THE PASSION AND THE FURY
Yesterday, we spent the better part of our day scouting movie theaters for the first available screening of Mel Gibson's controversial movie, "The Passion of the Christ".
Our first stop was Brenden Theater in downtown Modesto. We got there at 2:50 PM, well before the 3:20 matinee, but the long lines told us everything we had to know. Even at that early hour, the 3:20 and 4:20 shows were already sold out. We bought tickets for the next available screening, which wasn't until 6:20 that evening, and resigned ourselves to finding other things to do to while away the time.
My husband, Lorenzo, wanted to go home to find me something else to wear. This little outing was a big deal to us, our first date in what seems to be ages. Unfortunately, I had to dress for it hurriedly because his sister, Selina, and her husband, Gino, arrived early for our double date. Lorenzo was in the process of picking out a nice maternity outfit for me when they rang the bell, and I knew he was somewhat piqued at their promptness. I was tickled pink at my husband's concern. Since our relationship started, he had always looked to me as his fashion consultant. It was nice to be at the receiving end for a change. Sadly, our two companions didn't seem to be too receptive to the idea of going all the way home for a wardrobe change. Oh well...
Instead I suggested that we check out other movie houses in the area for an earlier show. The second theater we went to wasn't much better. They were all sold out until the 9PM screening. There was one last place left, another Cineplex down the road, in the nearby town of Riverbank. We got there at 3:30, and snatched up 4 tickets for the 4:55 matinee. We called up Brenden, and upon being assured we could return our tickets for a full cash refund, settled in for mochas at the JavaStar house cafe.
We didn't get to sip our lattes at leisure. Even before the clock struck four, the line outside Theater 9 had already snaked its way past us. We reluctantly left our table and joined the queue. Lorenzo gallantly told his sister and me to sit at a nearby bench while he held our place in line. Gino went to the concession stand to buy hot dogs, popcorn and sodas. We ended up eating our movie fare even before the movie started, but considering how much blood and gore we were exposed to during the film, I was glad we ate early.
At about ten minutes to five, people started emptying out into the hallway from Theater 9. I figured these were viewers from the last screening of "Passion", but I had to be sure.
I flagged a woman passing in front of me. "Excuse me," I asked, "what movie did you see?"
"Jesus," she replied. Close enough. At least our long wait was over. In a few minutes, we would be filing into the theater and witnessing the most talked-about movie these days. I turned an observing eye at the slow procession in front of me. Most of the women were red-eyed. I check our concession box for napkins, and see a huge wad between the popcorn and the soda. Good. We were covered in that department.
The people were still coming out of the theater. I stopped another woman and asked her another question: "Was it violent?" I had heard conflicting reports about the movie, and I wanted a first-hand account. As I expected, a quick "yes" was the reply.
I was getting more curious by the second. The question that was REALLY uppermost in my mind was "Is the movie anti-Semitic?" but this was hardly the most PC of questions. Instead, I formulated a more innocuous question:
"Did you think it was an accurate representation of the Historic Christ?"
I was scanning the faces to fish out the random bible scholar and was about to flag my next respondent when my sister-in-law hissed something in my ear. "Sandali na lang, bibigyan na kita ng mike!" I guess I was getting carried away with all my queries. I had to remind myself that I wasn't a news personality anymore. My days of polling vox populi were over.
The long line started moving forward. With a sigh of relief, we joined our husbands and filed into Theater 9. After choosing plum seats toward the rear, we settled in for the show.
What we witnessed was a re-enactment of Jesus' last day. And through it all, the blood and gore escalated, from His betrayal at the Garden of Gethsemane to His crucifixion at the cross of Calvary.
It was a well-made and well-acted film. But having said that, there were still a few things about the movie that bothered me.
First of all, I came out of the experience remarkably untouched. Sure, I shed a few tears during the most brutal sequences, what self-professed Christian wouldn't? But somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that Jim Caviezel wasn't really getting the beating of the century. I could envision various alalays running to his aid to wipe the fake blood and gore off as soon as Mel Gibson yelled, "CUT!" It also bothered me that every time I saw that creepy-looking actor who portrayed Satan, I was reminded of Marilyn Manson. Frankly, I WANTED to be moved by the whole thing. I wanted to feel what my Mother felt when we watched "Jesus of Nazareth", shamelessly crying and holding us close during that infamous baby-killing scene.
Actually, to be totally fair, I DID have one such moment. Amid all the violence, one simple scene stayed in my mind, made more remarkable by the very absence of blood and gore. It was Mary's flashback sequence, when she ran to her child, Jesus, after he fell. As a mother, this image brought out the most primal protective instinct from within me. The child-actor they used was also tow-headed like my baby boy, Troy. I could imagine my sweet toddler stumbling and hurting himself, and I wanted to beam myself out of that theater so I could protect Troy from ever falling, carrying my beloved baby in my arms for the rest of his life if need be.
