Motherhood and Other Tales of Magic

A Goodbye

2010-04-28T17:02:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, I found myself plugged into my mp3 player, listening to an audiobook, paintbrush poised in midair, wondering what in the world I should paint. It had been quite some time since someone asked me to paint for them with no real specifications, no guidelines except that it be pretty and have lots of detail. It was also the first time I was asked by a relative I knew very little about but had admired and been in awe of all my life. It was also the first time I was asked by someone who knew she didn't have the luxury of time left in this world.

It began with news of her illness. She had gone to Manila to visit friends and family. Shortly after she returned home, her daughter sent word to me about the cancer. My aunt called right away and that was when the request for a painting from me was made.

Diding was my mother's first cousin. I didn't see very much of her growing up. I know she married abroad and that she had married a man from Scotland. His work took the family to India and Malaysia. When they were in the Philippines, their daughters would come to the house for piano lessons (my grandmother was a piano teacher). They were, and still are, quite beautiful. It seemed only natural to me that Diding would have such good-looking children. She also had a son whom I never had the chance to meet although we did exchange an email when I was asking what kind of painting she would like. Diding was too weak to respond to the email herself so she requested her son to please reply. When she received the paintings and had them hung in her room, she asked her daughter to send me an email (she dictated the contents) to thank me.

As I mentioned at the beginning of this piece, I was always in awe of Diding. She was, to my young mind, someone very accomplished. someone quite in control of things. She wasn't a tall lady but she seemed to be because she carried herself with an elegance. What I knew of her I learned mostly from my grandmother. My grandmother would talk about Diding with much fondness and pride. She was, my gandmother said, smart and intelligent. She knew what she wanted and she set out to do it. I also remember how my grandmother marveled at the way Diding, in spite of being petite, could handle and groom her horse.

One Christmas, we went to my grandaunt's house and I saw the most beautifully decorated tree. I was told that it was Diding's handwork. I think it had become my standard for how Christmas trees ought to look even to this day. Years later, she would do cross-stitch "paintings" of people's houses.

When the illness set in, her daughter, Melanie kept me abreast of Diding's condition. It was from M (as I call Melanie) that I got to know a bit more about this woman I was in such awe of. Of course the awe was just all the more magnified when I learned of her courage, her grace, and her selflessness. She had even made plans to be brought to the hospice after going home to say her good-byes to her family so that the house might be filled only with happy memories.

In the early morning of April 25, 2010, my aunt called to let us know that Diding was finally free of pain and other woes of the world. I didn't get the chance to say good-bye to her but I hoped that the paintings helped her in some small way the past months. I said a prayer for her and I continue to pray for those she left behind. I know she left a huge space that can't be filled by anyone else.

Later I would see her daughter post a fund-raising campaign on Facebook for the hospice that took such good care of her because true to form, Diding did not dwell on her illness or discomfort. In lieu of flowers, she asked that donations be made to Marie Curie Cancer Care.

Goodbye, (tita) Diding. It was an honor to have been able to do the paintings for you.

History Lessons

2010-04-23T19:18:00.000-07:00

Over the weekend, the family took a dip into American history. We probably only managed to wade into the shallow edges of what I felt was a vast ocean filled with stories of peoples, my own included (a handcrafted rifle made by Filipinos during the second world war was on display at the Smithsonian, along with a photo of Gen. Emilio Aguinaldo). Two days just isn't enough to take in faces, facts, legends, design--the list goes on. We all agree that we have to make several more visits.

When we were packing up for the ride back home, I checked my email. Among newsletters and Facebook alerts were two emails. One was from a classmate requesting prayers for her mom who was in the final stages of Alzheimer's. The other was from a dear friend updating me on the wedding of the daughter of another dear friend. I sat at the hotel room desk, my mind filled with things not to forget while packing and at the same time thinking that this was history too. This was my Timeline.

The two friends who had sent the email were friends from childhood. We saw each other five days a week during the school year plus on certain days of the weekend for parties and such. We saw each other transition from carefree preschool children to angst-ridden teens. Some of us went separate ways after high school only to find one another again at school homecomings and reunions, through group emails, and in the last couple of years, through Facebook. And now we are truly "midlife-ing."

