FILIPINO FOOT-IN-MOUTH DISEASE
People can be so insensitive these days. Have you ever woken up wondering if you were the only person in this world who was brought up properly by your parents? Filipinos, in particular, are guilty of verbal faux pas which would make the average American W.A.S.P. cringe. To hear some of our kababayans talk, you would think they were born natural contortionists, able to put their feet in their mouths at the most inopportune moments.
When Americans greet each other, they usually say, "How are you?" or "How's it going?" Latinos would similarly say, "Como estas?" The usual Chinese greeting, I hear, is somehow geared to the stomach, a Chinese version of "Have you eaten yet?" while Aussies hail everyone with a friendly "G'day!". However, these greetings seem hopelessly harmless and tame next to the Filipino's usual mode of salutation, a snide, almost too heartily spoken "Tumataba ka 'ata!", which mercilessly translates to "Are you getting fatter?"
I sometimes wonder if a mean streak runs in our race. Just because I had the misfortune to cross paths with you once before, do you now think you have the God-given right to verbally mince me to pieces? These very same people would be taken aback if I countered with "Excuse me, but aren't we getting a little familiar here? I mean, I only know you from the checkout counter at the Oriental store!" And THEN they call you mataray!
I remember this one incident at Channel 9. Lorenzo was helping me out of the car, as I was already blissfully pregnant with our first son, Lance. I stepped out of my Cefiro to the malevolent stare of a former Binibining Pilipinas International. This lady was icily beautiful with a wispy, wafer-thin figure. She took one look at my burgeoning belly and bitchily asked, "tumataba ka?" I was so close to quoting a line from "Romy and Michele's High School Reunion", but instead of saying "I'm pregnant, you half-wit!", I just flashed her with a saccharine smile, cooing "buntis ako, hindi mo alam?"
Lorenzo and this girl were the lead ramp models in Pitoy Moreno's series of fashion shows in the U.S.. (To those of you who haven't met him, my husband is drop-dead gorgeous, with a Greek god's body to boot!) I also know for a fact that she tried propositioning him on the flight from Washington DC to New York, separating him from the rest of the pack and innocently confiding that "sometimes she felt like cheating on her boyfriend". Her manipulative machinations didn't work, however, to her utter humiliation. Instead, Lorenzo rushed to meet me in Miami right after their show in New York, meeting up with them again five days later in time for their San Francisco show. I can still remember him showing up at the door of my hotel room with six dozen roses, a surprise for my birthday. Sorry girl, talo ang inis!
And then there was my notorious second meeting with Julio Diaz, one-time bold actor turned "respectable" thespian. I first met Julio at a Metrobank commercial shoot, where he was assistant director and Lorenzo played the lead. I still remember what I was wearing at the time, a sleek black mini-skirted Cache scuba suit which was once featured on Vogue. At the time I still had the whistlebait figure to show it off to advantage, borne of an addiction to ballroom dancing coupled with discreet lipo sessions with my friend, Vicky Belo. Lorenzo introduced me to Julio, who was quite polite and played the perfect gentleman.
Fast forward a year and a half, when Julio and I crossed paths the second time around. Lorenzo and Julio were in the same cast, filming Nick de Ocampo's movie, "Pedrong Palad" in Batangas. Again, I was pregnant with Lance, and boy, what a difference those few extra pounds made in Mr. Diaz's demeanor! The guy met me with a contemptible leer which I thought was uncomfortably a tad too "familiar". Instead of "Hi" or "Kumusta na?", the first words out of his mouth were "Anong nangyari sa 'yo?". I told him I was pregnant, pointing out the obvious, but that wasn't enough to shut him up. He tenaciously pursued his line of questioning like a rabid ferret, his next words being, "Sayang 'yung katawan mo noon ano?"
I did my best to stay away from him for the duration of the shoot, but I couldn't escape from him forever. Later that week, during a get-together with fellow cast members, Julio told Lorenzo "Ikaw talaga, sinira mo ang katawan nito!", pointing to me in front of Jaclyn Jose, Joonie Gamboa, Chin-Chin Guttierrez and Gerald Madrid, all of them obviously mortified at the beer-induced outburst. Clearly this man was not familiar with the finer points of delicadeza. Again, typically Pinoy.
And finally, there are friends and family members, who really should know better. My son, Lance, inherited his Dad's rosy moreno hue. His brother Troy, on the other hand, is the exact opposite, extremely fair-skinned and brown-haired. He looks just like my oldest son, Max, who is half-Caucasian. At a baptism last year, a fellow guest took one look at Troy's Bobbsie twin curls and blurted out, "bakit mestizo ang anak n'yo?" I wanted to say "Excuse me, ano'ng tingin mo sa 'kin, nognog?", but I just bit my tongue. I also happen to be quite fair-skinned, and my husband is often mistaken to be Mexican, Italian or Hawaiian, depending on what he's wearing. Is it such a stretch of the imagination to see us bear a fair-haired, lily-white baby?
It isn't too bad now, after Troy took full advantage of our pool last summer. But even just recently, Anna (my sister-in-law, no less) asked Lorenzo and me, "Bakit brown ang buhok ni Troy, hindi naman brown ang buhok ninyo?" Now Anna is a very nice person, and little transgressions of tact like this come few and far between, so it was easy to be forgiving. I just patiently pointed out that when I was Troy's age, I also had brown curls. Once again I wished I had brought my baby book back with me when I moved here from the Philippines, with my one remaining brown curl which my Mom religiously kept since I was a baby.
All this insensitivity really shouldn't get to me. After all, wasn't I the one who said "talo ang inis?" But really, it makes you wonder if these people see something malicious in the situation. I sometimes think they look at my husband in sympathy, thinking "sorry boss, mukhang nasalisihan ka 'ata!", never mind if Troy's eyes are singkit and pure Sereno.
But with validation comes vindication. Kuya Simon and Ate Baby came back from San Diego tonight, with Ate Baby's Mom in tow. When Nanay saw Troy for the first time, her very first words were a delighted "ay, si Chivas!". Sebastian (Chivas) is my nephew, Simon and Baby's second son. According to his lola, Troy looks exactly like Chivas did when he was the same age, brown curls and all. This came as no surprise to me, since Chivas' Mom, Ate Baby, gets the lion's share of the family's Chinese and Vietnamese jokes when I'm not around.
With this information in my arsenal, I have nothing else to fear. Let them come to me with pointed questions about Troy's genealogy. I can now refer to my nephew with impunity, authoritatively stating, "ganyan din ang mukha ni Chivas nung bata!". And then it would be MY turn to say, "Bakit cute ang anak n'yo eh pangit naman kayo?"
Remember, "talo ang inis!"
Thursday, December 25, 2003
NOCHE BUENA MANO
It's past 2 PM on Christmas Day, and everybody just got out of bed.
This may seem strange for some Westerners, but in the Philippines and in most Latin countries, Christmas festivities begin on the night before Christmas. In fact, Christmas Eve was one of those rare occasions when we were allowed to stay up late when we were kids, and we took full advantage, running around the house with our cousins, finally keeling over way into Christmas morning. This, of course, meant we were asleep for the most of Christmas Day, but we’d end up waking in the afternoon and returning to the holiday table for some delicious leftovers.
Many years later and many miles away, nothing much has changed. Remnants of last night's noche buena still inhabit our holiday table: my turbo roast chicken's not-so-neatly picked carcass, some Chinese take-out from Kuya Sever's place of work, a sprinkling of chicken and tuna salad filled croissants (courtesy of our local deli), and a lonely apple pie, still untouched in its foil pan. Reigning supreme over the holiday table, my baked ham with all the fixin's: scalloped potatoes, confetti corn medley and green bean casserole.
I opted for ham over turkey this year. Ham is nice and straightforward. It makes for a nice and festive main course straight out of the oven, and is great for sandwiches days after. When the meat is finally picked cleanly off the bone, you can still make a decent Split Pea and Ham Bone Soup as a fitting last hurrah.
And then there are the SERENO STAPLES, always requested for family get-togethers: Ate Baby's Pancit Palabok, Sel's Binagoongang Baboy, Anna's Original Ilocano Sinanglaw, and my Chicken Enchiladas and Leche Flan. Unfortunately, only two of these favorites made it to the ranks this year. Ate Baby's Palabok is missing in action because Kuya Simon celebrated Christmas with his in-laws in San Diego, and Ate Maricel brought a corned beef brisket instead of the usual Binagoongan. I couldn't make my Leche Flan because Lorenzo forgot my mold at work when he brought this year's only holiday flan to his boss. I ended up improvising for dessert, adding a Thomas the Tank Engine cake topper to a standard snowman cake to the kids' delight. I called my creation Thomas' Winter Wonderland. It was a big success. Troy wouldn't let the cake out of his sight.
Today the cake looks forlorn, devoid of its décor. Numerous pockmarks bear testament to Troy’s poking fingers. Just as I thought, the kids lost interest as soon as Thomas was out of the picture.
I whip up a new batch of enchiladas when I spot a newcomer to the table. It seems my next-door neighbor, Marta, sent some of her tamales over. I look around for something to offer her in return. I pass up on the enchiladas, since Marta is Mexican. Luckily, Anna's leftover sinanglaw is bubbling merrily on the stove. I ladle out a generous portion and give it to Marta’s daughters, telling them it’s the Filipino version of menudo. (While menudo in the Philippines is a meat dish made up of beef or pork and liver, Menudo in Mexico is tripe soup.)
My living room is still strewn with bits and pieces of gift-wrap. Every year, it is a Sereno family tradition to collect all the presents and lay them in one huge pile. At the stroke of midnight, a designated uncle would put on the Santa Hat (last night, it was reindeer horns, since the Santa Hat stayed in San Jose), take over the karaoke mic, and pick out a present from the pile, announcing the giver and receiver. This would go on until all the presents were gone or until Santa was hoarse trying to yell above the din, after which designated elves (aka nephews and nieces) were dispatched to do the delivering.
Lance and Troy are dancing with excitement. As in Christmases past, they were allowed to open their presents from the family on Christmas Eve, but Mommy and Daddy’s presents were off limits until Christmas Day and the days after. We only let them open one present a day. This way, they get to play with their new toy the whole day without getting distracted by other, more interesting gifts. I find that they appreciate things more this way.