(Moved by motherly urges, I called my babysitter, Brenda, on the cell, and asked about my precious boys. To my relief, they were fine. I told her not to let them run around anyway, just for good measure.)
I admire Mel Gibson, who once again shows his mettle as a director, and Jim Caviezel, whose versatility and range is unquestioned. I did not think the movie was anti-Semitic. In fact, for a religious movie, Gibson does not proselytize, and for that he deserves kudos. Instead, the director took on the role of objective reporter, showing events as they happened without sugar-coating the nasty stuff. If the Jews who favor boycotting the film think otherwise, they can just deal with it. They cannot change the facts: Jesus was born a Jew, raised a Jew, and was condemned to death by His very own people, who refused to believe He was the Moshiach (Messiah) sent to deliver them to the Promised Land. To this day, many people of Jewish faith are still waiting for their Moshiach to enter the gates of Jerusalem in a white horse. What the movie tells them, in essence, is that they've already missed the boat. And they do not like to hear this, especially coming from goyim (Gentiles) like Mel Gibson.
I know what I'm talking about because I, too, was once married to a Jewish man, and our son is still being raised in a proper Jewish manner. In a couple of years, Max will be having his Bar Mitzvah, and I will be part of the ceremony, because I am his mother. Apart from that, I have always had qualms about raising my child in a religion that looks at Jesus Christ as a mere mortal. A Holy Man, a Prophet even, but not the one and only Messiah.
Such is the basis of all the controversy surrounding the film. Still, there is no denying that this movie, which has raised so much passion and fury, is Oscar material. However, that also spells out its largest limitation. With all the research behind it, I'm sure it's by far the most realistic film portrayal of what happened the day Jesus died. But with all the hue and cry, all the boycotts and ballyhoos, it is, after all, only a movie. And if you really think about it, can a reenactment of an event over twenty centuries past really be that accurate?
I know it sounds pretty jaded, but I don't need a big-budget cinematic version of Jesus' last day to remind me of His ultimate sacrifice. Quite frankly, I have felt more moving experiences while singing His praises in church. It was that profound, "make-your-skin-crawl" feeling of awe I was expecting to feel, but didn't quite achieve while watching the movie. If anything, the graphic depiction of violence demeaned the whole experience, trivializing the very Passion which the director hoped to convey. I don't need to see each open wound, each lash of the whip, each slow tormented step down the Via Dolorosa, in order to feel the extent of His suffering. I don't need a Hollywood movie to remind me. I already knew this when I accepted Him as my personal Lord and Savior. And when I was baptized by immersion, in accordance with His commandment, I symbolically died with Him and was resurrected with Him. Now THAT'S a moving experience.
If anything, I hope the Lord uses this movie as a tool to touch the lives of those who have yet to hear His most important message: The only way to the Father is through the Son. In Christ ALONE can we find salvation. I hope this movie moves people to read more about Jesus' life, His teachings, and the main reason for His death, "so that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish, but have everlasting life." (John 3:16)
You can look this up in the best resource material the Lord provided us, the Holy Bible. Sure, the Good Book, which predates that first Good Friday by many millenia, is also said to be based partly on conjecture. But Christians the world over have that one all-important ingredient to fill in the gaps in credibility.
It's called FAITH.
Sunday, February 29, 2004
Thursday, February 19, 2004
BREAK-IN NEWS STORY
I am terribly on edge.
Yesterday afternoon, someone broke into Vanna, our white minivan. We were going out to fill a prescription when my husband noticed that all our doors were unlocked, and the hood was popped ajar. Upon entering the vehicle, he also observed that the parking brake was disengaged and our glove compartment was gaping open.
We discovered this at around 4:00 in the afternoon. About 10 minutes later, en route to our appointment, we noticed that the dashboard clock registered a different time, 2:40. Aha...a clue! This told us that whoever tried to steal our van turned on our battery exactly two hours and forty minutes before. We make it a point to uncouple our battery every night ever since our key got stuck in the ignition. Whenever we turn the car on again, the dashboard clock displays "12:00". With careful calculation, we ascertained that whoever made the attempt was bold enough to do it at 1:30 that afternoon, in full view of everyone! Whoever this guy was, he certainly had chutzpah!
Good thing my Dodge Grand Caravan came with a theft-deterrent system. That certainly spelled the difference between success and failure. Actually, I wasn't surprised at the outcome of this first attempt at Grand Theft Auto. Our theft-deterrent system was so efficient, it was oftentimes a "trip-deterrent system" for us!
