I am now officially a school mom. For the past few days, I have been "stealing" time off work to see how my daughter is faring in not-so-big school. I have been in the company of moms and yayas, some of whom have been through countless first-day-of-school fever.
The "friendlier" ones have exchanged contact numbers. Somebody has already fished out a catalogue and has since been convincing me to buy Tupperware. The yayas have formed the inescapable textmate-na-tayo bond, comparing notes not just on their wards but also on boyfriends and Friendster accounts. Who knows, they might just have progressed on to comparing notes about us, he he he.
From days of hanging around "stage" (there's one who, from the window keeps on egging her son to raise his hand) and "unstage" mothers, I can say that truly, preschool is the world in micro. There are bullies and brats, there are loudmouths and there are those who couldn't care less. There are those who jump right into the thick of things, those who need a little more prodding and there are those who cling, cling and cling some more.
I really feel that I am back in school, only this time, I already know the colors and the shapes. This time, I am watching a little girl learn. And I am also (re)learning to see things from a little girl's point of view.
Showing posts with label Mommy Files. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mommy Files. Show all posts
June 25, 2009
June 1, 2009
You're Not Wearing That!
In Church yesterday, I was distracted by this young girl--probably around eight--wearing a red shirt. The print was easy to make out even for my nowhere near 20/20 vision. It said:
sex.y
sexually arousing, exciting or interesting
radiating sexuality, alluring
as an illustration, see attached person
I'm no regular church-goer, and I won't even attempt to understand if it's appropriate or not. But one thing I'm sure of: my daughter won't be wearing that shirt. Not if I can help it, he he he.
sex.y
sexually arousing, exciting or interesting
radiating sexuality, alluring
as an illustration, see attached person
I'm no regular church-goer, and I won't even attempt to understand if it's appropriate or not. But one thing I'm sure of: my daughter won't be wearing that shirt. Not if I can help it, he he he.
January 29, 2009
A Real Headache
I went to church last Sunday and went home with a migraine. No, it wasn’t from the homily. It wasn’t from the pressure of being “good,” either. Instead, it was from the squeaky heels of this toddler whose parents obviously do not know the difference between cute and irritating.
As if the toddler with the squeaky shoes was not enough, there was this little girl who walked up the altar and proceeded to mount her own concert. Watching her teetering on the edge of the stairs—and eventually on the small foothold at the base of one of the cathedral’s columns—was disturbing enough. But what really stressed me out was the fact that the parents or whoever was with her never made the effort to get her to behave.
I don’t know, but there are some parents who need a dose of discipline themselves. They look the other way, not giving a hoot if their child is growing horns or assaulting the neighbor. They laugh off irritating pranks as innocent, harmless things that will make the kids more “macho,” more “street-wise,” more “worldly.”
I know of these parents who thought that they were doing the kid a favor by letting him have his way in anything. Well, the kid is now a pre-teen who drinks, gambles, smokes, swears and bullies.
I won’t stress myself any further thinking what the future holds for the two kids who gave me a migraine if their folks would continue looking the other way. This much I know, though: disciplining a child can be a minor head (and heart) ache. But better a slight discomfort now than a real headache later.
As if the toddler with the squeaky shoes was not enough, there was this little girl who walked up the altar and proceeded to mount her own concert. Watching her teetering on the edge of the stairs—and eventually on the small foothold at the base of one of the cathedral’s columns—was disturbing enough. But what really stressed me out was the fact that the parents or whoever was with her never made the effort to get her to behave.
I don’t know, but there are some parents who need a dose of discipline themselves. They look the other way, not giving a hoot if their child is growing horns or assaulting the neighbor. They laugh off irritating pranks as innocent, harmless things that will make the kids more “macho,” more “street-wise,” more “worldly.”
I know of these parents who thought that they were doing the kid a favor by letting him have his way in anything. Well, the kid is now a pre-teen who drinks, gambles, smokes, swears and bullies.
I won’t stress myself any further thinking what the future holds for the two kids who gave me a migraine if their folks would continue looking the other way. This much I know, though: disciplining a child can be a minor head (and heart) ache. But better a slight discomfort now than a real headache later.
November 28, 2008
Fashionista
Unlike my mom and my sisters, I didn't inherit the clotheshorse gene. I don't have a closetful of trendy clothes. I am, in fact. perfectly happy with a few slacks, a handful of blouses, jeans and some shirts. Skirts and dresses I have long given up on, especially after gaining these unflattering bulges.
Ah, but such is not the case with Gianna. Call it a cosmic joke, but I find it really funny that the universe gave me a fashionista for a daughter. The girl loves dressing up, and the frilly clothes are sometimes a tad too much for me. She loves pink, shiny-shimmery stuff and has actually taken to mounting "modeling" shows for the lolo and the lola. She is not wont to throw tantrums at the toy section or at the candy store, but if she doesn't get this fancy pair of shoes or that flashy belt, you might as well brace yourself for a whining, whimpering spell.