Last night, they got a preview of what to expect from this year’s batch of goodies when they opened Uncle Simon’s presents: a Thomas the Tank Engine video and a wooden train for each of them. These eclipsed all the other presents in the lot, and effectively ended the party hours after, when they insisted on turning off the karaoke system so that they could watch their Thomas videos. Today, we decided to prolong their viewing pleasure by handing them their first present from Mom and Dad, a Thomas DVD for each. Hopefully, they don’t see through our simple strategy: have them watch Thomas all day so that Mommy and Daddy can catch up on their rest!
One of the first Christmas tree ornaments I bought this year was a Thomas the Tank Engine ornament. This is because I will always remember 2003 as a Thomas the Tank Engine year for my boys. Their love affair with Thomas started when my mother visited us from New York last June. We took her to the California Railroad Museum in Sacramento, where they had an ongoing event called Thomas’ Day Out. Lance and Troy got to ride on Thomas and shake hands with Sir Topham Hat. When we got home, I borrowed all the Thomas videos I could find from the library and the love affair began. Now they have almost all of Thomas’ DVDs, a growing collection of Thomas books, and of course, the trains themselves. Lance and Troy wore Thomas outfits for Troy’s 2nd birthday party, and Troy even wore a Thomas the Tank Engine costume, complete with engineer’s hat, for Halloween.
I glance at the pile of presents still unopened. I recognize the contents by their shapes: some Thomas books, two Take Along Thomas sets (complete with railroad, fences, trees, horses and a clock tower), and six battery-operated trains: Thomas, Henry and Toby for Troy, and Percy, Gordon and James for Lance. Of course, there are other, non-Thomas presents as well, but these were relegated to the bottom of the pile.
Lorenzo and I manage to catch a few precious moments alone, while the first DVD, Troy’s “Cranky Bugs and Other Tales” played. Soon the kids would be bugging us again, asking us to replace the disc with Lance’s new DVD. Whenever they felt like taking a break, they would retire to their new spring horse, courtesy of Auntie Sel. This spring horse was like no other when we saw it at Toys R’ Us: it was huge, hand painted, and definitely heirloom material. It had a nice price tag too: almost $150 after taxes, but thanks to a generous ninang, it was now noisily broadcasting stampede noises all over our home.
We hear a commotion. The familiar voices of our kids squabbling. Soon, Lance runs to us with a partially opened present: “Mooooommm, look what Troy did!!!” It was the Thomas books. Troy follows with a guilty look. Lorenzo and I give up on our sleep, which we now realize is an exercise in futility. Instead, we return to our holiday table and fix ourselves ham sandwiches. Soon the kids would tire of their viewing and request that we read their new books to them. Hopefully, our imaginative reading would somehow lull them to sleep. Then we could tuck them into bed and plug our karaoke mic into the TV.
Who says kids have all the fun?
It's past 2 PM on Christmas Day, and everybody just got out of bed.
This may seem strange for some Westerners, but in the Philippines and in most Latin countries, Christmas festivities begin on the night before Christmas. In fact, Christmas Eve was one of those rare occasions when we were allowed to stay up late when we were kids, and we took full advantage, running around the house with our cousins, finally keeling over way into Christmas morning. This, of course, meant we were asleep for the most of Christmas Day, but we’d end up waking in the afternoon and returning to the holiday table for some delicious leftovers.
Many years later and many miles away, nothing much has changed. Remnants of last night's noche buena still inhabit our holiday table: my turbo roast chicken's not-so-neatly picked carcass, some Chinese take-out from Kuya Sever's place of work, a sprinkling of chicken and tuna salad filled croissants (courtesy of our local deli), and a lonely apple pie, still untouched in its foil pan. Reigning supreme over the holiday table, my baked ham with all the fixin's: scalloped potatoes, confetti corn medley and green bean casserole.
I opted for ham over turkey this year. Ham is nice and straightforward. It makes for a nice and festive main course straight out of the oven, and is great for sandwiches days after. When the meat is finally picked cleanly off the bone, you can still make a decent Split Pea and Ham Bone Soup as a fitting last hurrah.
And then there are the SERENO STAPLES, always requested for family get-togethers: Ate Baby's Pancit Palabok, Sel's Binagoongang Baboy, Anna's Original Ilocano Sinanglaw, and my Chicken Enchiladas and Leche Flan. Unfortunately, only two of these favorites made it to the ranks this year. Ate Baby's Palabok is missing in action because Kuya Simon celebrated Christmas with his in-laws in San Diego, and Ate Maricel brought a corned beef brisket instead of the usual Binagoongan. I couldn't make my Leche Flan because Lorenzo forgot my mold at work when he brought this year's only holiday flan to his boss. I ended up improvising for dessert, adding a Thomas the Tank Engine cake topper to a standard snowman cake to the kids' delight. I called my creation Thomas' Winter Wonderland. It was a big success. Troy wouldn't let the cake out of his sight.
Today the cake looks forlorn, devoid of its décor. Numerous pockmarks bear testament to Troy’s poking fingers. Just as I thought, the kids lost interest as soon as Thomas was out of the picture.
I whip up a new batch of enchiladas when I spot a newcomer to the table. It seems my next-door neighbor, Marta, sent some of her tamales over. I look around for something to offer her in return. I pass up on the enchiladas, since Marta is Mexican. Luckily, Anna's leftover sinanglaw is bubbling merrily on the stove. I ladle out a generous portion and give it to Marta’s daughters, telling them it’s the Filipino version of menudo. (While menudo in the Philippines is a meat dish made up of beef or pork and liver, Menudo in Mexico is tripe soup.)
My living room is still strewn with bits and pieces of gift-wrap. Every year, it is a Sereno family tradition to collect all the presents and lay them in one huge pile. At the stroke of midnight, a designated uncle would put on the Santa Hat (last night, it was reindeer horns, since the Santa Hat stayed in San Jose), take over the karaoke mic, and pick out a present from the pile, announcing the giver and receiver. This would go on until all the presents were gone or until Santa was hoarse trying to yell above the din, after which designated elves (aka nephews and nieces) were dispatched to do the delivering.
Lance and Troy are dancing with excitement. As in Christmases past, they were allowed to open their presents from the family on Christmas Eve, but Mommy and Daddy’s presents were off limits until Christmas Day and the days after. We only let them open one present a day. This way, they get to play with their new toy the whole day without getting distracted by other, more interesting gifts. I find that they appreciate things more this way.
Last night, they got a preview of what to expect from this year’s batch of goodies when they opened Uncle Simon’s presents: a Thomas the Tank Engine video and a wooden train for each of them. These eclipsed all the other presents in the lot, and effectively ended the party hours after, when they insisted on turning off the karaoke system so that they could watch their Thomas videos. Today, we decided to prolong their viewing pleasure by handing them their first present from Mom and Dad, a Thomas DVD for each. Hopefully, they don’t see through our simple strategy: have them watch Thomas all day so that Mommy and Daddy can catch up on their rest!
One of the first Christmas tree ornaments I bought this year was a Thomas the Tank Engine ornament. This is because I will always remember 2003 as a Thomas the Tank Engine year for my boys. Their love affair with Thomas started when my mother visited us from New York last June. We took her to the California Railroad Museum in Sacramento, where they had an ongoing event called Thomas’ Day Out. Lance and Troy got to ride on Thomas and shake hands with Sir Topham Hat. When we got home, I borrowed all the Thomas videos I could find from the library and the love affair began. Now they have almost all of Thomas’ DVDs, a growing collection of Thomas books, and of course, the trains themselves. Lance and Troy wore Thomas outfits for Troy’s 2nd birthday party, and Troy even wore a Thomas the Tank Engine costume, complete with engineer’s hat, for Halloween.
I glance at the pile of presents still unopened. I recognize the contents by their shapes: some Thomas books, two Take Along Thomas sets (complete with railroad, fences, trees, horses and a clock tower), and six battery-operated trains: Thomas, Henry and Toby for Troy, and Percy, Gordon and James for Lance. Of course, there are other, non-Thomas presents as well, but these were relegated to the bottom of the pile.
Lorenzo and I manage to catch a few precious moments alone, while the first DVD, Troy’s “Cranky Bugs and Other Tales” played. Soon the kids would be bugging us again, asking us to replace the disc with Lance’s new DVD. Whenever they felt like taking a break, they would retire to their new spring horse, courtesy of Auntie Sel. This spring horse was like no other when we saw it at Toys R’ Us: it was huge, hand painted, and definitely heirloom material. It had a nice price tag too: almost $150 after taxes, but thanks to a generous ninang, it was now noisily broadcasting stampede noises all over our home.
We hear a commotion. The familiar voices of our kids squabbling. Soon, Lance runs to us with a partially opened present: “Mooooommm, look what Troy did!!!” It was the Thomas books. Troy follows with a guilty look. Lorenzo and I give up on our sleep, which we now realize is an exercise in futility. Instead, we return to our holiday table and fix ourselves ham sandwiches. Soon the kids would tire of their viewing and request that we read their new books to them. Hopefully, our imaginative reading would somehow lull them to sleep. Then we could tuck them into bed and plug our karaoke mic into the TV.
Who says kids have all the fun?
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
THE WEANER'S CIRCLE
(WARNING: If the words "breast", "nipple", "suck", "suckle" and "pump" offend you or give you a funny feeling in some way, do not venture on. These words will be pouring freely in the coming paragraphs. Sickos are not welcome.)
I'm still breastfeeding. My youngest son, Troy, will be 29 months tomorrow, and I'm proud to say he's still nursing.
To the uninitiated, this may seem like no mean feat. But believe me, the world is full of guilt-ridden mothers, who feel they should have kept their now-grown babies at the breast just a little bit longer...
I know, because I was one such Mom. With my first son, Max (now 10), I didn't get much support from my ex-husband, who ran to the nearest 24-hour Walgreens for formula as soon as the new baby came home. When I was pregnant with Max, my ex-husband used to regale us with stories of his mother, and how she would dump an entire batch of formula down the drain after finding a dark speck of something floating in it. I should have known even then that I would be alone in my endeavor.
I really wanted to try breastfeeding, knowing the healthy benefits this bestowed upon my baby. I even put up a valiant effort, buying a breast pump to increase my milk supply and always offering my breast before showing my baby his bottle. I needn't have bothered. Even then, Max was already smart enough to choose the path of least resistance. With Similac with Iron so readily available, why bother with the much more difficult task of extracting milk from Mommy? This, of course, led to painful engorgement on MY side (well actually it was my FRONT). And if this weren't enough, I was also saddled with a nervous first-time Dad hovering over me, shooting me reproving looks everytime I even dared to bare the offensive things in front of THE BABY.