When Lorenzo got Vanna for me for my 32nd birthday, we weren't endeared to her theft-deterrent system, which required us to push a remote-controlled button attached to our key chain in order for her to start. There were times when we had to wait excruciating minutes before we heard the familiar click that meant we could start the van. This would indicate that we needed new batteries for the remote, which usually meant a mad scramble to the mall just before Radio Shack closed. Now why, you wonder, wouldn't they just buy extra batteries and spare themselves the hassle? Because the darn batteries are so infinitesimally small that we lose them as soon as we buy them.
Many times, Lorenzo and I considered having this theft-deterrent system taken off. But this would mean taking our van back to the dealership, shelling the $400 to have the stupid key taken off the ignition, and probably another $400 besides to have the whole system reconfigured. And THEN we'd reconsider. After all, what's an extra minute or so to pop the hood and uncouple the battery?
Besides, there's this whole macho mystique about an open hood. All over the country, millions of men impress millions of their female partners by the mere act of popping their bonnets, an act which somehow adds 100 points to a man's car IQ, never mind if he just mistakenly pressed the hood button instead of the gas compartment lever, and since it was already open, he might as well check the water and the oil, if only he could find where they were actually LOCATED. By this time, the lone female passenger would be reduced to putty, impressed at how MANLY her partner was dealing with "this whole car thing" (sigh!).
Anyway, I digress. Our initial ocular inspection revealed that nothing was taken from our belongings. All our jackets were still there, including Troy's new expensive Baby Gap jacket. Lorenzo's military papers were undisturbed. The top was taken off his box of office paraphernalia, but apart from this, everything else was intact. Even my glove compartment, which was gaping wide open, still had my old credit card bills. Whoever had broken in was clearly not interested in identity theft, thank goodness! I wasn't worried about my car registration being stolen, since I never keep a copy in any of my vehicles anyway. I choose to keep them in my wallet, in anticipation of robbery attempts such as this.
Which brings us to the mystery of it all. Why would this person take all the trouble of breaking into our van in an effort to steal it, and then, encountering failure, just leave everything untouched? Your regular, run-of-the-mill hoodlum would normally take off with every item that was not nailed down, or at least lash out in frustration by breaking a headlight or two.
Hmmm, it almost makes you wonder...did we have here the most improbable of oxymorons, a gentleman thief? Highly unlikely. Maybe he turned penitent upon seeing my Bible in the compartment under my seat? Even more unlikely. In all probability, the moron was probably spooked out of his malicious intentions, either by the appearance of a neighbor, or even (my favorite theory) a friendly ghost!
Laugh if you will, but my family members will attest to the time a robber entered our house at "87 gentle street" in the middle of the night, and ran off in such a fright, he forgot his slippers in the kitchen! The poor luckless fool left the front door wide open, but everything else was untouched. We were all convinced that the thief had a "close encounter of another kind" with our late Lolo. We three sisters aren't strangers to stories like this. A number of other spirits have revealed themselves to a number other guests in our house, but they never bothered us for some reason. I guess our resident status somehow granted us immunity!
All this speculation does not take away from the most important detail of all: we were very blessed that nothing was taken from us, and we thank the Lord for his protection. As it is, with all of our belongings accounted for, we still feel somewhat violated that someone had the audacity to break into our van, safely parked in our driveway, our own PERSONAL SPACE, in broad daylight!
It makes you question man's inherent nature, the soundness of his morality. Is society as we know it mired in such a cesspool of apathy, nobody bothers to teach their kids the importance of respecting other people's property anymore? Will the next generation be able to clamber out of the quagmire, or are the Elois among us slowly dwindling to the rising number of Morelocks?
As I wind up this entry in the wee hours of the morning, I see my husband descend the stairs. Lorenzo is fully dressed and decked with a warm jacket. I ask him where he is going and he says "out to the van". He goes to our fireplace and picks out a particularly nasty-looking poker. Earlier, he told me he was considering spending the night in the back seat, waiting for, even DARING the thief to come back! With his Army infantry background, working closely with the DEA and US Customs in covert operations, it wasn't such a stretch of the imagination to see Lorenzo jumping Rambo-like from Troy's car seat, raining bullets and the odd fireplace poker at anyone who comes within two meters of our minivan.
I rush to my husband in alarm, trying to talk him out of his bravado. Lorenzo gives me a smile, and a warm reassuring hug. Turns out he was just teasing. He told me he was just about to go out and move the driver's seat all the way to the front, to make it harder for anyone to sneak in comfortably. He would also turn on the heater full-blast, put the headlights on bright, and switch the hazards on besides. Finally (and for good measure), he would pump up the volume of our radio all the way to max. If anyone ever tried to engage our battery, the whole neighborhood would know.
More importantly, if this thief makes the mistake or returning to our booby-trapped van, I hope he jumps out of his skin so badly that he'd be instantly cured of his errant ways. Actually, at this point, I would happily settle for a badly damaged eardrum. Now THAT I would find most gratifying. Only then can we call it quits.