Recently, Gianna has been training a critical eye on my stuff. And she has come up with her fashionista "recommendations." Ixnay on those bureaucratic "uniforms." Try on (pink) stilettos. Wear (pink) strappy shirts to the office. And use (pink) ribbons on your hair.
I get it. She wants me to be her clone.
Note: The "ensemble" on the picture is a gift. And yes, I have since chucked the belt.
Ah, but such is not the case with Gianna. Call it a cosmic joke, but I find it really funny that the universe gave me a fashionista for a daughter. The girl loves dressing up, and the frilly clothes are sometimes a tad too much for me. She loves pink, shiny-shimmery stuff and has actually taken to mounting "modeling" shows for the lolo and the lola. She is not wont to throw tantrums at the toy section or at the candy store, but if she doesn't get this fancy pair of shoes or that flashy belt, you might as well brace yourself for a whining, whimpering spell.
Recently, Gianna has been training a critical eye on my stuff. And she has come up with her fashionista "recommendations." Ixnay on those bureaucratic "uniforms." Try on (pink) stilettos. Wear (pink) strappy shirts to the office. And use (pink) ribbons on your hair.
I get it. She wants me to be her clone.
Note: The "ensemble" on the picture is a gift. And yes, I have since chucked the belt.
August 3, 2008
Weekend
There is something about 5:30 p.m. on a Sunday that makes me want to cram so many things into what's left of the weekend. Suddenly, I want to clean, to organize, to scrapbook. Anything to make me think that I did have a productive weekend after all.
As it is, my weekends are broken down into slow, leisurely hours that have me lounging in house clothes. There is nothing about my Saturdays and Sundays that says "rush." Instead I have cultivated the art of idling: of two-day movie marathons, of doing everything and nothing.
On weekends, I am so many things. I am, among others, a storyteller, a magician, a pupil, a doctor, a playmate, a singer. I am a fan, an audience, an awestruck mom to a three-year-old who sees wonder in all things. Yes, even in a dead lizard.
Alas, weekends, too, have to end. Tomorrow, it will be back to my other world, where is no time to dawdle, where there are deadlines and dress codes. It is a world that I also love, although not with as much passion as my weekend world. And at 5:30 p.m., on a Sunday, I am slowly psyching myself for the transition.
As it is, my weekends are broken down into slow, leisurely hours that have me lounging in house clothes. There is nothing about my Saturdays and Sundays that says "rush." Instead I have cultivated the art of idling: of two-day movie marathons, of doing everything and nothing.
On weekends, I am so many things. I am, among others, a storyteller, a magician, a pupil, a doctor, a playmate, a singer. I am a fan, an audience, an awestruck mom to a three-year-old who sees wonder in all things. Yes, even in a dead lizard.
Alas, weekends, too, have to end. Tomorrow, it will be back to my other world, where is no time to dawdle, where there are deadlines and dress codes. It is a world that I also love, although not with as much passion as my weekend world. And at 5:30 p.m., on a Sunday, I am slowly psyching myself for the transition.
July 23, 2008
My Other Baby
There's this little girl who always makes me laugh: my niece Samantha. My other baby, I call her, and she is one spunky, highly opinionated kid who has mastered the fine art of wheedling. She insists she loves everybody in the universe except for one: me. But when I make a show of reaching for that bag of forbidden chocolates, she turns on the charm and swears she super loves me.
If there is such a thing as a pop baby, Sam is probably it. She knows all the songs in the HSM and Hairspray soundtracks. She thinks Chad--the guy with the curly hair--is the coolest person ever. She can sit in front of the TV for hours and can easily pick up dance steps, lyrics and tunes. And in her squeaky, elfish voice, she sings "suicidal, suicidal" and "Fabulous" over and over and over again.
Because they are so so different, Sam and Gianna are best friends slash worst enemies. You can never really tell with them. One moment they are all sweetness and light: as in sticky-glue sweet. Minutes later, they are at each others' throats, glued to each other Sumo-style.
Sam is three years old today. She is all red after yet another shouting bout with Ate Gianna. She just had a High School Musical theme party and is all wound up. No, she did not wear a skirt like her girly-girl cousin. Instead, she strutted around in skinny jeans and sporty tees. And when someone sang "Happy Birthday, Sam," she blurted: "I am not Sammy. I am Chad."
Happy Birthday, funny little girl! May you always find wonder in every thing!
If there is such a thing as a pop baby, Sam is probably it. She knows all the songs in the HSM and Hairspray soundtracks. She thinks Chad--the guy with the curly hair--is the coolest person ever. She can sit in front of the TV for hours and can easily pick up dance steps, lyrics and tunes. And in her squeaky, elfish voice, she sings "suicidal, suicidal" and "Fabulous" over and over and over again.