Actually, I didn't always suck at breastfeeding, if you'll pardon the pun. During our two-day stay at the hospital, Max and I were able to forge a tenuous nursing relationship. With the aid of a lactation consultant, Max was well on his way. He was already learning to latch on, and I was getting more comfortable with the cradle and football holds. I remember how it felt to feed my baby for the first time, knowing he was taking nourishment from my own body. It is the most gratifying feeling any woman can ever have. The two of us bonded in the quiet confines of our hospital room, the bud of early motherhood fluorishing in a vacuum.
Unfortunately, my nursing accomplishment at the hospital was not so easily duplicated at home. Max continued to breastfeed sporadically for the next two weeks, but it was apparent the spell had been broken. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, my resolve to continue nursing was worn down by the domestic distractions of everyday life. I knew my milk was getting scantier by the day, but there was always that elusive tomorrow, when I would finally have the time to pump enough milk to keep up my supply. Apart from exhaustion, I believe denial is the main reason why many mothers never succeed at breastfeeding beyond the first few weeks.
I can never forget that day when I realized I was bone dry. There I was, looking at my baby's beautiful face, his eyes half-closed in slumber. I was about to offer him his bottle when he turned his face toward my breast, instinctively reaching with his mouth. It was then that the bitter realization hit home: I literally had nothing in me to offer. My milk had run dry. For all intents and purposes, the process was irreversible. Oh, the finality of it all. Resignedly, I gave Max his formula, which he gulped down greedily. I wept that day and many nights after that. I felt that I had failed as a mother.
With this memory still haunting me, I was adamant that my next baby would be raised at the breast. Lance was born six years after Max, and his Dad, my husband, Lorenzo, was thankfully supportive of my nursing efforts. This was very important because Lance was born prematurely, six weeks before his due date. But despite his early arrival, Lance was deemed healthy enough to go home with us. Lorenzo stayed up those first nights, keeping us comfortable during our frequent feeding sessions.
It was soon apparent that our baby was not thriving on breast milk. Because of his early arrival, Lance's sucking reflex was not fully developed yet. He wasn't taking in enough milk to boost my supply. To complicate matters, he was starting to turn yellow. Lance's bilirubin level was getting dangerously high, and he was starting to develop jaundice. The only way Lance could get rid of the bilirubin was to do it the good old-fashioned way: poop it out. This meant he had to take in a lot more milk than he was getting from me. There were no two ways about it. He needed supplementation.
We took him to his pediatrician, who issued a direct order: stop breastfeeding for two weeks. I protested vociferously, saying my milk would surely run out if I did that. He countered by saying it was MY breast milk that was actually causing the jaundice. That did it. Defeated, we went home with our baby, after I cast one last baleful look at his doctor. That evening, Lance got his first taste of formula. Even then I knew there would be no turning back.
Throughout my defeat the second time around, I found a sympathetic ally in my husband. Whenever Lance would come down with diarrhea or an ear infection, Lorenzo would join me in burning effigies of Dr. Javid. To this day we still blame him for depriving our baby of his most important source of immunity, his mother's milk.
Enter Troy, my beautiful baby, who is lovingly called Tisoy by my in-laws, due to his fair skin and brown curls. Troy, like his kuya, also came early. He arrived at 36 weeks, four weeks ahead of his due date. In fact, he was in such a rush to see the world, his first sight of it was the storage closet in Kaiser. Troy came so fast they didn't have time to prepare a birthing room for me, but I didn't mind. I was just happy I didn't give birth in my van!
Troy settled into nursing quite well. Like Lance, he was healthy enough to come home with us, despite being a preemie. I was also getting better at breastfeeding, feeling comfortable enough to do it even while lying down. We were adjusting to our new routine, and we had a perfect angel of a baby. Troy would always elicit smiles from people who would see him in his carrier. He looked like a perfectly proportioned doll: he had just the right amount of hair, not bald, not a mop head; and he had the cutest little button nose. People always stopped to tell us how beautiful our baby was. One lady summed it all up when she said, "Aren’t newborns just a taste of heaven?"
Unfortunately, Troy also developed jaundice. In fact, his case was worse than Lance's. He actually had to go back to the hospital for a couple of days. I can still picture him lying under the bili-lights in his incubator, wearing nothing but a diaper. I stayed with my baby those two days, and Lorenzo stayed home with Lance, the two of them visiting us everyday bringing my favorite sourdough burger from Jack in the Box.
This time around, I was blessed with a more sympathetic pediatrician. Dr. Elaine Chen explained to us that yes, for some mysterious reason, breastfeeding does contribute to jaundice, but that did not mean I had to stop it. In fact, Dr. Chen told me to continue nursing and pumping milk to increase my supply, and she was adamant that Troy did not need formula. I tried feeding Troy formula once or twice, when I had run out of stored milk, but I noticed a change in his stool whenever I did, so I stopped. I just resolved to feed him more often. In fact, in his first three months it seemed that all I did the whole day was nurse, but it was not as exhausting as I thought because I was "forced" to take a break from housework during these feeding sessions.
It also helped that I had an industrial-grade breast pump with Troy that would've made any dairy farmer proud. This pump cost thousands of dollars, but was affordably rented out at about $70 per month. After Troy had taken his fill, I would empty both breasts and store my milk in the fridge. I also operated on a schedule, pumping every 2-3 hours, and this got my supply going well. I eventually returned the pump when Troy was 4 months old. I was elated to discover I didn't need it anymore!
So there I was, finally tasting success the third time around. Every nursing session was a celebration. I felt like a lawyer who finally passed the Bar on his third attempt. This time around, I was the envy of other mothers who didn't succeed in breastfeeding. "How'd you do it?" they would say, and I would smile, remembering the times when I was the one asking those questions.
Troy was an avid nurser. He would summon me with his cries when he was hungry, and I had to drop everything I was doing. Many times, when we were driving, Lorenzo would have to stop the van so I could move to the back seat to feed. If I didn't get there fast enough, I would be reprimanded by a look of reproach in my baby's eyes as he nursed hungrily, the unspoken accusation fading as his hunger was sated. And then he would be content to fiddle with my blouse as he suckled, a constant source of amusement to his Dad. Lorenzo says it's genetic, because he used to do the same thing when he was little. This hasn't changed much over the years, except now Lorenzo prefers feather pillows over clothing. At any given day, you may be able to catch Lorenzo and Troy clutching the same pillow, father and son feeling for feathers under the material while watching TV. They have a term for this habit back home in the Philippines. We used to call it "pang-uutong".
I resolved to breastfeed until Troy was two. This turned out to be a good decision, because Troy started showing signs of a milk allergy early on. He also developed atopic dermatitis, his sensitive skin flaring up after I would eat nuts and other allergens. Whenever I felt guilty for passing these on through my milk, Dr. Chen would reassure me that the allergies would've surfaced anyway. In fact, she said, it would've been much worse if I wasn't breastfeeding.
So I continued to nurse as Troy got bigger. I was always discreet about it. I never breastfed in public, remembering how militant La Leche Leaguers used to bother me when they would expose themselves in full view of everyone. If we weren't home, I would excuse myself and feed Troy in someone's empty bedroom. If we were out driving in the van, I would go to the back seat (thankfully, my windows are tinted). You can always breastfeed without offending other people's sensibilities.
Troy has benefited greatly from the experience. He has grown to be very healthy; in fact, you can count the times he was sick in one hand. Whenever he would have a fever or diarrhea, it would be because another tooth was on its way, not because of some virus in his system. As an added bonus, our frequent nursing sessions also strengthened our physical bond, and he is much more tolerant of hugs, snuggles and showers of kisses than his kuya. It still warms my heart to see him coming to me with his hands up, asking for a cuddle.
Troy continued to breastfeed three times a day until the end of November. He would feed upon waking up, before taking his afternoon nap, and at bedtime. His lolas, my Mom and mother-in-law, were pleasantly surprised that I could sustain my nursing for so long. I was proud of my accomplishment.
However, the month of October heralded change. On October 22, I found out I was pregnant again. The news was a welcome surprise to Lorenzo and me. Since I was on the pill and still breastfeeding Troy, the last thing we expected was my getting pregnant! With all the odds against it happening, we could only see it as a gift from The Lord.
With the new baby's upcoming arrival, I began to do my research. I started to read up on subjects such as breastfeeding while pregnant and tandem feeding after birth. With this pregnancy labeled "high risk" for premature labor (after my two preemies), I was concerned when I read one woman's account, blaming her continued nursing for her subsequent miscarriage. Apparently, breastfeeding promotes the production of oxytocin, which brings about contractions. I read these words with a heavy heart. I couldn't take any chances. For the sake of the coming baby, I had to wean Troy.
I then launched my "don't offer, don't refuse" campaign, deciding that I would let Troy wean himself. I didn't have the heart to quit cold turkey. Besides, I felt reassured when I found out most toddlers wean themselves when their mothers get pregnant, as the taste of breast milk usually changes during this time. Indeed, Troy had been showing signs of losing interest, especially in the mornings, when he preferred to watch his shows.
Then Lance got out of school after Thanksgiving. With the abrupt change in schedule, it has been much harder to stick to our daily routine. Lance, for one, refuses to take his afternoon nap. Since Troy usually follows his brother, this effectively eliminated most of his afternoon naptime (and nursing) sessions. And since they have been missing their naps, my boys now fall asleep very early, sometimes in the family room before we can even get them ready for bed. Alas, this means less opportunities for bedtime nursing sessions as well.
Troy, thankfully, has still been feeding at least once a day. Sometimes, he asks for milk when we snuggle in bed in the morning. More often however, he says "milk, Mommy" when I am trying to put him to sleep at night. I have come to love these little requests, usually followed by the serious task of choosing which side he would like to try first. Recently he has taken to pointing to my right breast, since my left one is usually the more cantankerous of the two.
I don't know how much longer I can prolong this wonderful experience. I now look at each nursing session as if it were my last. I will forever miss the nearness of my baby, feeling his warm softness beside me, smelling his hair. I will always remember how it feels to nurse...my baby's mouth and tongue tugging at my breast in tandem. His rhythmic breathing soothes me, his hands and feet kneading my body like a kitten purring contentedly at its mother's teat. Then comes the slow, gradual release of his hold as he drifts into sleep. After the Sandman claims my Troy, I slip my breast back under my shirt and hold him close, showering his precious little face with kisses. Then slumber claims me too, and I fall asleep with him in my arms, tightly snuggled with his head on my shoulder. I usually don't sleep too deeply. At the back of my mind, I know I have to bring him back to his room and put him in his crib before he wakes up again.