On the one hand, we're still looking after our children and on the other, we're taking care of our parents. We worry about both in different degrees and on both counts, we're faced with the task of letting go. Our shared histories bind us to one another whether we are aware of it or not, whether we choose to acknowledge it or not. I have had the pleasure of rediscovering old friends and realizing, to my delight, that neither time nor distance did much to alter friendships. I could be as comfortable with my old friends now as I was back in the day. The added bonus is that the wisdom that comes with time afforded us an even better understanding of one another.

I share the sorrow of my friends as well as their joys. I know the importance of being able to step out of the wife/mom/daughter/boss/employee role for a few hours to do a fancy fox trot. I even acknowledge the tendency to become addicted to Farmville (or in my case, anything that resembles The Sims3). I find myself saying a prayer right away when one of us reaches out with a request for one. The history we share crosses oceans and continents. No matter where we are, we're on the same timeline. I don't have to try and emulate the virtues of past historical figures or get inspiration from heroes and heroines of the past. All I have to do is to take the hand of any of my friends in real or virtual time and I know I'll do just fine!

Babies Babies!

2010-03-22T08:32:00.000-07:00

This is it. This is the age when you know you can't stop time from moving forward.

My niece, my goddaughter, has a baby of her own. Then more recently, I found out another niece is expecting. Thank goodness my sons aren't married yet.

It used to be that when one of my former students spot me in a mall and proudly show off their babies or toddlers, I could brush the whole aging notion off thinking they were my high school students and that my son back then was in primary school. It made me feel better: I wasn't so old after all. Well, not so this time. This is family. My nieces haven't been toddlers for quite some time.

The other day, I rediscovered John Denver's song Poems, Prayers, and Promises. There is a part that goes:

The days they pass so quickly now
Nights are seldom long
And time around me whispers when it's cold
The changes somehow frighten me
Still I have to smile
It turns me on to think of growing old

Back in the late 70's and early 80's, it was, at least to me, a very romantic notion. I could picture myself as a kind of earth-goddess granny (I believe in the freedom of imagination, hence the "goddess") playing in the sandbox with my grandchildren and a posse of dogs I'd adopted from the animal shelter. Right now, this very minute, I can't even imagine having a daughter-in-law.

There is a bright side to all this, however, and it's really the fact that there are, once again, babies in the family. And an even brighter side is that this time, as a grandaunt or grandmother, I'm not tasked with disciplining the child. This time, I'm no longer responsible (at least not in any direct way) for the baby's teeth or digestive system; I don't have to worry that I might upset his or her mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being. I don't even have to scour the shops looking for just the right kind of baby bottle--one guaranteed not to cause gas or crack when dropped.

This time around, I can buy stuff for the baby just because. This time, the criteria can be fun and cute instead of practical (although nowadays, most toymakers have integrated the features) and will outlive the destructive years. And the crying spells? I don't mind dealing with a fussy, crying baby specially when the baby isn't mine!

In a couple of months, my niece will be here with her son in tow. I'm looking forward to carrying Anderson around and discovering the wisdom behind his eyes (which are my niece's eyes!), coaxing smiles, and maybe rolling around on the floor with him. It'll be practice for when I have grandchildren of my own, I reckon. Maybe with enough practice, I can still be that earth-goddess granny I envisioned myself to be.

While Waiting at the Dentist's Office

2009-07-26T20:12:00.000-07:00

The other week I found myself sitting in the waiting room of my dentist's clinic. It was a tiny space so any kind of conversation that went on between the receptionist and the assistants or between a patient and a companion was an eavesdropper's delight. Except for the decor, it was almost like being in an elevator.

I sat on the closest chair I saw (which was right next to the door). I realized I had forgotten to bring a book to read and none of the magazines stacked precariously under the tiny corner table caught my interest. Instead, I was forced to stare into space and take in the rest of the room surreptitiously.