Because they are so so different, Sam and Gianna are best friends slash worst enemies. You can never really tell with them. One moment they are all sweetness and light: as in sticky-glue sweet. Minutes later, they are at each others' throats, glued to each other Sumo-style.
Sam is three years old today. She is all red after yet another shouting bout with Ate Gianna. She just had a High School Musical theme party and is all wound up. No, she did not wear a skirt like her girly-girl cousin. Instead, she strutted around in skinny jeans and sporty tees. And when someone sang "Happy Birthday, Sam," she blurted: "I am not Sammy. I am Chad."
Happy Birthday, funny little girl! May you always find wonder in every thing!
July 15, 2008
4 a.m. Thoughts
It is four in the morning. I have been drifting in and out of hazy dreams for the past two hours, and have finally given up on sleeping. But for the gentle swish of the leaves and the distant baying of a dog, everything is quiet.
I look at my daughter. At three, she still latches on to her pacifiers. Getting her to sleep without them is one constant tug-o-war, which—unfortunately for me—always goes in her favor. But in this peaceful hour, all thoughts of weaning her from her binkies, all thoughts of future appointments with the orthodontist, are immediately banished.
Two songs come to mind instead. My parental anthems, I call them: Natalie Merchant’s “How You’ve Grown” and Lee Ann Womack’s “I Hope You Dance.” The first tells of those fleeting years, and the lyrics gets me all teary. Especially now that my daughter is discovering a world outside of mine.
The second sings of what I want her to have--and to be. She is not me, this much I know. She is, among others, a drama princess, a fiery performer, a dancer. Things that I am not. But I want her to have that eternal "sense of wonder," that passion for sunrises and sunsets, for fairy tales and magical stories. I want her to believe and behold. I want her to be what she really wants to be.
Of course that's still a long, long way off. But at 4 a.m., just as the world is struggling between sleep and wakefulness, anything goes...
I look at my daughter. At three, she still latches on to her pacifiers. Getting her to sleep without them is one constant tug-o-war, which—unfortunately for me—always goes in her favor. But in this peaceful hour, all thoughts of weaning her from her binkies, all thoughts of future appointments with the orthodontist, are immediately banished.
Two songs come to mind instead. My parental anthems, I call them: Natalie Merchant’s “How You’ve Grown” and Lee Ann Womack’s “I Hope You Dance.” The first tells of those fleeting years, and the lyrics gets me all teary. Especially now that my daughter is discovering a world outside of mine.
The second sings of what I want her to have--and to be. She is not me, this much I know. She is, among others, a drama princess, a fiery performer, a dancer. Things that I am not. But I want her to have that eternal "sense of wonder," that passion for sunrises and sunsets, for fairy tales and magical stories. I want her to believe and behold. I want her to be what she really wants to be.
Of course that's still a long, long way off. But at 4 a.m., just as the world is struggling between sleep and wakefulness, anything goes...
July 4, 2008
Welcome to the Club
For three days this week, I brought my daughter to work. Not really a good thing, if you're cramped in a small space as I am. And definitely not a good thing if you have a snooty kid as I do.
But because papers were piling up and the to-do list just had to be dealt with, I had no choice. And so, armed with a humongous bag crammed with crayons, books and stuff supposedly meant to keep boredom at bay--and with "this, too, shall pass" as my mantra of the week--off we went to city hall.
The moment I set foot in the office, I knew that I had made the transition. Back in Eastgate and in my early days in city hall, I was the playmate: entertainer to kids whose moms had no choice but to bring them along. A marriage contract and a birth certificate later, I had joined the sisterhood of child-toting working moms whose concerns are more along the lines of caregivers, preschools and child-friendly TV.
The walk up to my corner--which, on "normal" days--takes a minute or so, stretched on and on. The moms gave me knowing, welcome-to-the-club smiles, the singles volunteered to do playmate duty. And when the referrals took a little longer to finish, there were the reassuring been-there-done-that taps on the shoulder.
And what of the little girl? She was surprisingly well behaved, with no hint of that fiery temper. She just settled into a quiet corner and finished an entire drawing book. She gave a start when a midget came in and I had to tell her to stop staring. Otherwise, things went pretty well.
Ahh, if I had known that motherhood would be a ready excuse for not clocking in on time, for not getting the job done fast and for playing on the job, I would have done it a long time ago.
But because papers were piling up and the to-do list just had to be dealt with, I had no choice. And so, armed with a humongous bag crammed with crayons, books and stuff supposedly meant to keep boredom at bay--and with "this, too, shall pass" as my mantra of the week--off we went to city hall.
