers and I used to play in that house! We used to take turns sitting on a chalk board and pushed each other down a flight of stairs. Fourteen steps (because Grandpa said 13 was unlucky) that led from the living room to the upstairs bedrooms. We strategically made a wall of pillows down below and I don't remember ever being scared. I could only remember a thrilling excitement that came from the strong sense of confidence that I have imbued in my brothers, who were, unfortunately, as blissfully deluded as I was. That childhood delusion that nothing bad could ever happen in a game. And there I was, 30 years old and horror struck at the mere thought that my own daughter might be doing that sooner than I'd realize and I’d be a complete hypocrite if I say no.
I have developed this reflex to say "It's okay, love. Pick yourself up," every time she falls on her knees, just to show her that she shouldn't be scared of falling every now and then. But the honest to goodness truth of the matter is that every time she hurts herself, my hearts stops. And it gets stuck in my throat until she actually manages to get up, with or without my help.
There's also this thing about allergies. I know my lips always begin to itch after my third piece of shrimp and don't even get me started on crabs. But nothing can stop me from driving to the nearest seafood stall every time I visit my hometown. Can you imagine not having spicy crabs or shrimp sautéed in garlic and butter when you're in the Sea Food Capital of the Philippines? It's just impossible. I just tell myself that it's nothing a dose of loratadine can't remedy. Or an injection of diphenhydramine for worst-case scenarios.
But Promise is a completely different story. She eats generally all kinds of food now. Well, she chews them and then spits most of them back out. I'm never quite sure how much she actually swallows. But she's just the right weight for her age and she's rarely sick, so that's pretty much reassuring for me. But all the same, I've never introduced her to shrimp or crabs or shellfish for deadly fear that she might swell up and just can't tell me yet. The idea was to introduce different kinds of food one at a time so that in case of a reaction I'd know which kind it was.
But can you imagine living in the Seafood Capital of the Philippines and not have seafood in the dining table? And can you imagine having brothers who enjoy experimenting with their nieces and nephews, mostly delighting on the babies' facial expressions when there's a new taste in their mouths?
Yes.
That is the kind of household I grew up in.
SO there I was scientifically explaining why my baby SHOULD NOT have shrimp or crabs until she has developed the ability to tell me when she can't anymore breathe, and there they were, already feeding her morsels of said food.
And there was Promise blissfully unaware of the danger she was in, treating the shrimp in much the same way she treated hot dogs (chewing and then spitting them out, I mean).
And there was I, hopelessly paranoid and overreacting.
Needless to say, I now know that she was NOT allergic to said food.
After some thought, I do admit, that had not the subject of said experiment been my daughter, I would have been spearheading same experiment on someone else's baby. :P See? Nothing a dose of antihistamines could not remedy, I would say.
But, do understand the point I'm driving at. I'm saying goodbye to my careless, tactless self to make room for my cautious, careful mother self. Last year has made a hypochondriac of me when it comes to my daughter. Something I should carefully check if I want her to have the adventurous childhood that I did.
Sliding down a flight of stairs on an old chalkboard is still, ever after, out of the question.
The beautiful thing about childhood, though, is that no amount of maternal over- protectiveness could stop new experiences from being just that: new experiences. Because then, almost everything is for a child. And Promise had no lack of new experiences, I made sure of it.
This year, she rode a horse in Batangas...
... and a carabao in Balasan.
I took her swimming as often as I could dare.
She trod on grass for the first time in UP Diliman...
And toddled across a carpet of fire-blossoms...
And the wonder in her eyes was unforgettable for me.
She walked on sand in Baybay and complained about them sticking to her toes.
She's held a baby chicken in her palm...
and touched the back of Simoune's ear, hesitantly but bravely.
I already told you about ice cream and how every childhood must have ice cream in it.
We took her trick-or- treating...
And carousel riding...
And even to Isaw Food trips (she's not allowed isaw ...but she's allowed cookies and juice!)
I read to her as often as I can...
...hoping and praying that she would learn the value of books and discover for herself that a great novel is whole new kind of experience by itself.
So in a way, I'm saying goodbye to the Me who measures time by the movement of the clock hands to give room for the Me who weighs the value of time by the milestones.
At home, when I'm with the people I cherish, time is the measure between smiles...
Or milk bottles...
Or bath times...
Or coloring activities...
Or pretend tea parties...
Or mini musical concerts.
Minutes and seconds can’t possibly stick to my memory better than the image of Christopher strumming his guitar and Promise looking up to him intently.
Then there’s the Me who is afraid of the labels. I think last year, I said goodbye to her too, slowly, if ever. I was perpetually afraid of bringing shame or disappointment to my family in the matter of my choices. Had I been less a coward, I would have stayed at home and had my baby there in the comfort and security that home brings. I would have trusted in my parents’ love and acceptance. Instead I went ahead and got myself into residency training because I was ashamed of having got myself pregnant without a plan, and more importantly, without a wedding ring. I was determined to stand on my own two feet and prove to myself, more than to anyone else, that I can be self-sufficient. That I can raise a child. That I can pull my act together. That I can stand up for my choices.
I’m glad I'm not alone in this.
But even if Christopher had made other choices, I would have been too stubborn to turn back.
On the matter of the wedding ring, my heart aches the most. Not for myself but for the people who ask it of me. Of us. And for my baby who will one day ask. There are just some things that we have to teach ourselves to accept every day. And some things that are not mine to remedy. And some stories that are mine to keep but not to tell. At least not yet. I pray so deeply that those who give loving counsel never grow tired of doing so. And that they would never think for a moment that their guidance fall on deaf ears. Each reminder is taken deeply to heart and the only reason why I keep diverting from the topic is because I fall short of courage to disappoint. All I ask is to let things unfold in their own time. All I ask is for the people I love to accept each other despite everything. We don’t really choose the people we love, do we? Our parents. Our siblings. Even our true friends are of the unlikely material we thought we wanted in friends. Even Promise was not a choice. She was just a really unexpected surprise I fell deeply, deeply in love with. I even thought her timing was really, really off, but I could not have been more wrong.
On the matter of the wedding ring, my heart aches the most. But I’m saying goodbye to the Me who is afraid of the ache. I know and understand my choices and their consequences, and I have stood up to my decisions with all that I’ve got.
Christopher and Promise.
Yeah, I think they're a really excellent choice.
:)
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