The sofa was occupied by a mother and her son. Within minutes, I learned that the boy was 8, that he was very bright, and that he was bored to death. The gold cat waving at the receptionist's counter caught his eye so having been told by his mother not to touch the "expensive" decor on the corner table, he decided to study the cat instead.

The waving cat is something one sees in most Chinese establishments. I think it's something that's supposed to invite prosperity. I didn't expect to see one at my dentist's office, but there it was, tirelessly waving at everyone who came in.

The little boy, whose name was Kyle (that didn't take long to find out either) went up to the cat and held the waving arm. I suppose he wanted to find out if it could wave faster because that's what he was trying to make it do.

The arm stopped moving.

That worried him a little so he put the cat back.

The arm kept still.

Then he gave it a little nudge and it went right back to waving. It took me a moment to realize that up until that point, everyone in that little room had waited with bated breath to see if the cat would wave again. If we were in a comic strip, there would've been all those thought balloons floating above our heads. It would've made an interesting read.

After a few more exchanges between mother and son (including his innocent remark about the Roman numerals on his mother's watch being incorrect), I found myself profiling mother and child: maybe he's the only child, or he's the eldest. He's obviously very smart and she probably drills him every single day to make sure he's ready for school and that he gets perfect scores in all his tests. He probably gets a reward for everything he does or has to do (later on, his mother would ask the dentist if Kyle can have ice cream afterwards because she promised him he could if he went and had his cavities fixed).

And then inwardly, I breathed out a little sigh of relief. My sons are 15 and 25. Been there, done that. I remember how trips to the doctor or the dentist meant bringing a whole bag of mommy ammo: books, small toys (for years, I was lugging along all kinds of dinosaurs), disposable baby bottles and extra diapers when they were babies, sippy cups when they were toddlers, wipes, music tapes, extra shirts. As they got older, the bag got smaller until all it took for them to wait patiently was the right book and they had to carry it along themselves. Mommy's bag was now just for mommy's things (which is why mommy's bag is never small).

Nowadays I send them off to see the doctor or the dentist by themselves. Do I miss taking them? Not in the least! That whole exercise of being well prepared so my children don't act like brats in a waiting room was exhausting! It wasn't just a matter of packing all the right things, it also meant having to remember where you put each item. A distressed child is a child seconds away from becoming a mean crying machine.

Nope, I don't miss that at all. Nowadays, I find crying children amusing and sometimes cute and I know it's because they're not mine. Not to say I don't miss anything about taking my children to their doctors and dentists, because I find that I do miss a few things.

I miss having them sit on my lap while we wait for our turn. I miss watching my older son, then about two years old, confidently marching towards the doctor's office then doing a quick about face as soon as he realizes what a visit there could mean. I miss the way both of them never actually cried after a shot--their eyes would tear up a bit, then they'd give the pediatrician a brave smile.

And once we've returned home, I miss being able to wipe away the vestiges of a bad day (read: a painful shot) with a Peanuts video. I miss being able to choose their clothes and sending them off knowing they look like human beings. I miss watching them play in the garden, setting up little action figures among the plants or playing in the turtle pool that's been filled with bubble bath or creating their own little worlds in a sandbox.

Do I wish I could go back to that time? Not at all. I think that we're given only as much of all kinds of memories as we can handle. Enough so we experience nostalgia, enough so we can look back with fondness, enough so we learn how to navigate the paths we have yet to take. At the very least, I have enough of them to keep me entertained every time I find myself in a waiting room with no book to read.

The Women in My Family

2009-06-29T06:27:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, I spent the Holy Week and Easter break with two wonderful women. One of them I already consider a sister. The other is a photographer and a writer. While my 15-year old son explored the ship, hoping to hook up with others his age and my husband was happily capturing sun, sky, and people with his new camera, I spent most of my waking hours with a couple of women who, like me, have chosen to tread unexpected paths.

Come to think of it, I have been surrounded by such women all my life. My great grandmother, said to have been our National Hero's inspiration for the character Maria Clara in his novels, was an unusual woman. I suppose if one were the offspring of a Spanish friar, one would have to make braver choices and stand by them. I heard many stories about my Abuelita and even had the chance to spend afternoons in her room during my preschool days. Everything I knew of her spoke of her strength. She was not one to be cowed. She was also never married so I suppose the idea of solo-parenting, had she been around today, would not have been novel to her.