The moment I set foot in the office, I knew that I had made the transition. Back in Eastgate and in my early days in city hall, I was the playmate: entertainer to kids whose moms had no choice but to bring them along. A marriage contract and a birth certificate later, I had joined the sisterhood of child-toting working moms whose concerns are more along the lines of caregivers, preschools and child-friendly TV.
The walk up to my corner--which, on "normal" days--takes a minute or so, stretched on and on. The moms gave me knowing, welcome-to-the-club smiles, the singles volunteered to do playmate duty. And when the referrals took a little longer to finish, there were the reassuring been-there-done-that taps on the shoulder.
And what of the little girl? She was surprisingly well behaved, with no hint of that fiery temper. She just settled into a quiet corner and finished an entire drawing book. She gave a start when a midget came in and I had to tell her to stop staring. Otherwise, things went pretty well.
Ahh, if I had known that motherhood would be a ready excuse for not clocking in on time, for not getting the job done fast and for playing on the job, I would have done it a long time ago.
June 22, 2008
Work of Art
Among my few absolutes, this I know to be true: I can never be an artist. I can't, for the life of me, draw. While I love to doodle, I can't go beyond stick figures, stylized suns and flowers. And my "drawings" do not go beyond the logbook where minutes of (seemingly endless) meetings are jotted down.
Years ago, while sifting through papers that my mom religiously kept, I realized that I didn't have a single drawing. Ma said it was probably because I never drew; I wrote. To her eternal dismay, I wrote on walls, on chairs and tabletops, on books.
What about my art projects?, I asked. She rolled her eyes, and then I remembered: technically they were not really my projects. In short, I was not, I am not and I will never be an artist.
I resolved that this will not be the case with my daughter. As soon as she learned that they weren't food, I gave her crayons and all those artsy stuff. She seems to have taken well to scribbling and doodling. It's quite too early to tell, but this much I know: she'll make her own art projects.
Years ago, while sifting through papers that my mom religiously kept, I realized that I didn't have a single drawing. Ma said it was probably because I never drew; I wrote. To her eternal dismay, I wrote on walls, on chairs and tabletops, on books.
What about my art projects?, I asked. She rolled her eyes, and then I remembered: technically they were not really my projects. In short, I was not, I am not and I will never be an artist.
I resolved that this will not be the case with my daughter. As soon as she learned that they weren't food, I gave her crayons and all those artsy stuff. She seems to have taken well to scribbling and doodling. It's quite too early to tell, but this much I know: she'll make her own art projects.
June 17, 2008
Love, According to a Three-Year-Old
Here's Gianna rattling off her many "loves":
1. I love chocolate
2. I love pink
3. I love "swimming" water
4. I love clouds
5. I love Gabriella [What can I say, the kid loves High School Musical]
6. I love Noddy
7. I love Sordoc [Hospital, where she wants to "study" so she can be a "people" doctor]
8. I love Father Jasper
9. I love the Playroom
10. I love Sandy (Her dog)
11. I love Elmo
12. I love the Capitol
13. I love I Spy
And, best of all:
14. I love you, Mama.
Sweetness and light, huh?
=============================================================
I am holding on to this weekend conversation because it has been one bad news after another at the office. Dog bites (and no available vaccine), a fatal accident, an abused five-year-old ... and with a bad case of PMS, I need a strong dose of, you got it, sweetness and light. And coffee, too. With rum.
1. I love chocolate
2. I love pink
3. I love "swimming" water
4. I love clouds
5. I love Gabriella [What can I say, the kid loves High School Musical]
6. I love Noddy
7. I love Sordoc [Hospital, where she wants to "study" so she can be a "people" doctor]
8. I love Father Jasper
9. I love the Playroom
10. I love Sandy (Her dog)
11. I love Elmo
12. I love the Capitol
13. I love I Spy
And, best of all:
14. I love you, Mama.
Sweetness and light, huh?
=============================================================
I am holding on to this weekend conversation because it has been one bad news after another at the office. Dog bites (and no available vaccine), a fatal accident, an abused five-year-old ... and with a bad case of PMS, I need a strong dose of, you got it, sweetness and light. And coffee, too. With rum.
March 20, 2008
Gianna Gets Tagged
Gaby and Adi tagged Gianna. And so it's time to (willingly) take on the role of stage-mother wannabe and present--ta dah--eight random facts about Gabriella Onna Lanuza Dichoso.
1. Gianna has a colorful imagination. She has pretend conversations with Captain Von Trapp, with Gabriella and, lately, with an imaginary friend named "Congee" who "lives" in her cabinet.
2. She was born on February 20, 2005 to the tune of "La Chupeta." At least, it was the last song I heard before the C-Section. And it was the first "ringtone" that calmed the then bawling five-hour-old baby while the mama was heavily (and happily) sedated.