Lorenzo slips out into the foggy night. I run upstairs to our master bedroom window, making sure my husband isn't mugged on his way to our driveway. I watch him as he enters the van, keeping an eagle eye out for any suspicious shadows, ready to dash to the phone to dial 911 if needed. Given the circumstances of the past 24 hours, I do not mind erring on the side of caution. Not when my precious husband is concerned. Besides, there is no such thing as being too safe.
In this crazy world we live in, you never know.
I am terribly on edge.
Yesterday afternoon, someone broke into Vanna, our white minivan. We were going out to fill a prescription when my husband noticed that all our doors were unlocked, and the hood was popped ajar. Upon entering the vehicle, he also observed that the parking brake was disengaged and our glove compartment was gaping open.
We discovered this at around 4:00 in the afternoon. About 10 minutes later, en route to our appointment, we noticed that the dashboard clock registered a different time, 2:40. Aha...a clue! This told us that whoever tried to steal our van turned on our battery exactly two hours and forty minutes before. We make it a point to uncouple our battery every night ever since our key got stuck in the ignition. Whenever we turn the car on again, the dashboard clock displays "12:00". With careful calculation, we ascertained that whoever made the attempt was bold enough to do it at 1:30 that afternoon, in full view of everyone! Whoever this guy was, he certainly had chutzpah!
Good thing my Dodge Grand Caravan came with a theft-deterrent system. That certainly spelled the difference between success and failure. Actually, I wasn't surprised at the outcome of this first attempt at Grand Theft Auto. Our theft-deterrent system was so efficient, it was oftentimes a "trip-deterrent system" for us!
When Lorenzo got Vanna for me for my 32nd birthday, we weren't endeared to her theft-deterrent system, which required us to push a remote-controlled button attached to our key chain in order for her to start. There were times when we had to wait excruciating minutes before we heard the familiar click that meant we could start the van. This would indicate that we needed new batteries for the remote, which usually meant a mad scramble to the mall just before Radio Shack closed. Now why, you wonder, wouldn't they just buy extra batteries and spare themselves the hassle? Because the darn batteries are so infinitesimally small that we lose them as soon as we buy them.
Many times, Lorenzo and I considered having this theft-deterrent system taken off. But this would mean taking our van back to the dealership, shelling the $400 to have the stupid key taken off the ignition, and probably another $400 besides to have the whole system reconfigured. And THEN we'd reconsider. After all, what's an extra minute or so to pop the hood and uncouple the battery?
Besides, there's this whole macho mystique about an open hood. All over the country, millions of men impress millions of their female partners by the mere act of popping their bonnets, an act which somehow adds 100 points to a man's car IQ, never mind if he just mistakenly pressed the hood button instead of the gas compartment lever, and since it was already open, he might as well check the water and the oil, if only he could find where they were actually LOCATED. By this time, the lone female passenger would be reduced to putty, impressed at how MANLY her partner was dealing with "this whole car thing" (sigh!).
Anyway, I digress. Our initial ocular inspection revealed that nothing was taken from our belongings. All our jackets were still there, including Troy's new expensive Baby Gap jacket. Lorenzo's military papers were undisturbed. The top was taken off his box of office paraphernalia, but apart from this, everything else was intact. Even my glove compartment, which was gaping wide open, still had my old credit card bills. Whoever had broken in was clearly not interested in identity theft, thank goodness! I wasn't worried about my car registration being stolen, since I never keep a copy in any of my vehicles anyway. I choose to keep them in my wallet, in anticipation of robbery attempts such as this.
Which brings us to the mystery of it all. Why would this person take all the trouble of breaking into our van in an effort to steal it, and then, encountering failure, just leave everything untouched? Your regular, run-of-the-mill hoodlum would normally take off with every item that was not nailed down, or at least lash out in frustration by breaking a headlight or two.
Hmmm, it almost makes you wonder...did we have here the most improbable of oxymorons, a gentleman thief? Highly unlikely. Maybe he turned penitent upon seeing my Bible in the compartment under my seat? Even more unlikely. In all probability, the moron was probably spooked out of his malicious intentions, either by the appearance of a neighbor, or even (my favorite theory) a friendly ghost!
Laugh if you will, but my family members will attest to the time a robber entered our house at "87 gentle street" in the middle of the night, and ran off in such a fright, he forgot his slippers in the kitchen! The poor luckless fool left the front door wide open, but everything else was untouched. We were all convinced that the thief had a "close encounter of another kind" with our late Lolo. We three sisters aren't strangers to stories like this. A number of other spirits have revealed themselves to a number other guests in our house, but they never bothered us for some reason. I guess our resident status somehow granted us immunity!