My grandmother used to tell us how all the children, every summer, would be sent off to Antipolo with the household help, the nurses, and a piano. My great grandmother never went with her children but she would write them letters of instruction or admonition. My grandmother was never to miss a single day without doing her piano lessons was one of the items in the to-do list. Each child had to write letters to her in Spanish so she could check their spelling and grammar.

My grandmother, though not as imposing a figure as her mother, was just as strong-willed (headstrong is an adjective that's been passed on to the women of each generation on my mother's side of the family). She even refused to be called Lola--that is the nickname of one named Dolores, she used to say. Instead, she was to be called Mama Nena by all her grandchildren. Mama Nena eloped at 16, was widowed by the time she was in her mid-20's, and raised 4 children while going from house to house giving piano lessons (Abuelita knew it would come in handy!). When she was 90, she told my mother she had made the decision to move into her own place and that's exactly what she did. No one could stop her.

My mother displayed the same strength of character. Dad used to say that when he married mom, she was shy and quiet. Then she found her voice and never stopped talking! Mom knew that for her three girls to have the best of what she and dad could provide, ours would have to be a two-income household. She went to work, unsure of what to do but diving in anyway (this included using the typewriter). She held a full-time job while making sure we had everything we needed, making quick trips to the bookstore when school supplies were low or an unthinking teacher would assign us to bring things found only in bookstores or specialty stores. At the peak of her career, mom was one of the first women to hold a VP position in a prominent bank.

When my mother finally became a grandmother, she threw herself, heart and soul, into that role. She enjoyed being called Lola Mary and she made it a point to play with her grandchildren. My mother was never one for games or sports or even amusement parks, but she would get on that slide to encourage her grandchildren to get on it too.

Mom's now in her 70's and most people can't believe she is. She still works and she still makes herself available to us, grandchildren included. She can still make things happen and she still sets her goals and stays focused.

The women in my family seem not to have been made for back seats although they were not spared from having to sit in them. Let's just say they stayed in those seats as best as they could but also reached for and stepped on the gas whenever they had to!

Moving

2009-06-07T20:33:00.000-07:00

The best way I can describe where my family and I are now is this: that we are in a holding pattern. We've made an initial move. We've left the apartment and moved into a friend's recently vacated home. But this is a temporary arrangement so other than the daily essentials, we've chosen to keep most of our things in boxes. The only tedious part of this is that we still have things in the apartment that have to be hauled over.

I'm no stranger to moving. I grew up in a semi-nomadic home. My mom had us moving when she felt it was time. And when it wasn't quite time yet, she'd move furniture around. But this is the first time I'm moving piece-meal, so to speak. This bit-by-bit migration is something I have yet to get used to.

The one thing good about moving is that you unearth all sorts of things that you know you had but couldn't quite get yourself to look for. On the other hand, it also brings back memories of lifetimes past that make you feel like an ass (and I don't mean the bad 80's hair and fashion). Then there are the letters you swore you burned or shredded and the odd thing is that now that I'm older, I actually find myself wondering why I held on to them. Perhaps the one treasure I found among those old love letters is a poem about the Christmas tree we were decorating at the time. The person who wrote it was a brilliant writer. Last I saw him, he was working for an advertiing firm. I saved the poem from the shredder.

And speaking of shredders, mine has been working overtime since the packing started. I've also tried to be more organized about the packing. This time,other than labeling the boxes, I actually have a little notebook where I list the box number and general contents. If we're going to be living out of boxes, I might as well know which box has what because ultimately, I'm the one everyone will ask. I know I can be a bit obsessive-compulsive when it comes to organizing but at times like these, it does come in handy.

I look forward to the day when I can hang a frame on the wall of my choice because it's my wall, when I can put the treasured doodads of my life in their own special places, when I can paint a wall with murals that my family and I can enjoy, and where, when I come home, I can really say I'm home.