3. She can't get enough of water. It takes a lot of effort to take her off the tub, or out of the beach or the pool.
4. She has not outgrown her binky. Two binkies in fact: one for sucking on and one for "smelling."
5. She loves pink. It's the first color she learned to recognize. And she's so into other "girly" stuff, too.
6. Nuns fascinate her. Probably because up until she discovered Annie and High School Musical, The Sound of Music was a pre-bedtime routine.
7. She loves to walk, walk and walk.
8. Getting her to take medicines is the easiest thing in the world. No "take-your-medicine-now tricks" for this girl. Just the slightest sign of a cold and she'd yell "Disudrin!" And she's been pretty consistent about what she wants to be when she grows up: a doctor.
As for keeping this meme going, I don't know that many blogging babies. Except Cherie's boys. Anyone else up for a tag?
1. Gianna has a colorful imagination. She has pretend conversations with Captain Von Trapp, with Gabriella and, lately, with an imaginary friend named "Congee" who "lives" in her cabinet.
2. She was born on February 20, 2005 to the tune of "La Chupeta." At least, it was the last song I heard before the C-Section. And it was the first "ringtone" that calmed the then bawling five-hour-old baby while the mama was heavily (and happily) sedated.
3. She can't get enough of water. It takes a lot of effort to take her off the tub, or out of the beach or the pool.
4. She has not outgrown her binky. Two binkies in fact: one for sucking on and one for "smelling."
5. She loves pink. It's the first color she learned to recognize. And she's so into other "girly" stuff, too.
6. Nuns fascinate her. Probably because up until she discovered Annie and High School Musical, The Sound of Music was a pre-bedtime routine.
7. She loves to walk, walk and walk.
8. Getting her to take medicines is the easiest thing in the world. No "take-your-medicine-now tricks" for this girl. Just the slightest sign of a cold and she'd yell "Disudrin!" And she's been pretty consistent about what she wants to be when she grows up: a doctor.
As for keeping this meme going, I don't know that many blogging babies. Except Cherie's boys. Anyone else up for a tag?
February 24, 2008
Party of Two
Two days and two weeks ago, we had it down pat: the invitations, the menu, the give-aways. Gianna, the soon-to-be-terrible three, wanted a party at home, with her 7th Road friends. And since the kid is not really that big on parties,we agreed: home, it would be.
But the universe obviously had other plans. The day after what happened to be a really wet Valentine, Gianna's cousin, Sam, had a bad case of gastroenteritis. It was viral, the pedia said: something you can get from the air.
Because Gianna rarely gets sick, we thought the virus won't bite. The day before the big day, however, she started puking and pooing. To cut an otherwise smelly story short, the party for 30 went poof. Instead, it became a party of two, since Sam was only a room away.
For what it's worth, it was a fun, scrapbook-worthy "party" just the same. Which only goes to show that life doesn't always happen as planned. Was it John Lennon who said "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans"?
But the universe obviously had other plans. The day after what happened to be a really wet Valentine, Gianna's cousin, Sam, had a bad case of gastroenteritis. It was viral, the pedia said: something you can get from the air.
Because Gianna rarely gets sick, we thought the virus won't bite. The day before the big day, however, she started puking and pooing. To cut an otherwise smelly story short, the party for 30 went poof. Instead, it became a party of two, since Sam was only a room away.
For what it's worth, it was a fun, scrapbook-worthy "party" just the same. Which only goes to show that life doesn't always happen as planned. Was it John Lennon who said "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans"?
February 3, 2008
Decluttering
One of my goals is to get organized. Unlike two of my sisters, whose spaces spell Real Simple and Martha Stewart Living, I am a certified packrat. I have this tendency to collect, amass and hoard. Minimalism, I know, has high eye appeal, but my shelves can never remain "minimal" for long. They almost always get invaded by stuff.
(My built-in clutter magnet, is, I believe the product of genes. Dad and Ma--whose early growing-up years were spent hiding from the Japanese--cannot let things go to waste. They built a two-story bodega on our Molave Street home to accommodate books, long-playing albums and 45s, 60s furniture, tools, broken appliances, construction surplus, even a mannequin. They held on to the GE fridge bought in 1970for almost 25 years. And only because the thing--which had gone from white to yellow--had turned into a power-consuming monster.)
In any case, because I am starting to feel hemmed in by my things, I declared this to be a decluttering weekend. First I tackled my "creativity" cabinet. From among the piles of scrapbooking supplies I found "dear diary" entries, idea files, yellowing lists of projects not (yet) started or not (yet) realized. There were 78 pencils harking to my Sanrio days; cards and letters that were not sent; forgotten pictures. The home-office desk drawers and a three-level shelf yielded other "museum" pieces: letters from 20, 30 years ago, raffle tickets, a tinful of State of Mind candles, handmade cards from the hubby, clippings, recipes, receipts.