All this speculation does not take away from the most important detail of all: we were very blessed that nothing was taken from us, and we thank the Lord for his protection. As it is, with all of our belongings accounted for, we still feel somewhat violated that someone had the audacity to break into our van, safely parked in our driveway, our own PERSONAL SPACE, in broad daylight!
It makes you question man's inherent nature, the soundness of his morality. Is society as we know it mired in such a cesspool of apathy, nobody bothers to teach their kids the importance of respecting other people's property anymore? Will the next generation be able to clamber out of the quagmire, or are the Elois among us slowly dwindling to the rising number of Morelocks?
As I wind up this entry in the wee hours of the morning, I see my husband descend the stairs. Lorenzo is fully dressed and decked with a warm jacket. I ask him where he is going and he says "out to the van". He goes to our fireplace and picks out a particularly nasty-looking poker. Earlier, he told me he was considering spending the night in the back seat, waiting for, even DARING the thief to come back! With his Army infantry background, working closely with the DEA and US Customs in covert operations, it wasn't such a stretch of the imagination to see Lorenzo jumping Rambo-like from Troy's car seat, raining bullets and the odd fireplace poker at anyone who comes within two meters of our minivan.
I rush to my husband in alarm, trying to talk him out of his bravado. Lorenzo gives me a smile, and a warm reassuring hug. Turns out he was just teasing. He told me he was just about to go out and move the driver's seat all the way to the front, to make it harder for anyone to sneak in comfortably. He would also turn on the heater full-blast, put the headlights on bright, and switch the hazards on besides. Finally (and for good measure), he would pump up the volume of our radio all the way to max. If anyone ever tried to engage our battery, the whole neighborhood would know.
More importantly, if this thief makes the mistake or returning to our booby-trapped van, I hope he jumps out of his skin so badly that he'd be instantly cured of his errant ways. Actually, at this point, I would happily settle for a badly damaged eardrum. Now THAT I would find most gratifying. Only then can we call it quits.
Lorenzo slips out into the foggy night. I run upstairs to our master bedroom window, making sure my husband isn't mugged on his way to our driveway. I watch him as he enters the van, keeping an eagle eye out for any suspicious shadows, ready to dash to the phone to dial 911 if needed. Given the circumstances of the past 24 hours, I do not mind erring on the side of caution. Not when my precious husband is concerned. Besides, there is no such thing as being too safe.
In this crazy world we live in, you never know.
Saturday, February 14, 2004
SEVEN'S A CHARM (A Valentine's Diary Through The Years)
Today is our seventh Valentine's Day together.
I mentally check my checkered past and come up with a startling discovery. This is actually the most number of Valentine dates I've ever had with any man! My husband, Lorenzo, has beaten records set by my ex-husband (6 years) and ex-fiancee (5 years). This is cause for celebration. Bring out the sparkling cider! (I'm 5 months pregnant. Can't indulge.)
I remember our first Valentine date just like it was yesterday...
Saturday, February 14, 1998
Had a lovely dinner at Vieux Chalet, a quaint Swiss restaurant situated in a secluded spot somewhere in the Antipolo hills. We have dinner by candlelight at the terrace overlooking Metro Manila's city lights. We celebrate Lorenzo's first TV commercial, Metrobank, where he played the lead (a naval officer), and his upcoming commercial for San Miguel Beer. We end up closing the restaurant, being the last ones to leave. After dinner, we meet our friends, Roel and Lynnette, who assist us in preparing for Lorenzo's bodybuilding competition (aptly called Mr. Valentine), which was to be held the next day. Lorenzo dedicates the contest to me and ends up winning the heavy-weight and over-all titles. Even then, he was already MY Mr. Valentine.
Our second Valentine's Day was even more romantic...
Sunday, February 14, 1999
We celebrate Valentine's weekend in Baguio. We drive to the mountain city with our trusty alalay, Belen, and our driver, Sam. Lorenzo found accommodations in a secluded mountain inn owned by a family friend. We are the first people to stay in their new honeymoon cottage (and I must say we broke it in quite well!). Monday afternoon we rush back to Manila in breakneck speed and make it just in time for my 5:30 newscast in Channel 9.
It was during this trip that we found out Belen was pregnant. This was a portent of things to come. Two months later, Lorenzo and I found out we were anticipating too. During the following months, my poor husband had to deal with stares from people whenever we went grocery shopping with Belen. I guess we were a curious sight to behold: a handsome, muscle-bound man with two pregnant women waddling in his wake!
By the time our third Valentine's Day came, we had already moved back to the States. Lance, our firstborn, was a thriving three-month-old, and I was ready to try my hand at broadcasting here in the US...