Alas, last weekend ushered in another milestone...Troy slept out of his crib for the first time. We had moved his bed to Lance's room in order to make way for the new baby. He initially met this move with resistance, refusing to sleep in his new bed at first. But now he is beginning to adjust to his new room and his new surroundings. I added a few enticements: a Bob the Builder bed set and a Harry Potter calendar. Troy loves Harry Potter. Just recently, he was watching "The Sorcerer's Stone" when his older brother, Chris, started bugging him. We were surprised to hear a mad little voice ring out, clear as a bell: "I'M WATCHING HARRY POTTER!!!"
Troy, my little baby, is indeed on his way.
(WARNING: If the words "breast", "nipple", "suck", "suckle" and "pump" offend you or give you a funny feeling in some way, do not venture on. These words will be pouring freely in the coming paragraphs. Sickos are not welcome.)
I'm still breastfeeding. My youngest son, Troy, will be 29 months tomorrow, and I'm proud to say he's still nursing.
To the uninitiated, this may seem like no mean feat. But believe me, the world is full of guilt-ridden mothers, who feel they should have kept their now-grown babies at the breast just a little bit longer...
I know, because I was one such Mom. With my first son, Max (now 10), I didn't get much support from my ex-husband, who ran to the nearest 24-hour Walgreens for formula as soon as the new baby came home. When I was pregnant with Max, my ex-husband used to regale us with stories of his mother, and how she would dump an entire batch of formula down the drain after finding a dark speck of something floating in it. I should have known even then that I would be alone in my endeavor.
I really wanted to try breastfeeding, knowing the healthy benefits this bestowed upon my baby. I even put up a valiant effort, buying a breast pump to increase my milk supply and always offering my breast before showing my baby his bottle. I needn't have bothered. Even then, Max was already smart enough to choose the path of least resistance. With Similac with Iron so readily available, why bother with the much more difficult task of extracting milk from Mommy? This, of course, led to painful engorgement on MY side (well actually it was my FRONT). And if this weren't enough, I was also saddled with a nervous first-time Dad hovering over me, shooting me reproving looks everytime I even dared to bare the offensive things in front of THE BABY.
Actually, I didn't always suck at breastfeeding, if you'll pardon the pun. During our two-day stay at the hospital, Max and I were able to forge a tenuous nursing relationship. With the aid of a lactation consultant, Max was well on his way. He was already learning to latch on, and I was getting more comfortable with the cradle and football holds. I remember how it felt to feed my baby for the first time, knowing he was taking nourishment from my own body. It is the most gratifying feeling any woman can ever have. The two of us bonded in the quiet confines of our hospital room, the bud of early motherhood fluorishing in a vacuum.
Unfortunately, my nursing accomplishment at the hospital was not so easily duplicated at home. Max continued to breastfeed sporadically for the next two weeks, but it was apparent the spell had been broken. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, my resolve to continue nursing was worn down by the domestic distractions of everyday life. I knew my milk was getting scantier by the day, but there was always that elusive tomorrow, when I would finally have the time to pump enough milk to keep up my supply. Apart from exhaustion, I believe denial is the main reason why many mothers never succeed at breastfeeding beyond the first few weeks.
I can never forget that day when I realized I was bone dry. There I was, looking at my baby's beautiful face, his eyes half-closed in slumber. I was about to offer him his bottle when he turned his face toward my breast, instinctively reaching with his mouth. It was then that the bitter realization hit home: I literally had nothing in me to offer. My milk had run dry. For all intents and purposes, the process was irreversible. Oh, the finality of it all. Resignedly, I gave Max his formula, which he gulped down greedily. I wept that day and many nights after that. I felt that I had failed as a mother.
With this memory still haunting me, I was adamant that my next baby would be raised at the breast. Lance was born six years after Max, and his Dad, my husband, Lorenzo, was thankfully supportive of my nursing efforts. This was very important because Lance was born prematurely, six weeks before his due date. But despite his early arrival, Lance was deemed healthy enough to go home with us. Lorenzo stayed up those first nights, keeping us comfortable during our frequent feeding sessions.
It was soon apparent that our baby was not thriving on breast milk. Because of his early arrival, Lance's sucking reflex was not fully developed yet. He wasn't taking in enough milk to boost my supply. To complicate matters, he was starting to turn yellow. Lance's bilirubin level was getting dangerously high, and he was starting to develop jaundice. The only way Lance could get rid of the bilirubin was to do it the good old-fashioned way: poop it out. This meant he had to take in a lot more milk than he was getting from me. There were no two ways about it. He needed supplementation.
We took him to his pediatrician, who issued a direct order: stop breastfeeding for two weeks. I protested vociferously, saying my milk would surely run out if I did that. He countered by saying it was MY breast milk that was actually causing the jaundice. That did it. Defeated, we went home with our baby, after I cast one last baleful look at his doctor. That evening, Lance got his first taste of formula. Even then I knew there would be no turning back.
Throughout my defeat the second time around, I found a sympathetic ally in my husband. Whenever Lance would come down with diarrhea or an ear infection, Lorenzo would join me in burning effigies of Dr. Javid. To this day we still blame him for depriving our baby of his most important source of immunity, his mother's milk.
Enter Troy, my beautiful baby, who is lovingly called Tisoy by my in-laws, due to his fair skin and brown curls. Troy, like his kuya, also came early. He arrived at 36 weeks, four weeks ahead of his due date. In fact, he was in such a rush to see the world, his first sight of it was the storage closet in Kaiser. Troy came so fast they didn't have time to prepare a birthing room for me, but I didn't mind. I was just happy I didn't give birth in my van!
Troy settled into nursing quite well. Like Lance, he was healthy enough to come home with us, despite being a preemie. I was also getting better at breastfeeding, feeling comfortable enough to do it even while lying down. We were adjusting to our new routine, and we had a perfect angel of a baby. Troy would always elicit smiles from people who would see him in his carrier. He looked like a perfectly proportioned doll: he had just the right amount of hair, not bald, not a mop head; and he had the cutest little button nose. People always stopped to tell us how beautiful our baby was. One lady summed it all up when she said, "Aren’t newborns just a taste of heaven?"
Unfortunately, Troy also developed jaundice. In fact, his case was worse than Lance's. He actually had to go back to the hospital for a couple of days. I can still picture him lying under the bili-lights in his incubator, wearing nothing but a diaper. I stayed with my baby those two days, and Lorenzo stayed home with Lance, the two of them visiting us everyday bringing my favorite sourdough burger from Jack in the Box.
This time around, I was blessed with a more sympathetic pediatrician. Dr. Elaine Chen explained to us that yes, for some mysterious reason, breastfeeding does contribute to jaundice, but that did not mean I had to stop it. In fact, Dr. Chen told me to continue nursing and pumping milk to increase my supply, and she was adamant that Troy did not need formula. I tried feeding Troy formula once or twice, when I had run out of stored milk, but I noticed a change in his stool whenever I did, so I stopped. I just resolved to feed him more often. In fact, in his first three months it seemed that all I did the whole day was nurse, but it was not as exhausting as I thought because I was "forced" to take a break from housework during these feeding sessions.
It also helped that I had an industrial-grade breast pump with Troy that would've made any dairy farmer proud. This pump cost thousands of dollars, but was affordably rented out at about $70 per month. After Troy had taken his fill, I would empty both breasts and store my milk in the fridge. I also operated on a schedule, pumping every 2-3 hours, and this got my supply going well. I eventually returned the pump when Troy was 4 months old. I was elated to discover I didn't need it anymore!
So there I was, finally tasting success the third time around. Every nursing session was a celebration. I felt like a lawyer who finally passed the Bar on his third attempt. This time around, I was the envy of other mothers who didn't succeed in breastfeeding. "How'd you do it?" they would say, and I would smile, remembering the times when I was the one asking those questions.
Troy was an avid nurser. He would summon me with his cries when he was hungry, and I had to drop everything I was doing. Many times, when we were driving, Lorenzo would have to stop the van so I could move to the back seat to feed. If I didn't get there fast enough, I would be reprimanded by a look of reproach in my baby's eyes as he nursed hungrily, the unspoken accusation fading as his hunger was sated. And then he would be content to fiddle with my blouse as he suckled, a constant source of amusement to his Dad. Lorenzo says it's genetic, because he used to do the same thing when he was little. This hasn't changed much over the years, except now Lorenzo prefers feather pillows over clothing. At any given day, you may be able to catch Lorenzo and Troy clutching the same pillow, father and son feeling for feathers under the material while watching TV. They have a term for this habit back home in the Philippines. We used to call it "pang-uutong".
I resolved to breastfeed until Troy was two. This turned out to be a good decision, because Troy started showing signs of a milk allergy early on. He also developed atopic dermatitis, his sensitive skin flaring up after I would eat nuts and other allergens. Whenever I felt guilty for passing these on through my milk, Dr. Chen would reassure me that the allergies would've surfaced anyway. In fact, she said, it would've been much worse if I wasn't breastfeeding.
So I continued to nurse as Troy got bigger. I was always discreet about it. I never breastfed in public, remembering how militant La Leche Leaguers used to bother me when they would expose themselves in full view of everyone. If we weren't home, I would excuse myself and feed Troy in someone's empty bedroom. If we were out driving in the van, I would go to the back seat (thankfully, my windows are tinted). You can always breastfeed without offending other people's sensibilities.
Troy has benefited greatly from the experience. He has grown to be very healthy; in fact, you can count the times he was sick in one hand. Whenever he would have a fever or diarrhea, it would be because another tooth was on its way, not because of some virus in his system. As an added bonus, our frequent nursing sessions also strengthened our physical bond, and he is much more tolerant of hugs, snuggles and showers of kisses than his kuya. It still warms my heart to see him coming to me with his hands up, asking for a cuddle.
Troy continued to breastfeed three times a day until the end of November. He would feed upon waking up, before taking his afternoon nap, and at bedtime. His lolas, my Mom and mother-in-law, were pleasantly surprised that I could sustain my nursing for so long. I was proud of my accomplishment.