To the trash went the manuals that outlived their subjects, articles that I know I'd find on the net, calendars and planners from the '90s, magazines and inkless pens. Things I'm iffy about went into the not-sure pile. If I don't use them in six months, off they'd go.
As for the rest, I'll let them be. The cabinets and shelves are not as messy anymore. There's more than enough room. For now.
(My built-in clutter magnet, is, I believe the product of genes. Dad and Ma--whose early growing-up years were spent hiding from the Japanese--cannot let things go to waste. They built a two-story bodega on our Molave Street home to accommodate books, long-playing albums and 45s, 60s furniture, tools, broken appliances, construction surplus, even a mannequin. They held on to the GE fridge bought in 1970for almost 25 years. And only because the thing--which had gone from white to yellow--had turned into a power-consuming monster.)
In any case, because I am starting to feel hemmed in by my things, I declared this to be a decluttering weekend. First I tackled my "creativity" cabinet. From among the piles of scrapbooking supplies I found "dear diary" entries, idea files, yellowing lists of projects not (yet) started or not (yet) realized. There were 78 pencils harking to my Sanrio days; cards and letters that were not sent; forgotten pictures. The home-office desk drawers and a three-level shelf yielded other "museum" pieces: letters from 20, 30 years ago, raffle tickets, a tinful of State of Mind candles, handmade cards from the hubby, clippings, recipes, receipts.
To the trash went the manuals that outlived their subjects, articles that I know I'd find on the net, calendars and planners from the '90s, magazines and inkless pens. Things I'm iffy about went into the not-sure pile. If I don't use them in six months, off they'd go.
As for the rest, I'll let them be. The cabinets and shelves are not as messy anymore. There's more than enough room. For now.
January 25, 2008
Toy Story
My daughter doesn't like "normal" toys. Either that, or she loves to tinker with stuff that are technically not toys.
She'd much rather raid the kitchen shelves for the wire whisk, the ice cream scoop and the microwaveable plastics than play with those dainty teasets. She hoards fast-food spoons and forks and straws and pretends they are towers, or princesses, or frogs, or whatever she fancies them to be.
She has also consistently challenged my no-obviously-unsafe-toys policy. The other day, I came home to find her asleep, cradling this really cheap doll. Top Model Barbie, it seems, has lost out to Sharpay the Doll. And to Baby Sharpay, who, in her past life, was a remote control.
She'd much rather raid the kitchen shelves for the wire whisk, the ice cream scoop and the microwaveable plastics than play with those dainty teasets. She hoards fast-food spoons and forks and straws and pretends they are towers, or princesses, or frogs, or whatever she fancies them to be.
She has also consistently challenged my no-obviously-unsafe-toys policy. The other day, I came home to find her asleep, cradling this really cheap doll. Top Model Barbie, it seems, has lost out to Sharpay the Doll. And to Baby Sharpay, who, in her past life, was a remote control.
January 8, 2008
Yaya-Less
The kid lost out to her nanny's textmate. Yaya J, feeling perhaps that there is much more excitement in a lovelife than in running after a terrible two, left five days ago. I didn't hold her back. Sigh. After all, there are some things that a 17-year-old should learn on her own.
Pending the arrival of the new yaya, I am the hands-down substitute. Which means no work (what joy!!!), limited online hours and an endless stock of patience, patience and energy.
The five days, of course, have been a breeze. The kid has been highly entertaining, and I have none of the pressures of the workplace (thank God for "sleep" mode, and the fact that the new office has no phone lines, yet). But any hopes of turning Stay-at-Home Mom will remain just that: hope.
Five days later, I have bad posture, a pair of Salonpas plastered on the lower back, a tub of Biofreeze on the ready and I am in danger of being a mefenamic-acid-popping Momma.
The spirit may be (more than) willing. But, alas, the back is weak.
Pending the arrival of the new yaya, I am the hands-down substitute. Which means no work (what joy!!!), limited online hours and an endless stock of patience, patience and energy.
The five days, of course, have been a breeze. The kid has been highly entertaining, and I have none of the pressures of the workplace (thank God for "sleep" mode, and the fact that the new office has no phone lines, yet). But any hopes of turning Stay-at-Home Mom will remain just that: hope.
Five days later, I have bad posture, a pair of Salonpas plastered on the lower back, a tub of Biofreeze on the ready and I am in danger of being a mefenamic-acid-popping Momma.
The spirit may be (more than) willing. But, alas, the back is weak.