It's not long in coming. I know this holding pattern will be over soon. Meanwhile, I'm giving in to my OC tendencies and sorting and labeling in between projects. If anything, I am now an expert at assembling and folding boxes. . .

Ironing

2009-02-24T15:54:00.000-08:00

Laundry has become one of my obsessions. Laundry and all that comes with it. I chalk it up to the fact that my son goes to a school where a uniform is required wear and therefore, by Monday, the uniforms should be ready (or at least one of them). But really, the part where the washing is done is the least of my worries. The boys (husband included) are quite adept at running the washing machine. And although I have a tendency to still check the way the wash is hung afterward, I can pretty much rely on them to get that part of the laundry done.

So really, I wasn't being quite specific when I said that Laundry has become an obsession. Truly, it's the Ironing that taken over my schedules and priorities. Whenever I tell my friends that I have ironing to do, it's not unusual that I get a puzzled look in return.

"Why? Do you iron even the t-shirts they use just for the house?"

"Aren't those ironed too?" The thought of not ironing them actually shocks me.

"If you use fabric conditioner (which I do), you just hang them well and then fold them neatly and they won't need ironing!"

"Did you ever feel the difference between a tee that's ironed and one that's not? The fibers are flattened when you iron so the shirt is softer!" I hear myself saying those words and suddenly, I feel ridiculous.

Sometimes while I iron, I remember that conversation and when I'm ironing a tee that's seen better days, I do ask myself why I bother. Then Tillie Olsen's words from I Stand Here Ironing begin to fill my head. I've not memorized the words--oh my goodness, not with the memory in its present state--but bits and pieces do float in and out. I don't have a daughter but I knew what it was like to be in that mother's shoes.

And then I realize I obsess about ironing not really because I'm thinking of giving my family wrinkle-free clothing but because it's become another sort of quiet time for me to mull over events of days and even lifetimes past. Like the mother in the short story, I sometimes address particular people as I try to validate decisions I've made or I explain away my sons' attitudes, mistakes, or misdemeanors. And of course, the more intense the memory or the situation I'm mulling over, the better my ironing becomes.

Perhaps the iron as a metaphor had become cliche, but in this case, I can't think of it in any other way. Motherhood has never been as three-dimensional as it is now for me. In the past, mothering was a task I shared with the caregiver and my mother. If I had to leave the house to get my college degree, I could do it without worrying that my children had no one to see to their needs. If I stayed up nights finishing a novel, waking up late the next morning was never an issue because the caregiver would be there to make breakfast. Even during the time my husband and I led different lives, I didn't have to go it alone. And certainly, the laundry (and the ironing) was the least of my concerns!

I've come to realize though, that since the caregiver has retired and mom lives a city away and I've taken over the motherhood role completely, I've been trying to iron out kinks and wrinkles, imperfections and mistakes that I've made in the past where my sons are concerned. As I move away from my newbie Golden Girl status, I can pick out instances in my life when I was so sure I was doing the right things and making the right decisions and I can, quite matter-of-factly, point out to myself where I had gone wrong as well. And that's when the ironing does its bit to help me deal with the mistakes and to move on.

A Heroine's Home

2009-02-09T21:44:00.000-08:00

It's not often that my weekly routine is interrupted by a chance to fly away to catch adventures of any sort. Last year, it was an unplanned trip to Bacolod. Last week, it was a project that had been mentioned in passing. I responded with much enthusiasm when it was first brought up but I had no idea just when the actual trip might be. When at last I received the call, it was as simple as agreeing on the week, then the actual day, and finally, on a crisp February morning, I found myself getting my bag, paints, and laptop ready to be loaded onto Ria's van.

I was told we were going to an ancestral home. Ria had sent me pictures so I knew we were headed towards what would be my glimpse into history. The trip was long but as the two of us had no trouble talking nonstop, it wasn't as tedious as it might have been.