However, the month of October heralded change. On October 22, I found out I was pregnant again. The news was a welcome surprise to Lorenzo and me. Since I was on the pill and still breastfeeding Troy, the last thing we expected was my getting pregnant! With all the odds against it happening, we could only see it as a gift from The Lord.
With the new baby's upcoming arrival, I began to do my research. I started to read up on subjects such as breastfeeding while pregnant and tandem feeding after birth. With this pregnancy labeled "high risk" for premature labor (after my two preemies), I was concerned when I read one woman's account, blaming her continued nursing for her subsequent miscarriage. Apparently, breastfeeding promotes the production of oxytocin, which brings about contractions. I read these words with a heavy heart. I couldn't take any chances. For the sake of the coming baby, I had to wean Troy.
I then launched my "don't offer, don't refuse" campaign, deciding that I would let Troy wean himself. I didn't have the heart to quit cold turkey. Besides, I felt reassured when I found out most toddlers wean themselves when their mothers get pregnant, as the taste of breast milk usually changes during this time. Indeed, Troy had been showing signs of losing interest, especially in the mornings, when he preferred to watch his shows.
Then Lance got out of school after Thanksgiving. With the abrupt change in schedule, it has been much harder to stick to our daily routine. Lance, for one, refuses to take his afternoon nap. Since Troy usually follows his brother, this effectively eliminated most of his afternoon naptime (and nursing) sessions. And since they have been missing their naps, my boys now fall asleep very early, sometimes in the family room before we can even get them ready for bed. Alas, this means less opportunities for bedtime nursing sessions as well.
Troy, thankfully, has still been feeding at least once a day. Sometimes, he asks for milk when we snuggle in bed in the morning. More often however, he says "milk, Mommy" when I am trying to put him to sleep at night. I have come to love these little requests, usually followed by the serious task of choosing which side he would like to try first. Recently he has taken to pointing to my right breast, since my left one is usually the more cantankerous of the two.
I don't know how much longer I can prolong this wonderful experience. I now look at each nursing session as if it were my last. I will forever miss the nearness of my baby, feeling his warm softness beside me, smelling his hair. I will always remember how it feels to nurse...my baby's mouth and tongue tugging at my breast in tandem. His rhythmic breathing soothes me, his hands and feet kneading my body like a kitten purring contentedly at its mother's teat. Then comes the slow, gradual release of his hold as he drifts into sleep. After the Sandman claims my Troy, I slip my breast back under my shirt and hold him close, showering his precious little face with kisses. Then slumber claims me too, and I fall asleep with him in my arms, tightly snuggled with his head on my shoulder. I usually don't sleep too deeply. At the back of my mind, I know I have to bring him back to his room and put him in his crib before he wakes up again.
Alas, last weekend ushered in another milestone...Troy slept out of his crib for the first time. We had moved his bed to Lance's room in order to make way for the new baby. He initially met this move with resistance, refusing to sleep in his new bed at first. But now he is beginning to adjust to his new room and his new surroundings. I added a few enticements: a Bob the Builder bed set and a Harry Potter calendar. Troy loves Harry Potter. Just recently, he was watching "The Sorcerer's Stone" when his older brother, Chris, started bugging him. We were surprised to hear a mad little voice ring out, clear as a bell: "I'M WATCHING HARRY POTTER!!!"
Troy, my little baby, is indeed on his way.
Tuesday, December 09, 2003
MOVIES AND MISDEMEANORS
After a very long drought, Lorenzo and I finally went to the movies again! Earlier tonight, with Lance and Troy in tow, we went to catch a matinee showing of "The Cat in the Hat". It was a cute movie. Quite frankly, I was more impressed with its visual appeal than its story, but since it's obviously geared toward the Dr. Seuss set, one should not expect sophisticated repartee.
When the movie ended, we all filed out of the theater. I still had visions of sugarplums dancing in my head, after being besieged by a massive whimsy overdose, as only Hollywood can dish out. I felt like taking my kids to a diner. I wanted to extend their viewing experience, and a genuine 50's diner would best approximate the look and feel of "the Cat in the Hat" movie. My husband, on the other hand, had other plans up his sleeve. Lorenzo's quick, resourceful eyes scanned the red carpeted horizon, quickly spotting what he was looking for: another marquee bearing the words: "The Last Samurai, 7:30 PM".
I glanced at my watch. I was 7:10. We had more than enough time to purchase tickets and buy more food. As it was already past the 6 PM matinee deadline, we now had to pay regular price: $8.25 per person. I was about to ask Lorenzo if kids got a price cut when I saw him stroll, oh so casually, into the empty theater. Only then did my husband's diabolical plan dawn upon me. I am so blissfully gauche (translated "ignorantly dense") in these matters, I wouldn't recognize temptation if it were staring me right in the face! My massive dose of whimsy congealed into a massive dose of scruples. But since my husband was already deep in the belly of the beast, all I could do was glance innocently around, surreptitiously checking if the coast was clear. Sure enough, there was no one in sight.
I still hung back for a moment or two, entertaining my misgivings. My kids, who of course had no idea that a misdemeanor was in progress, were noisily chattering away. This snapped me back into attention. They were blowing our cover! I quickly shushed and hushed them, herding my pint-sized co-conspirators into the back row. By then it was about 7:15. Fifteen minutes to go before the lights were dimmed. I sat in my seat, cowering. I just KNEW we were going to get caught! Any minute now and we'll be seeing uniformed ushers, pulled by baying hounds, pointing their flashlights at us, bearing bullhorns blaring "LICENSE AND REGISTRATION PLEASE!!!"
Lorenzo, quite frankly, was no help. He seemed to take some perverse form of pleasure in scaring me even more. Everytime someone would enter the theater, he would whisper, "ayan na sila, ayan na sila!" ("they're coming, they're coming!"). I, of course, would keep my eyes guiltily averted, expecting the humiliation, cursing myself for not listening to my conscience. Then these phantom ushers would walk right past my field of vision, thankfully ignoring us. When I looked closely, I discovered them to be other movie-goers just like us, choosing plum viewing spots before the film started.
My initial fears were beginning to subside. The adrenaline was starting to ebb from my veins, to be replaced by the unmistakeable pang of hunger. To make things worse, my pregnant bladder was hearing the siren calls emitting from the ladies' bathroom, which of course had to be located in full view of the concession stand! There was no other recourse. I had to go back out there.
The previews were coming up. I still had time. I took everybody's order: more hotdogs, nachos, and Lorenzo's request: M&M's, which my children knew as "magic". I smiled at this. In my younger days, my version of "magic" was a stick of Juicy Fruit gum, "magically" conjured out of my Lolo's adept fingers.
I took off my jacket, hoping it would be harder to recognize me without it. I also took a different credit card and ID. Obviously, there was still a possibility we could get caught, and I wasn't about to take any chances. Still trying to muster up enough courage, I took a casual inventory of our popcorn stores. More than two-thirds full. We were still good in that department. The soda situation, on the other hand, was dire. Our huge cup runneth empty. This realization filled me with a strange audacity...I was ready. I would not only march bravely up to the counter, I resolved to ask for a REFILL besides.
On the way out, I fingered my "Cat in the Hat" tickets, meaning to wave them vaguely in front of any usher who dared block my way. To my surprise, I discovered FOUR tickets instead of three. Those creeps actually had the nerve to charge me full matinee price for Troy! Since he was only 2, he should've gotten in for free. Righteous indignation coursed through my veins. That was it. This is war. They charged my baby for admission. They deserved to be taken to town.
Never underestimate the power of rationalization. Fueled by self-rightousness, I sailed from the ladies' room to the concession stand, brazenly parking myself in full view of the box office. I took my time ordering, strolled leisurely to the condiment station, languidly added ketchup, mustard and relish to my hotdogs, and asked for my free refill. The food filled up a huge, ungainly tray. The guy behind the counter took one look and offered to help me with my purchases. I thanked him, thinking "that's right, it's the LEAST you could do for preying on helpless, innocent consumers like us!"
I marched back to my family in triumph, followed by my unwitting accomplice, whose very presence in my wake made him an accessory to our crime. I'm pretty sure the last thing Lorenzo expected to see was a uniformed usher following me, BEARING OUR FOOD. What a perfectly apropos way to symbolize our beating the establishment!
Still, in retrospect, I realize that movie theaters, like casinos, always come out on top. With the cost of tickets and two trips to the concession stand, our little caper ended up setting us $70 behind, the price of a five-star meal for a young family of four. In time, the same movie/DVD would've probably gone on sale for $9.99 in Target.
We had won the battle, but lost the war.
After a very long drought, Lorenzo and I finally went to the movies again! Earlier tonight, with Lance and Troy in tow, we went to catch a matinee showing of "The Cat in the Hat". It was a cute movie. Quite frankly, I was more impressed with its visual appeal than its story, but since it's obviously geared toward the Dr. Seuss set, one should not expect sophisticated repartee.
When the movie ended, we all filed out of the theater. I still had visions of sugarplums dancing in my head, after being besieged by a massive whimsy overdose, as only Hollywood can dish out. I felt like taking my kids to a diner. I wanted to extend their viewing experience, and a genuine 50's diner would best approximate the look and feel of "the Cat in the Hat" movie. My husband, on the other hand, had other plans up his sleeve. Lorenzo's quick, resourceful eyes scanned the red carpeted horizon, quickly spotting what he was looking for: another marquee bearing the words: "The Last Samurai, 7:30 PM".
I glanced at my watch. I was 7:10. We had more than enough time to purchase tickets and buy more food. As it was already past the 6 PM matinee deadline, we now had to pay regular price: $8.25 per person. I was about to ask Lorenzo if kids got a price cut when I saw him stroll, oh so casually, into the empty theater. Only then did my husband's diabolical plan dawn upon me. I am so blissfully gauche (translated "ignorantly dense") in these matters, I wouldn't recognize temptation if it were staring me right in the face! My massive dose of whimsy congealed into a massive dose of scruples. But since my husband was already deep in the belly of the beast, all I could do was glance innocently around, surreptitiously checking if the coast was clear. Sure enough, there was no one in sight.
I still hung back for a moment or two, entertaining my misgivings. My kids, who of course had no idea that a misdemeanor was in progress, were noisily chattering away. This snapped me back into attention. They were blowing our cover! I quickly shushed and hushed them, herding my pint-sized co-conspirators into the back row. By then it was about 7:15. Fifteen minutes to go before the lights were dimmed. I sat in my seat, cowering. I just KNEW we were going to get caught! Any minute now and we'll be seeing uniformed ushers, pulled by baying hounds, pointing their flashlights at us, bearing bullhorns blaring "LICENSE AND REGISTRATION PLEASE!!!"
