OF TRAINS AND TIFFANY WATCHES

Some new additions to our Christmas tree. Aside from my new house ornament, I added a little capiz jeepney Lorenzo and I got in Corregidor, which I tied with dental floss and voila! instant ornament! I also decided to twirl some plaid wire-edged ribbon around the branches, which meant I had to take all the ornaments down again to rearrange them around the ribbon, but I didn't mind. Lance helped, by handing the ornaments to me while I was perched up on the ladder, and Troy livened things up a bit by climbing on the rungs under me when I wasn't looking.

We also had to do away with the tree skirt this year. Lorenzo gave in to Lance's pleas, and assembled a smaller, albeit longer train set. Now the base of my Christmas tree is surrounded by two train tracks, in two concentric circles. The smaller train was supposed to go to my oldest son, Max, in Toronto, but my babies liked it so much we ended up keeping it. It came with a train station music box which made train noises and played Christmas carols.

There is a good reason why I wanted to send Max, my 9-year-old boy, that train set with the music box. It gets a little convoluted, so stay with me on this. When Max was 2 years old, we celebrated Christmas in the U.S.. We had just moved back to Manila from Europe by the end of 1995, and when I knew we were going to the States for Christmas, I tore out a spread I saw in Elle magazine, featuring watches. A Tiffany & Co. watch had caught my eye, which I thought was a steal at $395. I decided I wanted THAT watch for Christmas.

Our first stop was Beverly Hills, CA, where we stayed for a few days, saying hi to my Auntie Olive and going to Disneyland. Our hotel was right on Rodeo Drive, which was perfect because Tiffany's was just a few short steps away.

So there I was, perusing the glass stands with bright Holly Golightly eyes, when I saw it. The watch of my dreams! To my dismay, however, the price tag read $1195. I pulled the folded Elle page (stolen from Rever salon) out of my purse, and sure enough, it was the same watch in the picture, advertised for $800 cheaper.

Eagerly clutching my ammo, I asked to see the watch, brandishing the ad when it was time to haggle for the price. I needn't have bothered. First of all, I should've remembered I was at Tiffany and Co., not some remote Arabian souk, and haggling was not to be tolerated in these august halls. Secondly, I was coolly informed by the perfectly turned out manager that they ran an erratum on the following month's issue of Elle, so my claims of false advertisement had no basis.

But Tiffany's did not know the extent of my resolve. Tiffany's did not know that the next stop on my itinerary was Singer Island in Florida, which was just a stone's throw away from Tiffany and Co. in Palm Beach. With a determined look in my face, I marched into the Worth Avenue landmark, and found the most benevolent looking salesperson in the building.

I still remember him: quiet, glasses, sandy brown hair, mustache, in his mid-40's. I asked him if I could see the watch, which, like its Beverly Hills twin, also had $1195 discreetly printed on its tag. Max, who had already witnessed a similar scene a few days earlier, sensed another haggling session in the horizon, and proceeded to howl in protest. My ex-husband took him to the center of the store, where there was a miniature train set going around a lilliputian town, with little doll houses and a matching train station. This entertained my son for a few minutes, while I showed the man the Elle spread and insisted that they give me the watch for $395.

Without missing a beat, he said he'd see what he could do, and went to the back of the store.

Max, in the meantime was working his two-year-old charm around Tiffany's, darting in and out of stands, and generally driving my ex-husband crazy. The salesman reappeared, saying he couldn't find the manager, and, hoping to rope my ex into the negotiations, handed Max the train station to appease him.

He told us that he couldn't honor the magazine price because it was obviously a mistake. Sensing that the man did not know about the erratum, my ex and I went in for the kill: I acted all disappoined (since threats and indignance did not work in Beverly Hills) and my ex pointedly suggested that I do a story about Tiffany's when we get back home, explaining to the salesman that I was a "news personality" in Asia, and that it wasn't Tiffany's fault, but people should be informed, et cetera, et cetera.