Taal City is known for having several ancestral homes. A few have been restored and are open to tourists. Some, though still standing, attest to the wear and tear of years gone by. All of them were fascinating to me. I love the huge doors that open to what used to house horse and carriage. Equally fascinating are the windows that wrap around most of the house. Houses then were built for Philippine climate: one could take advantage of the breezes, see most of the town from the living room, and enjoy a panoramic view of the daily comings and goings of the neighbors (perfect fodder for the town gossips who were either indoors, next door, or even out in the streets because such large windows with no screens or curtains also meant giving up a bit of one's privacy).

Finally, we pulled up along one of the houses on Marella Street and I found myself walking through one of the large doors and into the past. As Ria breezed through, greeting the staff and making sure the bags were unloaded, I remained rooted at the entrance. I wanted to take it all in, little by little, tile by tile, beam by beam. This was, after all, the home of a heroine of the Philippine Revolution. This was where Gliceria Marella de Villavicencio held secret meetings with other female revolutionaries. Andres Bonifacio escaped through a trap door in the dining room. Encrypted messages between Katipuneros exchanged hands here.

I was also eager to see the Art Nouveau murals in the living room that were first painted on canvas, then mounted on the walls. Part of the reason I came was to do more murals and they had to be in keeping with the original. The living room was upstairs and after carefully climbing up stairs with unusually high risers, I found myself in yet another breath-taking space. I turned around to take a look at the walls above the stairs and there they were--the Art Nouveau borders and flowers on canvas.

The paintings continued into the living room walls. There were pocket seatings here and there and further in was the Master's Bedroom. To the right of the stairs was a double screen door that led to the dining room. Ria had outfitted it with a long trestle table and benches that I can only describe as formidable.

She showed me the walls in the dining room that she thought of adding art nouveau elements to. After a quick tour of the rest of the house, we grabbed our paints and brushes, called Mang Eddie who had done other faux finishes for other projects to help out, and also enlisted the help of Mang Rufo to transfer the designs I had prepared onto the panels. There was also painting to be done on the opposite wall as well as on the walls downstairs. For the walls downstairs, Mang Eddie and I reprodced the borders and flowers that were on the canvas upstairs. I plugged my earphones and listened to Brendan Fraser read chapters from Inkspell to me while I wielded my brush and walked back and forth from wall to stairs, comparing the flowers I was painting to the ones painted in someone else's lifetime.

The next day, after sleeping in a bed that no less than Jose Rizal had slept in, I put the finishing touches on the previous day's work and Ria and I tackled the other wall in the dining room. Ria wanted a mural that was soft and subtle--something to take away the starkness of the wall that would not, at the same time, distract the eye too much. We decided to do an impressionistic rendering of a grassy knoll fenced by the edge of a forest. It would have been nice to say that at day's end (we finished past ten in the evening) we had sponged and ragged and scrubbed our upper arms into enviable proportions, but nowadays, it will take more than a mural to do that. Instead, we admired our handwork and packed up for an early departure the next day.

I have to admit I felt a little tug of regret at having to leave the house. It had an air of quiet dignity about it. Once upon a time, it even housed Red Cross volunteers and personnel so it also had been a house of healing. I had the chance, in between paintings, to sit by the window on one of the high chairs and imagine what it might have been like back then.

This was the first time I had done any kind of painting in an ancestral house. While Ria and I had done the work in an almost casual manner (I say casual because there were none of the usual studies or revisions and discussions and more revisions that come with such projects), the art we were putting on the walls were anything but. They had become, as they were brushed on, as they dried and became permanent, part of the history of the house. As I stood on a stool or perched on a ladder, I sometimes fancied that Aling Eriang (as Gliceria was also called) sat, hopefully nodding with approval at the work I was doing.

The Balancing Act

2009-01-14T13:24:00.000-08:00

My nephew tied the knot a few months ago bringing his mother and two aunts to a point where we could, very soon, step over into becoming grandmothers. The wedding was beautiful. There were very few dry eyes during the ceremony. Clearly, so much love filled the church that day.

Weddings always bring to mind our own. At least that's the way it is for me. I can't help recalling snippets of my own special day and sometimes it's the little things I remember so vividly: the scratching of the stiff lining at the bottom of my gown, the way Bobby (my husband's cousin-in-law) kept stepping on the train of my gown as we walked to the reception area, not remembering what was served afterward. And always, at the end of the whole affair, I think of how the bride must take the time to enjoy that state of being married before the children start coming in.