Lorenzo, quite frankly, was no help. He seemed to take some perverse form of pleasure in scaring me even more. Everytime someone would enter the theater, he would whisper, "ayan na sila, ayan na sila!" ("they're coming, they're coming!"). I, of course, would keep my eyes guiltily averted, expecting the humiliation, cursing myself for not listening to my conscience. Then these phantom ushers would walk right past my field of vision, thankfully ignoring us. When I looked closely, I discovered them to be other movie-goers just like us, choosing plum viewing spots before the film started.
My initial fears were beginning to subside. The adrenaline was starting to ebb from my veins, to be replaced by the unmistakeable pang of hunger. To make things worse, my pregnant bladder was hearing the siren calls emitting from the ladies' bathroom, which of course had to be located in full view of the concession stand! There was no other recourse. I had to go back out there.
The previews were coming up. I still had time. I took everybody's order: more hotdogs, nachos, and Lorenzo's request: M&M's, which my children knew as "magic". I smiled at this. In my younger days, my version of "magic" was a stick of Juicy Fruit gum, "magically" conjured out of my Lolo's adept fingers.
I took off my jacket, hoping it would be harder to recognize me without it. I also took a different credit card and ID. Obviously, there was still a possibility we could get caught, and I wasn't about to take any chances. Still trying to muster up enough courage, I took a casual inventory of our popcorn stores. More than two-thirds full. We were still good in that department. The soda situation, on the other hand, was dire. Our huge cup runneth empty. This realization filled me with a strange audacity...I was ready. I would not only march bravely up to the counter, I resolved to ask for a REFILL besides.
On the way out, I fingered my "Cat in the Hat" tickets, meaning to wave them vaguely in front of any usher who dared block my way. To my surprise, I discovered FOUR tickets instead of three. Those creeps actually had the nerve to charge me full matinee price for Troy! Since he was only 2, he should've gotten in for free. Righteous indignation coursed through my veins. That was it. This is war. They charged my baby for admission. They deserved to be taken to town.
Never underestimate the power of rationalization. Fueled by self-rightousness, I sailed from the ladies' room to the concession stand, brazenly parking myself in full view of the box office. I took my time ordering, strolled leisurely to the condiment station, languidly added ketchup, mustard and relish to my hotdogs, and asked for my free refill. The food filled up a huge, ungainly tray. The guy behind the counter took one look and offered to help me with my purchases. I thanked him, thinking "that's right, it's the LEAST you could do for preying on helpless, innocent consumers like us!"
I marched back to my family in triumph, followed by my unwitting accomplice, whose very presence in my wake made him an accessory to our crime. I'm pretty sure the last thing Lorenzo expected to see was a uniformed usher following me, BEARING OUR FOOD. What a perfectly apropos way to symbolize our beating the establishment!
Still, in retrospect, I realize that movie theaters, like casinos, always come out on top. With the cost of tickets and two trips to the concession stand, our little caper ended up setting us $70 behind, the price of a five-star meal for a young family of four. In time, the same movie/DVD would've probably gone on sale for $9.99 in Target.
We had won the battle, but lost the war.
Sunday, December 07, 2003
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
ON DISCRIMINATION AND DOMESTIC HELP
I used to travel a lot. When I was still living in the Philippines with my ex-pat ex-husband, we used to go to Hong Kong or Singapore every weekend to escape the Dengue Fever outbreak. My ex is by far the most anal person I have ever met, and he was simply paranoid about germs. When poor little kids started dying from the hemorrhagic fever, he practically imprisoned our son, Max, in our hotel suite. Being held captive at the Mandarin Oriental is not exactly healthy for any 3-year-old, Aedis Egypti notwithstanding. So you see, these little weekend sorties out of the country were necessary to our sanity.
Before one of these trips, my best friend, Coco Q., who was visiting with us at the time, gave me some valuable fashion advice for travel to places such as Hong Kong and Singapore: Don't wear jeans on weekends. Apparently, if you committed this fashion transgression, some ignorant colonial might mistake you for a domestic and insist you press his trousers. It seems that every weekend like clockwork, Filipina maids would swarm to the parks like lemmings, wearing standard-issue denim.
"Believe me," Coco confided with a knowing look, "you'll be treated much better." I shrugged, taking my signature Versace's out of my suitcase. I thought it was curious to hear this from Coco, of all people. After all, I wanted to point out, we both did TV news. Surely, if CNBC Asia and RPN-9 thought we were presentable enough to beam into people's houses nationally (and in her case, internationally), we would NEVER be mistaken for a pair of au pairs! Besides, if some foreigner was thick enough to mistake me for a maid just because I was a Filipina wearing jeans, I'd hit him on the head with my Louis Vuitton bucket!
Unfortunately, such is the stigma of the Filipina. It gets even worse if you're a Filipina married to a foreigner. For some reason, once they think you've joined their ranks, all PC flies out the window. It doesn't matter if you studied at the Sorbonne, speak flawless English and hold two PhD's. Once you start rubbing elbows with them, they think it's their God-given right to enlist your services as a domestic recruiter. The first time I went to Israel, my ex introduced me to one of the most decorated Israeli generals in their nation's history, and all this man could say to me was "could I help him find a really good Filipina maid?"
It wasn't so bad when we were living in LA, where Filipinos occupy all social stratas, and Filipina domestic help was almost unheard of. Our cleaning lady then was, in fact, a Chilean exchange student who was doing houses on the side to earn extra money. When we moved to Miami, where I was the only Filipina I knew of within a 40-mile radius, it was also okay. Over there, most of the domestic help you find is Black/Haitian or Hispanic.
All that changed when we moved to my ex-husband's home city, Toronto. Toronto, like LA, also has a very big Filipino population occupying all social stratas, but a big part of the Filipina population there, like their sisters overseas, gravitated to the "domestic" market like moths to the flame. All my former in-laws had Filipina maids: my ex-mother-in-law, sister-in-law, brother-in-law, and various aunts and cousins now removed, all extolled the domestic virtues of my kababayans.
Okay, okay, I confess, I also had a Filipina maid. Her name was Margarita, and she was an "alajera" in the Philippines. Margarita would sometimes don jewelry that was even prettier than mine, which was a lot to say considering my ex was a diamond dealer! We shared a relationship based on mutual fondness and respect, and I was sad to let her go because we had to move to Europe.
I, of course, have also experienced my share of discrimination. Whenever we took the ferry from Hong Kong to Macau, I would always be "detained" in the holding area while my ex would argue that I was a US resident, etc. etc.,. Of course, I would always be the last one out of Immigration, defiantly meeting the curious stares of my casino-hopping ferry-mates. When I first obtained my Schengenstaten visa (meaning "seven states": Germany, France, Belgium, Netherlands, Luxembourg, Spain and Portugal), I was instructed to go to a police station upon reaching Amsterdam (my point of origin) to "inform the authorities of my presence". I felt really insulted to be told this, just because I was a Filipina. After all, isn't this the sort of thing convicted child molesters are required to do? When I finally got to a police station, none of the officers present knew what I was talking about. They ended up typing something to the effect that on this date, this person was in this police station, etc. etc. (it was in Dutch). Go figure.
Actually, Amsterdam wasn't too bad. You see a lot of Indonesians there, Indonesia being a former Dutch colony, and you see a big representation of this racial mixture in the people. I never really encountered any racism in the Netherlands. In fact, in all the places in Europe that I visited, the pervading feeling of discrimination was directed toward the gypsies, who swarmed to the cities in the summer, victimizing tourists along the way. One of them nearly snatched my purse one night. Lucky my hand brushed against his while he was doing it, and I started yelling up a storm. The guy quickly ran across the street, having the cheek to turn back and face me while putting his finger to his lips, motioning me to be quiet!
So ends my treatise on discrimination and domestic help. As I type this in my family room in Modesto, California, I am reminded of the year we used to live in Cincinnati, Ohio, where notices of Ku Klux Klan meetings were routinely printed in Community Billboards in all the major dailies.
And I thank the Lord for all my blessings.
I used to travel a lot. When I was still living in the Philippines with my ex-pat ex-husband, we used to go to Hong Kong or Singapore every weekend to escape the Dengue Fever outbreak. My ex is by far the most anal person I have ever met, and he was simply paranoid about germs. When poor little kids started dying from the hemorrhagic fever, he practically imprisoned our son, Max, in our hotel suite. Being held captive at the Mandarin Oriental is not exactly healthy for any 3-year-old, Aedis Egypti notwithstanding. So you see, these little weekend sorties out of the country were necessary to our sanity.
Before one of these trips, my best friend, Coco Q., who was visiting with us at the time, gave me some valuable fashion advice for travel to places such as Hong Kong and Singapore: Don't wear jeans on weekends. Apparently, if you committed this fashion transgression, some ignorant colonial might mistake you for a domestic and insist you press his trousers. It seems that every weekend like clockwork, Filipina maids would swarm to the parks like lemmings, wearing standard-issue denim.
"Believe me," Coco confided with a knowing look, "you'll be treated much better." I shrugged, taking my signature Versace's out of my suitcase. I thought it was curious to hear this from Coco, of all people. After all, I wanted to point out, we both did TV news. Surely, if CNBC Asia and RPN-9 thought we were presentable enough to beam into people's houses nationally (and in her case, internationally), we would NEVER be mistaken for a pair of au pairs! Besides, if some foreigner was thick enough to mistake me for a maid just because I was a Filipina wearing jeans, I'd hit him on the head with my Louis Vuitton bucket!
Unfortunately, such is the stigma of the Filipina. It gets even worse if you're a Filipina married to a foreigner. For some reason, once they think you've joined their ranks, all PC flies out the window. It doesn't matter if you studied at the Sorbonne, speak flawless English and hold two PhD's. Once you start rubbing elbows with them, they think it's their God-given right to enlist your services as a domestic recruiter. The first time I went to Israel, my ex introduced me to one of the most decorated Israeli generals in their nation's history, and all this man could say to me was "could I help him find a really good Filipina maid?"