Monday, February 14, 2000
Sereno, party of eight? We celebrate Valentine's with my husband's family. We all have a lovely dinner at Nijo Castle, a Japanese steak place in Newark, CA. It is a quadruple-date, with no less than the patriarch and matriarch, Tatay and Nanay, at the helm. Aside from Lorenzo and me, there were his sister, Selina and her husband, Gino, and Lorenzo's youngest brother Jun with his girlfriend. Baby Lance also tagged along and behaved impeccably. There was another cause for celebration that evening. Earlier in the day, I got a call from Rose Shirinian, News Director of KTSF-TV26 in San Francisco. I had just been hired as stand-in producer and anchor of "The Filipino Report", a show which received high viewership in the Bay Area because it came out after "TV Patrol", and before "Balitang K".
When we were still living in the Philippines, it was such a trip to see Lorenzo's commercials being played during my newscast. Never in our wildest dreams did we think the same thing would happen here in the States. As it turned out, one of The Filipino Report's biggest sponsors was LBC, and guess who the played the commercial's lead? Ya got it...Lorenzo!
Our fourth Valentine's was fraught with tension. We were going through a rough time with Lorenzo's custody proceedings, and his kids ended up losing their maternal great-grandmother, who suffered a heart attack on Valentine's Day, the very morning of her daughter's wedding...
Wednesday, February 14, 2001
I was 3 months pregnant with Troy, but was still able to squeeze into Lorenzo's favorite outfit, a red and black pantsuit, which he surprised me with in Manila. We had a delicious, if somewhat somber, dinner at L'Indochine, a chic new French restaurant in our neighborhood. The set menu was superb and the ambiance, with its dark paneled wood, silk pillows, and discreetly curtained booths, was elegantly exotic, but we wonder if it was worth the $100 tab. It was hard to enjoy dinner with Lance, our precocious toddler, dropping food all over the floor. By the time the creme brulee was laid in front of us, we had just about had enough. We gobbled our dessert down and made a beeline for the exit, promising ourselves we'd come back to try the duck a l'orange next time, sans Lance. We never made it back. The recession took its toll on snooty eateries like L'Indochine. The last time I passed there, it had morphed into an Indian restaurant called Bollywood.
This was to be the last of our Valentine dates. I had Troy in July 2001, and we settled down to the business of raising a growing family. September 11 came and changed the lives of everyone in the US, including ours. We were afraid my husband would be called to help defend Homeland Security, because he was an Army Reservist who used to do active infantry duty. Anticipating this, we decided to move to Modesto, to be closer to our family support group of brothers and sisters-in-law, who proved to be invaluable when Lorenzo was called to NCO training when Troy was just a month old. We found a lovely house just around the block from Selina's, and within five minutes away from the homes of Lorenzo's other brothers, Simon and Sever.
Thursday, February 14, 2002
For some reason, I can't remember what we did on our fifth Valentine's together. I've been racking my brain since last year, but still come up blank. Could it be that we actually DIDN'T do anything for the day of hearts? I check my date book and find a single entry: "Troy - 5 pm, Dr. Foulds". Ahhh, a clue. Dr. Carol Foulds is a dermatologist in Kaiser Milpitas. I vaguely remember bringing Troy in for a consult for his atopic dermatitis. After the appointment, Lorenzo and I elected to drive back to Modesto and have dinner there, but details remain fuzzy. Must be the epidurals.
I make a mental note to check credit card records for this date. I simply MUST find out what we did for Valentine's that year. Lorenzo and I would NEVER let this day pass without celebrating. With our two babies, I'm sure we ate at some family place. A nice, quiet, romantic restaurant was out of the question. By then, we were already grounded in reality.
Friday, February 14, 2003
By this time, Lorenzo and I, former dance club denizens, were in full family mode. In fact, instead of buying my husband anything romantic, I ended up giving him a coffee table book on the Oscars, because its black, tan and red cover design complimented our living room set perfectly. I wrap it up in paper shamelessly adorned with hearts, and enlist the services of my brother-in-law, Simon, who slipped the present and accompanying card into my husband's cubicle without his knowing. I still have Lorenzo's surprised reply in my voice mail. Later that day, I serve him a home-cooked Valentine dinner: Caribbean Jerk Ribeye Steak with asparagus and rice. Later that year, our dog eats the coffee table book.
As I look back at our past Valentine celebrations, I couldn't help but detect a trend. Here is a tale of two people, hopelessly in love, learning to tailor their lives according to the circumstances the Lord sends their way. I am thankful for our first two Valentines, when we could still be giddy like high school kids, celebrating a second chance at love, reveling in each other. Our love flourished during this brief time, nurtured by new experiences, which would form the basis for wonderful memories which would sustain us through the years, through thick and thin. This would pave the way for our next two Valentines, where we would take our first tentative steps toward domesticity, our strong bond giving way to accommodate our infant son, Lance. As our love grew, so did our family, and with Troy's arrival came more compromises and lifestyle changes, where Valentine's Day celebrations took a turn from the romantic to the familial.