January 3, 2008
Thursday Thirteen # 5: To Do, To Be, To Have
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I just love the newness of every new year. I love blank planners, clean slates, new calendars, new possibilities. I welcome discoveries new and old, and I just can't resist making plans--although, for most of the year, I'm not really the "planning" sort. In any case, here's what I hope to do, to be and to have in 2008: 1.... Put the planner to good use. Which means making sure that the entries go past February. 2. Keep tabs on the budget. And save, save, save. 3. Go through the entire MIMS. This way, I wouldn't look so out of it when somebody complains of a headache and the only thing I can volunteer is, "uh, amoxicillin?" 4. Unsubscribe to stuff that keep piling up and crowding my inbox. Stuff that usually end in the trash, anyway. And while we're at it, I might as well declutter. 5. Keep the home fires burning. Literally. Since we got married, the hubby has claimed the kitchen as his territory, guarding it the way crime scene investigators do. I should cross the police line once in a while and do more than just bake. 6. Get that KitchenAid Artisan in Majestic Yellow! 7. Read more and write (and blog) more often. 8. Learn to drive. Either that, or learn something new. 9. Find a new nanny. One who isn't that gaga over textmates, texting and soaps. 10. Scrapbook. 11. Shed off those flabs. Naturally. Without making Vicki Belo even richer. 12. Try to be a little more tolerant of Kristy Fermin, Big Brother and those hams masquerading as politicians. 13. Enjoy the kid's "clinginess." In a few months, she'll be in pre-school. Her world will not revolve around just me anymore. |
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December 25, 2007
Merry Christmas!
It is 22 hours into Christmas Day. The cellphone is now free of Christmas well wishes, the last of the presents have been opened, the table has been cleared. There is just the twinkling of the Christmas lights.
I am savoring my quiet hour. All through the day, I had been on my toes. As they always do, the maids spent Christmas with their families. Up until today, I never really minded. There were always extra hands, after all.
Not this year, though. With half of the family not home for the holidays, and with the rest of us rendered almost immobile by two Terrible Twos, a spoiled Dachshund and a stiff neck, the better part of December 25 was one hectic day.
I thought I'd breeze through Christmas preparations for the family. I did, actually. But I was not prepared for the "others." As early as six, there were people banging on the gate, each one doing his/her take on the classic "Tia, Tio Merry Christmas!" There was a constant procession of old women with young women with children and babies in tow, braving the rains, weighed down by plastic bagfuls of Christmas loot, asking for more.
By the time the godchildren started streaming in, I was literally pooped. I had to shelve plans of baking the Christmas Day Carrot Cake. And I had to restrain myself from committing murder when someone I hadn't seen in six years dropped by, asked for a pa-Christmas, sized me up and told me that I looked "different." "Different" as in "fat."
Still and all, this year's Christmas Day is one for the books. Gianna and her cousin gushed--and eventually fought--over everything: from the stuff in their stockings to their Christmas stash; from the humongous High School Musical 2 poster to the HSM2 DVDs. At some point, they argued over who's cuter: Chad or Troy and Gabriella or Sharpay. And all through Christmas Day, they had to be reminded to be "nice" because Santa (and Chad and Troy and Gabriella and Sharpay) said so.
Gianna weaved in and out of her Terrible Twos tantrums. But she did allow Sam to ride her bike. And five minutes ago, she held my hand and whispered, ever so sweetly "I love you, Mama," as she drifted off to sleep.
Aaaawww! Give it to kids to really make Christmas feel like, well, Christmas!
I am savoring my quiet hour. All through the day, I had been on my toes. As they always do, the maids spent Christmas with their families. Up until today, I never really minded. There were always extra hands, after all.
Not this year, though. With half of the family not home for the holidays, and with the rest of us rendered almost immobile by two Terrible Twos, a spoiled Dachshund and a stiff neck, the better part of December 25 was one hectic day.
I thought I'd breeze through Christmas preparations for the family. I did, actually. But I was not prepared for the "others." As early as six, there were people banging on the gate, each one doing his/her take on the classic "Tia, Tio Merry Christmas!" There was a constant procession of old women with young women with children and babies in tow, braving the rains, weighed down by plastic bagfuls of Christmas loot, asking for more.
By the time the godchildren started streaming in, I was literally pooped. I had to shelve plans of baking the Christmas Day Carrot Cake. And I had to restrain myself from committing murder when someone I hadn't seen in six years dropped by, asked for a pa-Christmas, sized me up and told me that I looked "different." "Different" as in "fat."
Still and all, this year's Christmas Day is one for the books. Gianna and her cousin gushed--and eventually fought--over everything: from the stuff in their stockings to their Christmas stash; from the humongous High School Musical 2 poster to the HSM2 DVDs. At some point, they argued over who's cuter: Chad or Troy and Gabriella or Sharpay. And all through Christmas Day, they had to be reminded to be "nice" because Santa (and Chad and Troy and Gabriella and Sharpay) said so.