It wasn't so bad when we were living in LA, where Filipinos occupy all social stratas, and Filipina domestic help was almost unheard of. Our cleaning lady then was, in fact, a Chilean exchange student who was doing houses on the side to earn extra money. When we moved to Miami, where I was the only Filipina I knew of within a 40-mile radius, it was also okay. Over there, most of the domestic help you find is Black/Haitian or Hispanic.
All that changed when we moved to my ex-husband's home city, Toronto. Toronto, like LA, also has a very big Filipino population occupying all social stratas, but a big part of the Filipina population there, like their sisters overseas, gravitated to the "domestic" market like moths to the flame. All my former in-laws had Filipina maids: my ex-mother-in-law, sister-in-law, brother-in-law, and various aunts and cousins now removed, all extolled the domestic virtues of my kababayans.
Okay, okay, I confess, I also had a Filipina maid. Her name was Margarita, and she was an "alajera" in the Philippines. Margarita would sometimes don jewelry that was even prettier than mine, which was a lot to say considering my ex was a diamond dealer! We shared a relationship based on mutual fondness and respect, and I was sad to let her go because we had to move to Europe.
I, of course, have also experienced my share of discrimination. Whenever we took the ferry from Hong Kong to Macau, I would always be "detained" in the holding area while my ex would argue that I was a US resident, etc. etc.,. Of course, I would always be the last one out of Immigration, defiantly meeting the curious stares of my casino-hopping ferry-mates. When I first obtained my Schengenstaten visa (meaning "seven states": Germany, France, Belgium, Netherlands, Luxembourg, Spain and Portugal), I was instructed to go to a police station upon reaching Amsterdam (my point of origin) to "inform the authorities of my presence". I felt really insulted to be told this, just because I was a Filipina. After all, isn't this the sort of thing convicted child molesters are required to do? When I finally got to a police station, none of the officers present knew what I was talking about. They ended up typing something to the effect that on this date, this person was in this police station, etc. etc. (it was in Dutch). Go figure.
Actually, Amsterdam wasn't too bad. You see a lot of Indonesians there, Indonesia being a former Dutch colony, and you see a big representation of this racial mixture in the people. I never really encountered any racism in the Netherlands. In fact, in all the places in Europe that I visited, the pervading feeling of discrimination was directed toward the gypsies, who swarmed to the cities in the summer, victimizing tourists along the way. One of them nearly snatched my purse one night. Lucky my hand brushed against his while he was doing it, and I started yelling up a storm. The guy quickly ran across the street, having the cheek to turn back and face me while putting his finger to his lips, motioning me to be quiet!
So ends my treatise on discrimination and domestic help. As I type this in my family room in Modesto, California, I am reminded of the year we used to live in Cincinnati, Ohio, where notices of Ku Klux Klan meetings were routinely printed in Community Billboards in all the major dailies.
And I thank the Lord for all my blessings.
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
MY SWEET LITTLE BUMBLEBEE
Lance, my little bumblebee, will be turning 4 in just a few minutes. It's hard to believe my little preemie who came 6 weeks early is now a smart, rambunctious little pre-schooler. I wrote this letter to my husband, Lorenzo on March 20, 2001, when Lance was just 16 months old. Reading it now, at the eve of his fourth birthday, I am once again reminded that time waits for no one...a cliche, I know, but bittersweet nonetheless.
Hi Daddy!
Mommy and I went out for a walk after taking my kuyas to school. It was still a little cool, so Mommy bundled me up in my sweater and we were on our way. I saw many black birds, some big, some small. I was also amused at the water sprinklers, which were always threatening to wet Mommy and me. We didn't get wet, but I felt the cool mist on my face.
Mommy picked out dandelions for me. She taught me how to blow on them to scatter them in the wind. I know how to blow, but I have to put them close to my mouth because I can't blow too hard yet. Mommy also plucked a little yellow flower for me, which I held for a while. She thought I was trying to eat the flower, but I was just blowing on it like she taught me to blow on the dandelion.
On the way home, Mommy sat on the park bench and took me out of my stroller. I practiced walking while holding on to the park bench. Then Mommy saw a ladybug and picked it up from the ground so I could play with it. I was laughing and having so much fun. The ladybug crawled on my hand and back to the park bench. I kept picking it up and Mommy said I was very good because I was gentle with it. When I was done playing with the ladybug, Mommy put it back on the leaf so it could eat. I had dropped my cracker on the ground. I wanted to pick it up, but Mommy said to leave it there for the birds to eat. I picked it up and ate it anyway, when Mommy wasn't looking.
At around 9:30 it was getting to be really warm, so Mommy took my sweater off. We started walking home because Mommy noticed that I had taken a doodie. On the way home, I saw a shopping cart on the curb. I pointed it out to Mommy because I wanted to ride in it, but Mommy didn't think it was a good idea. She promised me that I would sit on a shopping cart next time we went to a supermarket, which she said would be soon because we're out of bread. Speaking of bread, Mommy says you forgot to bring your sandwich, so Mommy had it for a snack after we got home.
I am now taking my nap. I can't wait to see you again, Daddy. I love you very much. Will you come with us to pick up my kuyas later? They don't get off till 4:45, so Mommy thinks it would be a good time to stop by the bowling alley to put down a deposit for Kuya Joey's surprise birthday party. I'll see you later!
Love, LANCE
Lance, my little bumblebee, will be turning 4 in just a few minutes. It's hard to believe my little preemie who came 6 weeks early is now a smart, rambunctious little pre-schooler. I wrote this letter to my husband, Lorenzo on March 20, 2001, when Lance was just 16 months old. Reading it now, at the eve of his fourth birthday, I am once again reminded that time waits for no one...a cliche, I know, but bittersweet nonetheless.
Hi Daddy!
Mommy and I went out for a walk after taking my kuyas to school. It was still a little cool, so Mommy bundled me up in my sweater and we were on our way. I saw many black birds, some big, some small. I was also amused at the water sprinklers, which were always threatening to wet Mommy and me. We didn't get wet, but I felt the cool mist on my face.
Mommy picked out dandelions for me. She taught me how to blow on them to scatter them in the wind. I know how to blow, but I have to put them close to my mouth because I can't blow too hard yet. Mommy also plucked a little yellow flower for me, which I held for a while. She thought I was trying to eat the flower, but I was just blowing on it like she taught me to blow on the dandelion.
On the way home, Mommy sat on the park bench and took me out of my stroller. I practiced walking while holding on to the park bench. Then Mommy saw a ladybug and picked it up from the ground so I could play with it. I was laughing and having so much fun. The ladybug crawled on my hand and back to the park bench. I kept picking it up and Mommy said I was very good because I was gentle with it. When I was done playing with the ladybug, Mommy put it back on the leaf so it could eat. I had dropped my cracker on the ground. I wanted to pick it up, but Mommy said to leave it there for the birds to eat. I picked it up and ate it anyway, when Mommy wasn't looking.
At around 9:30 it was getting to be really warm, so Mommy took my sweater off. We started walking home because Mommy noticed that I had taken a doodie. On the way home, I saw a shopping cart on the curb. I pointed it out to Mommy because I wanted to ride in it, but Mommy didn't think it was a good idea. She promised me that I would sit on a shopping cart next time we went to a supermarket, which she said would be soon because we're out of bread. Speaking of bread, Mommy says you forgot to bring your sandwich, so Mommy had it for a snack after we got home.
I am now taking my nap. I can't wait to see you again, Daddy. I love you very much. Will you come with us to pick up my kuyas later? They don't get off till 4:45, so Mommy thinks it would be a good time to stop by the bowling alley to put down a deposit for Kuya Joey's surprise birthday party. I'll see you later!
Love, LANCE
Saturday, November 01, 2003
BORIS' INCREDIBLE JOURNEY
Got a strange message on my voice mail today...some man named Gary Potter called to say he had my cat, Boris, and "did I want him back?". I had lost Boris, my Russian Blue, some ten months ago, when I exiled him to the backyard for chewing the molding around my powder room door. When I was ready to make friends again (after having sufficiently cooled off), I looked for him in my backyard and he was gone.
Of course, this being the dead of winter, I expected the worst. Boris was the biggest fraidy-cat you could ever imagine. He was also de-clawed, which meant he had no way to defend himself against territorial cats, predatory dogs, and the elements besides.
We had gotten Boris shortly after moving into our house in Modesto. My husband came home from fishing one night to find me almost beside myself, hysterical after seeing a big frog hopping around in my laundry room. I have always had an irrational fear of frogs, which was exacerbated when a tiny one landed on my head when I was a teenager.
Lorenzo took stock of the situation and promised to get me a cat for our anniversary. This took a lot for my husband to say, since he was never a cat person. I had always pleaded and entreated for a cat, but we would always get stuck in the negotiation process, because Lorenzo was seriously lobbying for a dog.
We went to the animal shelter the very next day. A Morris lookalike, a huge orange tabby named Old Yeller, first caught my eye, but when they took him out of the cage for us to examine, I didn't like the way he smelled. Good thing, because I really had my heart set on getting a big Russian Blue anyway.
Boris was a personality right from the start. When I first saw him, he was sleeping in his cage. I woke him up and he came to the front so I started petting him through the wire. The animal worker then called me to show me another Russian Blue that was already available for adoption. When I saw the other Blue, I wasn't too interested because it was a female and quite small, so I went back to Boris. He was lying at the back of his cage again, but when I called him this time, he wouldn't come to me, as if to say "I've already wasted my time on you once, I'm not about to do it again." I did everything to lure him to the front of the cage, because by then I had already seen that he was a beauty. Still he wouldn't come. Finally, when I said, "Please?", he stood up as if he understood, came to the front of the cage to be petted, and I was hooked for life.
We couldn't adopt Boris that day because the 4-day waiting period wasn't over, so he wasn't available for adoption until the next day. I spent the whole night thinking about my cat and praying that no one else would grab him from under my nose. I was afraid his owner would come for him before I came back. I was delighted to find Boris still there the next morning, and we took him home!
Unfortunately, my cat's glorious homecoming was short-lived. We soon found out that Boris was perfectly capable of ignoring vermin. If Mickey ever held a diminutive Thanksgiving Parade right under his nose, he would probably yawn, face the other way and pointedly look bored, the very picture of contempt. There would be no mistaking his message: "Is that all you can come up with?".
The seeds of discontent were again taking root at the Sereno household. To quiet my husband's accusations of "false advertisement", I decided to hire an exterminator to get rid of mice and frogs alike. But I was determined that someone else would take the fall along with me, so I wrote the following letter to my (then) landlord:
February 20, 2002
Dear Jim,
If you remember, shortly after we moved into your house, I informed you that I saw a mouse in the kitchen. I also told you then that I had gotten a cat, and was hopeful that this would take care of the problem.