But through it all, the love remains, and it continues to grow to this day, feeding on new experiences and new memories. Expanding. Evolving. Encompassing everything we come into contact with, everyday.
Saturday, February 14, 2004
Today is our seventh Valentine's together. I didn't get my husband a present. I didn't even get him a card. But years have made us wiser, and we know that whatever form it takes, the best gift is that which comes from the heart.
Even as I type this, Lorenzo is making me breakfast in his avowed quest to "fatten me up" since my last prenatal appointment. I am five months pregnant with our first daughter, and my OB-Gyn was worried that I had only gained one pound in a month at a time when I should be gaining a pound a week. These past few days, my husband has taken to reminding me to eat every so often, but I can't get myself to be irritated with him. His obvious love and concern shines through everything he does, and I can't help but love him even more.
He hands me breakfast. A toasted bagel with garden vegetable cream cheese, orange juice and a banana. It is the best Valentine's breakfast anyone has ever made for me. I give him a kiss, and tell him I love him.
Happy Valentine's Day, my Love. You will always be my Mr. Valentine.
Today is our seventh Valentine's Day together.
I mentally check my checkered past and come up with a startling discovery. This is actually the most number of Valentine dates I've ever had with any man! My husband, Lorenzo, has beaten records set by my ex-husband (6 years) and ex-fiancee (5 years). This is cause for celebration. Bring out the sparkling cider! (I'm 5 months pregnant. Can't indulge.)
I remember our first Valentine date just like it was yesterday...
Saturday, February 14, 1998
Had a lovely dinner at Vieux Chalet, a quaint Swiss restaurant situated in a secluded spot somewhere in the Antipolo hills. We have dinner by candlelight at the terrace overlooking Metro Manila's city lights. We celebrate Lorenzo's first TV commercial, Metrobank, where he played the lead (a naval officer), and his upcoming commercial for San Miguel Beer. We end up closing the restaurant, being the last ones to leave. After dinner, we meet our friends, Roel and Lynnette, who assist us in preparing for Lorenzo's bodybuilding competition (aptly called Mr. Valentine), which was to be held the next day. Lorenzo dedicates the contest to me and ends up winning the heavy-weight and over-all titles. Even then, he was already MY Mr. Valentine.
Our second Valentine's Day was even more romantic...
Sunday, February 14, 1999
We celebrate Valentine's weekend in Baguio. We drive to the mountain city with our trusty alalay, Belen, and our driver, Sam. Lorenzo found accommodations in a secluded mountain inn owned by a family friend. We are the first people to stay in their new honeymoon cottage (and I must say we broke it in quite well!). Monday afternoon we rush back to Manila in breakneck speed and make it just in time for my 5:30 newscast in Channel 9.
It was during this trip that we found out Belen was pregnant. This was a portent of things to come. Two months later, Lorenzo and I found out we were anticipating too. During the following months, my poor husband had to deal with stares from people whenever we went grocery shopping with Belen. I guess we were a curious sight to behold: a handsome, muscle-bound man with two pregnant women waddling in his wake!
By the time our third Valentine's Day came, we had already moved back to the States. Lance, our firstborn, was a thriving three-month-old, and I was ready to try my hand at broadcasting here in the US...
Monday, February 14, 2000
Sereno, party of eight? We celebrate Valentine's with my husband's family. We all have a lovely dinner at Nijo Castle, a Japanese steak place in Newark, CA. It is a quadruple-date, with no less than the patriarch and matriarch, Tatay and Nanay, at the helm. Aside from Lorenzo and me, there were his sister, Selina and her husband, Gino, and Lorenzo's youngest brother Jun with his girlfriend. Baby Lance also tagged along and behaved impeccably. There was another cause for celebration that evening. Earlier in the day, I got a call from Rose Shirinian, News Director of KTSF-TV26 in San Francisco. I had just been hired as stand-in producer and anchor of "The Filipino Report", a show which received high viewership in the Bay Area because it came out after "TV Patrol", and before "Balitang K".
When we were still living in the Philippines, it was such a trip to see Lorenzo's commercials being played during my newscast. Never in our wildest dreams did we think the same thing would happen here in the States. As it turned out, one of The Filipino Report's biggest sponsors was LBC, and guess who the played the commercial's lead? Ya got it...Lorenzo!
Our fourth Valentine's was fraught with tension. We were going through a rough time with Lorenzo's custody proceedings, and his kids ended up losing their maternal great-grandmother, who suffered a heart attack on Valentine's Day, the very morning of her daughter's wedding...