For all the romance that surrounds the idea of marriage, there is the reality that soon after the wedding, the woman makes the transition from blushing bride to everyday wifehood and later on, to motherhood. It is, after all, the natural order of things. I would have preferred to use a word other than natural because as it turns out, that progression of things doesn't come easily to all women. In point of fact, it takes some women forever to get over being the blushing bride even when there already are babies begging for attention. And then there's the balancing act of holding on to who you are and becoming the kind of wife you think you ought to be. And then, another feat of magic is called for when you have to jump into the motherhood arena while not forgetting to swing back to being the bride your husband looks forward to seeing when he comes home. No easy feat this whole wife and mother business.

My sisters and friends our age are now at that stage where we look back at the things we did and how we did them. We're also at that age where we long to resurrect who we once were so many lifetimes ago, before we became mothers, before we agreed to share a lifetime with a significant other, before we learned to put family's needs ahead of our own. Some women actually find their voice at this stage in their lives. Some rediscover their passions and once again pick up the paintbrush, or sit at the piano, or learn pilates or yoga.

We still have the husband and the children, of course, but at this stage, things aren't as complicated anymore. At least that's how it seems to be with me. The children are old enough to see to their own needs; my husband and I, having gone through several roller coaster rides, now float along on an even keel, comfortable in our own skins and with each other, knowing when to move an inch or so, so that the ride is never dull but will never be treacherous either.

This balancing act women take on seems to have no end in sight. We move from one role to another--sometimes seamlessly, sometimes with much fanfare, sometimes even with reluctance or blatant protestations. But no matter what manner we choose to go about it, this really, is what we do.

Motherhood

2009-01-11T15:26:00.000-08:00

I don't believe in coincidence but when I was setting up this blog, the word I had to type in for verification was suffer. Which brought me back to a couple of days ago when my sisters, my mother, and I were having dessert and discussing the tricky business of being a mother. All the time we were talking, a line from a broadway play kept running through my head: "We suffer, we suffer, we suffer . . .!"

Of course this was in reference to the trials and travails of the the Jews, but for some reason, it just breezed in and out of my head.

My sisters and I were hands-on moms. I say were because our children are old enough to be left alone. We just dip in once in a while to keep them from going astray although there's no guarantee that we succeed. But the moment we embarked on the parenting route, we each took on the role of mommy with a passion. We read to them, we played with them, we made huge productions out of every birthday. We took monthly photographs so we can remember how each month brought on new changes. We bought the right toys, we thought up numerous activities to stimulate their cognitive skills, we played soothing music.

As they grew, we tried to keep up. Soon we had walls, floors, furniture, and even ceilings plastered with sight words. We made sure we bought age appropriate books and toys because they didn't want to called babies anymore. It's amazing how in spite of being sleep-deprived, we managed to get up every single time they did and then get on with work and chores and errands.

We tried to balance the love and the discipline. When another child came along, we discovered that the tried and true methods for the first didn't quite work for the next. For instance, my older son started reading at age 3. He used to sit still on my lap and just absorb everything he was seeing on the book and listening to every word I was reading aloud. It came to a point where if I tried to skip lines because I was tired, he'd recite the lines I'd missed. My younger son, however, could never sit still on my lap. After the title page, he'd try and taste the book instead.

With every new phase came new emotions. The angsty stage is, for me, the most difficult. This is when a lot of what you try to do as a parent can never be right or enough. Worse, the angst can stay longer than it should, sometimes well into the early adult stage! Not good for our well-being, mind you. This is when the wrinkles begin to take shape and strands of gray start bringing you to the supermarket aisle where they sell hair color.

I started this blog because mothers always need to network. Sometimes the books aren't enough. Sometimes our own mothers' advice won't suffice. My sisters' experiences with their own children are sometimes different from that of my friends' with theirs. Every little bit helps as long as we also know what to take in and what to leave out. The magic of motherhood is knowing what will work for our children and what won't while keeping our sanity at the same time.