Unfortunately, it was soon obvious that my cat was more interested in finding new and more creative ways to take cat naps, and the mice (savvy creatures that they were) had taken full advantage of this fact. The wee creatures were getting bolder by the day. One even took it upon himself to entertain me by frolicking in my dish drainer. The fact that it was stacked full of newly washed dishes (that eventually had to be washed again) did not amuse me one bit.
The final straw was when Lorenzo discovered little spots of moisture in our new family room couch. At first, we couldn’t figure out what it was, until we looked again at a later time and saw mouse droppings in the same area. This was the same piece of furniture that was delivered the day you came here, barely three weeks ago. The enterprising little things had found a way into my couch before I could even send Levitz my first payment.
Perhaps the mice would have shown us a little more respect if we had a snake like you guys. Unfortunately, with Boris the Amazing Sleeping Cat to take over the cudgels, we were pushovers. I had to take matters into my own hands, so I hired Step Aside Exterminators to take care of the dirty little details. So far, we have trapped nine of the pesky critters.
I would like to request that the initial payment of $70 be taken out of next month’s rent, if that’s all right with you. This covers the initial treatment of the house. We will, of course, take care of the $35 monthly fee. I am enclosing a copy of the Service Agreement for your records.
I hope everything is well with you. Please call if you have any questions.
Best Regards, Renee Sereno
My landlord knew better than to argue the issue, and we got our $70 back.
Flash back to the present: I returned Gary Potter's call, and got the full details of Boris' Incredible Journey. They were in the middle of renovating their place when Boris arrived. According to Mr. Potter, he looked like the cat in "Pet Sematary", only worse because he had fallen into a can of paint. He would also guard his food so ferociously, spitting like a firecracker when the other cats came near, even chasing after the family German Shepherd on more than one occasion. In fact, he was so wild they called him "Hell Cat". I couldn't believe my ears...Boris, my proper, respectable, mild-mannered Dr. Jekyll, had a hidden Mr. Hyde unbeknownst to all!
Anyway, to make a long story short, Boris found his way to Mrs. Potter's heart, and some 10 months later, she told her husband to take him to the vet to make sure his shots were current. Of course, at the vet's they scanned him for a microchip and voila! my name came up as his rightful owner.
I explained to Mr. Potter that I had already adopted a Pit Bull in the interim, and Spot would end up having Boris for lunch. He heaved a sigh of relief, revealing that his wife had already fallen in love with the cat anyway. However, he graciously informed me that I was welcome to come and visit Boris anytime I wanted. Since he barely lived a block away from me, I decided to take him up on his offer right then and there.
I took the kids, who were excited to go to Gary Potter's house, thinking I was saying "Harry Potter" all along. I was thrilled at the prospect of seeing Boris again, after having given him up for dead. I was not disappointed. It was still the same old Boris, packing on a few more pounds than usual. He quickly recognized me, and ran to me, purring. This was the same cat that used to lie across my chest. The same cat who kept me company in front of my computer. And he was alive! Gloriously alive!
When it was time to say goodbye, I gathered my two boys and herded them to the van. Boris was nowhere to be found. I was a little sad, but piled my two rugrats into the van anyway. When it was time to pull out of the Potter's circular drive, I spotted a familiar figure sitting in front of the house, barely two meters away. My cat had come to say goodbye after all.
He sat there, as still as a statue, until we were out of sight. I know, because I doubled right back and drove past the house again, and he was still sitting there. Still unable to resist, I turned back again for just one last glance, and saw Boris walking toward the house, sniffing curiously at the bushes in front. I waved my last goodbye, yelling "Bye, Boris, I love you!"
And we rode off into the sunset.
Got a strange message on my voice mail today...some man named Gary Potter called to say he had my cat, Boris, and "did I want him back?". I had lost Boris, my Russian Blue, some ten months ago, when I exiled him to the backyard for chewing the molding around my powder room door. When I was ready to make friends again (after having sufficiently cooled off), I looked for him in my backyard and he was gone.
Of course, this being the dead of winter, I expected the worst. Boris was the biggest fraidy-cat you could ever imagine. He was also de-clawed, which meant he had no way to defend himself against territorial cats, predatory dogs, and the elements besides.
We had gotten Boris shortly after moving into our house in Modesto. My husband came home from fishing one night to find me almost beside myself, hysterical after seeing a big frog hopping around in my laundry room. I have always had an irrational fear of frogs, which was exacerbated when a tiny one landed on my head when I was a teenager.
Lorenzo took stock of the situation and promised to get me a cat for our anniversary. This took a lot for my husband to say, since he was never a cat person. I had always pleaded and entreated for a cat, but we would always get stuck in the negotiation process, because Lorenzo was seriously lobbying for a dog.
We went to the animal shelter the very next day. A Morris lookalike, a huge orange tabby named Old Yeller, first caught my eye, but when they took him out of the cage for us to examine, I didn't like the way he smelled. Good thing, because I really had my heart set on getting a big Russian Blue anyway.
Boris was a personality right from the start. When I first saw him, he was sleeping in his cage. I woke him up and he came to the front so I started petting him through the wire. The animal worker then called me to show me another Russian Blue that was already available for adoption. When I saw the other Blue, I wasn't too interested because it was a female and quite small, so I went back to Boris. He was lying at the back of his cage again, but when I called him this time, he wouldn't come to me, as if to say "I've already wasted my time on you once, I'm not about to do it again." I did everything to lure him to the front of the cage, because by then I had already seen that he was a beauty. Still he wouldn't come. Finally, when I said, "Please?", he stood up as if he understood, came to the front of the cage to be petted, and I was hooked for life.
We couldn't adopt Boris that day because the 4-day waiting period wasn't over, so he wasn't available for adoption until the next day. I spent the whole night thinking about my cat and praying that no one else would grab him from under my nose. I was afraid his owner would come for him before I came back. I was delighted to find Boris still there the next morning, and we took him home!
Unfortunately, my cat's glorious homecoming was short-lived. We soon found out that Boris was perfectly capable of ignoring vermin. If Mickey ever held a diminutive Thanksgiving Parade right under his nose, he would probably yawn, face the other way and pointedly look bored, the very picture of contempt. There would be no mistaking his message: "Is that all you can come up with?".
The seeds of discontent were again taking root at the Sereno household. To quiet my husband's accusations of "false advertisement", I decided to hire an exterminator to get rid of mice and frogs alike. But I was determined that someone else would take the fall along with me, so I wrote the following letter to my (then) landlord:
February 20, 2002
Dear Jim,
If you remember, shortly after we moved into your house, I informed you that I saw a mouse in the kitchen. I also told you then that I had gotten a cat, and was hopeful that this would take care of the problem.
Unfortunately, it was soon obvious that my cat was more interested in finding new and more creative ways to take cat naps, and the mice (savvy creatures that they were) had taken full advantage of this fact. The wee creatures were getting bolder by the day. One even took it upon himself to entertain me by frolicking in my dish drainer. The fact that it was stacked full of newly washed dishes (that eventually had to be washed again) did not amuse me one bit.
The final straw was when Lorenzo discovered little spots of moisture in our new family room couch. At first, we couldn’t figure out what it was, until we looked again at a later time and saw mouse droppings in the same area. This was the same piece of furniture that was delivered the day you came here, barely three weeks ago. The enterprising little things had found a way into my couch before I could even send Levitz my first payment.
Perhaps the mice would have shown us a little more respect if we had a snake like you guys. Unfortunately, with Boris the Amazing Sleeping Cat to take over the cudgels, we were pushovers. I had to take matters into my own hands, so I hired Step Aside Exterminators to take care of the dirty little details. So far, we have trapped nine of the pesky critters.
I would like to request that the initial payment of $70 be taken out of next month’s rent, if that’s all right with you. This covers the initial treatment of the house. We will, of course, take care of the $35 monthly fee. I am enclosing a copy of the Service Agreement for your records.
I hope everything is well with you. Please call if you have any questions.
Best Regards, Renee Sereno
My landlord knew better than to argue the issue, and we got our $70 back.
Flash back to the present: I returned Gary Potter's call, and got the full details of Boris' Incredible Journey. They were in the middle of renovating their place when Boris arrived. According to Mr. Potter, he looked like the cat in "Pet Sematary", only worse because he had fallen into a can of paint. He would also guard his food so ferociously, spitting like a firecracker when the other cats came near, even chasing after the family German Shepherd on more than one occasion. In fact, he was so wild they called him "Hell Cat". I couldn't believe my ears...Boris, my proper, respectable, mild-mannered Dr. Jekyll, had a hidden Mr. Hyde unbeknownst to all!
Anyway, to make a long story short, Boris found his way to Mrs. Potter's heart, and some 10 months later, she told her husband to take him to the vet to make sure his shots were current. Of course, at the vet's they scanned him for a microchip and voila! my name came up as his rightful owner.
I explained to Mr. Potter that I had already adopted a Pit Bull in the interim, and Spot would end up having Boris for lunch. He heaved a sigh of relief, revealing that his wife had already fallen in love with the cat anyway. However, he graciously informed me that I was welcome to come and visit Boris anytime I wanted. Since he barely lived a block away from me, I decided to take him up on his offer right then and there.
I took the kids, who were excited to go to Gary Potter's house, thinking I was saying "Harry Potter" all along. I was thrilled at the prospect of seeing Boris again, after having given him up for dead. I was not disappointed. It was still the same old Boris, packing on a few more pounds than usual. He quickly recognized me, and ran to me, purring. This was the same cat that used to lie across my chest. The same cat who kept me company in front of my computer. And he was alive! Gloriously alive!
When it was time to say goodbye, I gathered my two boys and herded them to the van. Boris was nowhere to be found. I was a little sad, but piled my two rugrats into the van anyway. When it was time to pull out of the Potter's circular drive, I spotted a familiar figure sitting in front of the house, barely two meters away. My cat had come to say goodbye after all.
He sat there, as still as a statue, until we were out of sight. I know, because I doubled right back and drove past the house again, and he was still sitting there. Still unable to resist, I turned back again for just one last glance, and saw Boris walking toward the house, sniffing curiously at the bushes in front. I waved my last goodbye, yelling "Bye, Boris, I love you!"
And we rode off into the sunset.
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