Wednesday, February 14, 2001
I was 3 months pregnant with Troy, but was still able to squeeze into Lorenzo's favorite outfit, a red and black pantsuit, which he surprised me with in Manila. We had a delicious, if somewhat somber, dinner at L'Indochine, a chic new French restaurant in our neighborhood. The set menu was superb and the ambiance, with its dark paneled wood, silk pillows, and discreetly curtained booths, was elegantly exotic, but we wonder if it was worth the $100 tab. It was hard to enjoy dinner with Lance, our precocious toddler, dropping food all over the floor. By the time the creme brulee was laid in front of us, we had just about had enough. We gobbled our dessert down and made a beeline for the exit, promising ourselves we'd come back to try the duck a l'orange next time, sans Lance. We never made it back. The recession took its toll on snooty eateries like L'Indochine. The last time I passed there, it had morphed into an Indian restaurant called Bollywood.
This was to be the last of our Valentine dates. I had Troy in July 2001, and we settled down to the business of raising a growing family. September 11 came and changed the lives of everyone in the US, including ours. We were afraid my husband would be called to help defend Homeland Security, because he was an Army Reservist who used to do active infantry duty. Anticipating this, we decided to move to Modesto, to be closer to our family support group of brothers and sisters-in-law, who proved to be invaluable when Lorenzo was called to NCO training when Troy was just a month old. We found a lovely house just around the block from Selina's, and within five minutes away from the homes of Lorenzo's other brothers, Simon and Sever.
Thursday, February 14, 2002
For some reason, I can't remember what we did on our fifth Valentine's together. I've been racking my brain since last year, but still come up blank. Could it be that we actually DIDN'T do anything for the day of hearts? I check my date book and find a single entry: "Troy - 5 pm, Dr. Foulds". Ahhh, a clue. Dr. Carol Foulds is a dermatologist in Kaiser Milpitas. I vaguely remember bringing Troy in for a consult for his atopic dermatitis. After the appointment, Lorenzo and I elected to drive back to Modesto and have dinner there, but details remain fuzzy. Must be the epidurals.
I make a mental note to check credit card records for this date. I simply MUST find out what we did for Valentine's that year. Lorenzo and I would NEVER let this day pass without celebrating. With our two babies, I'm sure we ate at some family place. A nice, quiet, romantic restaurant was out of the question. By then, we were already grounded in reality.
Friday, February 14, 2003
By this time, Lorenzo and I, former dance club denizens, were in full family mode. In fact, instead of buying my husband anything romantic, I ended up giving him a coffee table book on the Oscars, because its black, tan and red cover design complimented our living room set perfectly. I wrap it up in paper shamelessly adorned with hearts, and enlist the services of my brother-in-law, Simon, who slipped the present and accompanying card into my husband's cubicle without his knowing. I still have Lorenzo's surprised reply in my voice mail. Later that day, I serve him a home-cooked Valentine dinner: Caribbean Jerk Ribeye Steak with asparagus and rice. Later that year, our dog eats the coffee table book.
As I look back at our past Valentine celebrations, I couldn't help but detect a trend. Here is a tale of two people, hopelessly in love, learning to tailor their lives according to the circumstances the Lord sends their way. I am thankful for our first two Valentines, when we could still be giddy like high school kids, celebrating a second chance at love, reveling in each other. Our love flourished during this brief time, nurtured by new experiences, which would form the basis for wonderful memories which would sustain us through the years, through thick and thin. This would pave the way for our next two Valentines, where we would take our first tentative steps toward domesticity, our strong bond giving way to accommodate our infant son, Lance. As our love grew, so did our family, and with Troy's arrival came more compromises and lifestyle changes, where Valentine's Day celebrations took a turn from the romantic to the familial.
But through it all, the love remains, and it continues to grow to this day, feeding on new experiences and new memories. Expanding. Evolving. Encompassing everything we come into contact with, everyday.
Saturday, February 14, 2004
Today is our seventh Valentine's together. I didn't get my husband a present. I didn't even get him a card. But years have made us wiser, and we know that whatever form it takes, the best gift is that which comes from the heart.
Even as I type this, Lorenzo is making me breakfast in his avowed quest to "fatten me up" since my last prenatal appointment. I am five months pregnant with our first daughter, and my OB-Gyn was worried that I had only gained one pound in a month at a time when I should be gaining a pound a week. These past few days, my husband has taken to reminding me to eat every so often, but I can't get myself to be irritated with him. His obvious love and concern shines through everything he does, and I can't help but love him even more.
He hands me breakfast. A toasted bagel with garden vegetable cream cheese, orange juice and a banana. It is the best Valentine's breakfast anyone has ever made for me. I give him a kiss, and tell him I love him.
Happy Valentine's Day, my Love. You will always be my Mr. Valentine.
Sunday, December 28, 2003
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!"
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.
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