This time, the ruse worked. Nonplussed, the poor man stammered that he would again look for his manager, and disappeared from sight. He surfaced, this time with the manager, who took one look at the ad and told us they would honor the price. She made small talk with us while the salesman boxed my watch with a forced smile, asking me about TV news, and "did I do local?", to which my ex replied, "no, National. She's seen all over the Philippines". This seemed to impress the manager, who obviously did not know much about Philippine viewing markets.

We fairly scampered out of that store with my treasure neatly giftwrapped and tucked into the famous aqua colored shopping bag, with "Tiffany and Co." emblazoned in front. We had beaten the establishment! We were on top of the world!

Our celebration was cut short by the opening strains of "Jingle Bells". In our excitement, we didn't realize that Max still had the train station music box! The salesman, who had already been finessed out of his commission, was not about to let us get away with another freebie. He ran out of the store just as we were about to walk in, and received the music box with a resigned smile. Max, on the other hand, was not about to give up his treasure so easily. He protested and cried all throughout lunch, while we promised him we would get him another music box.

That train station music box seems to hold sway over toddlers, much like the Pied Piper's pipe attracts rodents. I finally found one last year in my neighborhood Walgreens and bought it, hoping to send it to Max. He was still eight at the time, an age where it was still okay to play with trains.

In order to appease Lance, who was then the reigning 2-year-old in my life, I bought another, bigger train set. I explained to Lance that the bigger train was his, and the smaller one was for his Kuya Max. He seemed okay with it at the time. My husband, Lorenzo, set up his train under the tree, and he was fascinated by its forward and backward motion and working whistle. Contentment reigned, and all was well in the Sereno household.

And then someone leaned against Max's wrapped present in front of the fireplace, and the opening strains of "Jingle Bells" came on. The light turned on in Lance's 2-year-old eyes, and he refused to let that giftwrapped present out of his sight, figuring out, in just under a minute, where the buttons were located, and pressing them again and again to hear that wonderful music.

When Christmas was over, I kept Max's train box high up in my closet, with the intention of sending it EARLY this year, way before Lance gets into the holiday spirit. My resolve would be unbroken. I would be strong this time.

But Lance had another ace up his sleeve, and I, of all people, should've known he was about to up the ante. This year, he spied the train box up in my closet EARLY. And this year, he had a formidable ally working on his side: his baby brother, Troy. I was no match against Lance's sharp mind and Troy's large, liquid eyes. Between them, they managed to charm Mommy to take the train set down from the closet, Lance generously giving Troy first dibs on the music box.

I retreated to my computer, where I feverishly searched for something else to send Max. I found a miniature Hogwarts Express train set, complete with Platform 9 3/4, on sale for just under $70. With handling and shipping to Canada, everything came up to about $100, which is still a steal considering they sell them in the mall for $130 before taxes. This was the perfect present for Max, who is a Harry Potter fanatic.

I called up my son and honestly told him about the train with the music box, and the story behind it, but he didn't seem to mind. He was too busy telling me the plot of the second Harry Potter movie, where Harry missed the Hogwart's Express and had to fly a car to go to school. He seemed excited over his present, asking if the train really worked. I told him it did, and he said he would keep it in his room.

It's funny how things that we considered important once diminish in time. That train station music box, once tearfully surrendered, was now being traded in. I didn't mind quite as much, Lance and Troy being its worthy beneficiaries. I guess it was the memory that I was so reluctant to let go of. The memory of that music box, and how it so entranced Max.

But then I realized that memories are mine to keep, and now I actually have this music box. Not just a memory, but concrete and tangible. I can see Lance and Troy fight over it, hear its music and train sounds, even feel it in my hands as I arrange it in its new place of honor on my mantel, where it will work its holiday magic over my children and grandchildren. A part of our family's tradition which traces its roots long ago, to that day in Palm Beach, where it was loved by another little boy whom I loved with all my heart.

And all because of a watch, a precious Tiffany watch which now lies forgotten in my jewelry case, the battery dead. Just like the marriage which once was. But time goes on, and wounds heal. It's a good thing that little boys are made to be resilient, surviving divorce and broken dreams. It's amazing to discover such strength and toughness encased within such a small package.

Just like my new Rolex.