Gianna weaved in and out of her Terrible Twos tantrums. But she did allow Sam to ride her bike. And five minutes ago, she held my hand and whispered, ever so sweetly "I love you, Mama," as she drifted off to sleep.
Aaaawww! Give it to kids to really make Christmas feel like, well, Christmas!
December 17, 2007
The Kid's Got Taste
The Terrible Two and her equally glib cousin are as opinionated as they get. A strand of hair stuck on the mirror merits a "Yuck! Gross!" or an "Icky, icky, gooey, yucky, yucky pooey." For Gianna, frilly dresses are "wow, ka-nice," while Sam thinks they're "ayaw, ugly."
Sam, whose voice reaches booming proportions when she's excited (which is almost always) has taken to bellowing a lot recently. At the park, she'd excitedly point at the Rizal monument and yell "Hoysie Yizal!!!!" At the toy store, she'd shout "Wow, ballsh" or "baycode!!!!" or whatever piques her curiosity. She'd also categorize stuff into "nice" or "gross"
So when we went for the usual pre-bedtime ride to the park and saw this humongous bird/chick or whatever it was hanging from an electric post in the main street's center island, we knew that Sam just had to have her say.
For all the bird/chick's message of hope and happiness and unity, the kid cheekily dismissed it as "Jologsssshhhhhh!!!"
Sam, whose voice reaches booming proportions when she's excited (which is almost always) has taken to bellowing a lot recently. At the park, she'd excitedly point at the Rizal monument and yell "Hoysie Yizal!!!!" At the toy store, she'd shout "Wow, ballsh" or "baycode!!!!" or whatever piques her curiosity. She'd also categorize stuff into "nice" or "gross"
So when we went for the usual pre-bedtime ride to the park and saw this humongous bird/chick or whatever it was hanging from an electric post in the main street's center island, we knew that Sam just had to have her say.
For all the bird/chick's message of hope and happiness and unity, the kid cheekily dismissed it as "Jologsssshhhhhh!!!"
October 10, 2007
Fashionista
Gianna had another terrible-two moment last night. She was in her pyjamas, and we went out for a stroll in the neighborhood prior to having dinner. When I saw that there were people in the chapel, I asked her if she wanted to say hi to Mama Mary.
She said yes, she wanted to, but she has to go home first to change. I said it was okay, because other kids were in their pambahay, too, and there was no Mass anyway. She started whimpering, and the moment we entered the chapel, she made it clear that I wasn't going to have my way.
First, she tried to take off her clothes. When that didn't work, she started biting her pyjama top's strap, all the while whining "bihis, bihis, bihis." No amount of assurance can convince her that what she was wearing was okay.
When we got home [we had to make an early exit because her whining and her whimpering were already reaching annoying levels], she made for her closet, picked out a dressy shirt, asked her yaya to put it on and declared "I'm going out now, Mama."
"Out," this time, was at the neighbor's, which was just two houses away.
She said yes, she wanted to, but she has to go home first to change. I said it was okay, because other kids were in their pambahay, too, and there was no Mass anyway. She started whimpering, and the moment we entered the chapel, she made it clear that I wasn't going to have my way.
First, she tried to take off her clothes. When that didn't work, she started biting her pyjama top's strap, all the while whining "bihis, bihis, bihis." No amount of assurance can convince her that what she was wearing was okay.
When we got home [we had to make an early exit because her whining and her whimpering were already reaching annoying levels], she made for her closet, picked out a dressy shirt, asked her yaya to put it on and declared "I'm going out now, Mama."
"Out," this time, was at the neighbor's, which was just two houses away.
September 22, 2007
Flower Girl
For nine days this month, Gianna was a flower girl. No, not the wedding sort of flower girl, but it was a "churchy" thing just the same. You see, it was our village fiesta, and there was this novena at the chapel in honor of the Virgin of Penafrancia.
After the communion, when the choir was singing the hymn to the Penafrancia, the Mother Butlers sought little girls to offer flowers. Now, Gianna is not really the outgoing type, but she has this thing for churches and altars and priests and mothers. And so there she marched, the littlest girl in the procession, inching her way toward the altar.
The first day experience must have been fun, and so she had me going to church for nine days so she can offer flowers. She did try to convince her cousin Sam to be a "flower girl," but when it was time, Sam didn't want to part with her by-then mangled flowers.
After the communion, when the choir was singing the hymn to the Penafrancia, the Mother Butlers sought little girls to offer flowers. Now, Gianna is not really the outgoing type, but she has this thing for churches and altars and priests and mothers. And so there she marched, the littlest girl in the procession, inching her way toward the altar.
The first day experience must have been fun, and so she had me going to church for nine days so she can offer flowers. She did try to convince her cousin Sam to be a "flower girl," but when it was time, Sam didn't want to part with her by-then mangled flowers.
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