Perspective

So this long weekend is finally at an end. And not a moment to soon.

It has not been a great weekend.

We started off the mini-break with a weekend long stay at the Peninsula from Friday to Sunday. But instead of being the relaxing holiday we thought it would be it was.... in a word - stressful. From getting rained out which meant no pool time for the kids, to problems with construction noises, John forgetting his CPAP (which gave everyone sleepless nights) and cancelled dinner plans and flake outs, it was like a National Lampoon vacation movie. Only not funny.

When we got home Sunday afternoon one of the pipes in our laundry area burst. Of all the bloody luck. To prevent flooding the whole downstairs area we had to shut off the water main. Which meant the whole house had NO WATER.

It took the plumbers (who thankfully were available even though it was a holiday) 2 days to fix the problem. 2 days. The Medinas were unwashed for 2 days (except for those moments of desperation when we'd turn on the main even though it meant that water was gushing out of the busted pipe downstairs --- sorry Mother Nature! The toilet needs to be flushed!). It was like a National Lampoon home movie. Only not funny.

Oh this weekend. It's like Mercury was in Retrograde or on Gatorade or making Lemonade or whatever it is that Mercury does that seems to louse up people's lives.

And yet. And yet. Every time something new would go wrong John and I would just console ourselves with the thought that a) it could be worse; b) there's a bright side to this.

The rains that kept the kids from swimming forced us to let them hang out in the tub instead. Which they apparently dig more than the pool. Plus it meant that I wasn't forced to get into a bathing suit.

Despite the fiascos with the room --- the sheer size of the suite we occupied gave Livie enough (safe) room to learn how to run. She runs! She runs! Albeit very wobbly but still she's pretty fast once she gets going.

The cancelled dinner plans and flake outs meant we just had dinner at Spices instead with John's sister and our good friend Jaime. At 50% off! With free wine! Altogether not a bad night.

And the water pipe bursting. Well... we finally learned how to work our water tank, how to turn it on and how to fill it. So now if there's ever a water shortage ---- we'll never run out of water again.

So I can choose to focus on all the things that went wrong, or I can choose to let all that negative energy go and just look on the brighter side of things. The things we learned, the memories that were made and the fact that we now have unlimited running water.

Oh, and the best part of all --- this weekend is finally over. :-)

Happy Birthday Hubby

It has been.... years... since I last wrote you a birthday card. Or note. I guess this is what happens when you buy your own presents and just send me the bill. But hey, whatever works and gets you the present you want... I'm down with that.

But it's late, and I've been feeling sentimental, so I wrote this one for you.

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It's easy to list the things you do that irritate or bug the living hell out of me:

How your clothes are always on the hamper, or around the hamper, but never IN the hamper.

Your irrational annoyance with security guards, waiters and motorcycle drivers.

The innumerable times I've had near death drowning experiences in the toilet because you never remember to put the toilet seat down.

Your insistence on squeezing the toothpaste tube in the middle.

Your jet engine like snoring.

The hoarding.

Feeding the kids cheetos and chocolate before meal times.

The perverse pleasure you get out of anonymously poking or pinching my ass in public that has lead me to mistakenly hit several unsuspecting men with my handbag.

And how you're secretly trying to kill me by wiping chocolate stained fingers on MY towels so that the ants attack me fresh out of the shower.

Oh I could go on and on..... And I could.

And I could focus on all these things you do that drive me crazy.

And I'd forget about the things that make me crazy... about you.

How you always hold my hand when I sit in the passenger seat of the car.

How you always think of me when you're buying CDs and buy albums of bands I like or you'd think I'd like. Without asking if I already own them --- which is why we have 3 copies of Dogs Die in Hot Cars and 5 copies of Faded Seaside Glamour by The Delays.

How there isn't an electric appliance or broken toy or device that you can't fix. You are Handy Manny and Macgyver rolled into one.

I remember how you let me sleep on your chest (all 1*& pounds of me) when we lost the babies because I couldn't go to sleep.

How your "Y" genes gave me two beautiful daughters who look nothing alike yet, oddly enough, both look like you.

On the rare occasion that you sing "Deeply Dippy" or play "Born Slippy" it still makes me feel giddy.

How you always call me when you're on your way home because you still miss those times we used drive home from work together and just talk and talk and talk.

And how every so often you will talk to me about work and ask my advice, even though I haven't been a banker in almost 4 years, because you think I'm "still smarter than half the people I deal with".

Oh I could go on and on and on.... And I could.

No matter how frustrated I can get with you sometimes, nothing has ever overshadowed the fact that you are still the best

friend I have, the best person I know, and the best man that you could be.

Happy Birthday dear husband.

Yes, you are still the "jackpot". And to this day I still don't know what the contest was for.

Not So Fast

Hey little girl, what's your hurry?

You have all the time in the world to grow up, and I only have a few short years to call you my little girl.

Already you talk of boys, cold creams, and how embarrassing it is to have people see you being cradled in my arms. So these arms only squeeze you tighter, wishing they could squeeze you back into being my little girl.... knowing they will have to open soon to let you go. To let you grow.

I see you sometimes watching me with sadness and longing when I'm holding your baby sister. Swinging her up and down, holding her tiny hand to help across the room. I don't do these things because I love her more. I do these things because I still can. I'm strong enough to throw and catch her mid-air. I hold her hand to cross the room because she needs me to, she with her shaky and uncertain legs that just learned how to walk.

Would you let me still swing you in my arms (do I have the upper body strength to do so? Hahaha!)? Will you still let me hold your hand as we walk? Often you walk ahead of me, so eager to see what's around the next corner. Or worse --- you run ahead of me, because I'm walking too slowly and you are in a rush to get to what's next.

Slow down. Please. Slow down.

I waited so long for you. Missed so much the first 3 years of your life. Is it so wrong to want to squeeze the most out of every minute we have together now?

My favorite part of the day is when it's time to sleep. Because when we lie down it's time for you to be still. And you'll let me hold you and cradle you in my arms until you fall asleep. And when you do I can spend hours watching you, without you feeling self-conscious of my stare. I can marvel at how big you've grown, how beautiful you've become, and how, when you're asleep, you look more like the little girl you still are, instead of the 7-going-on-40 year old you can sometimes be.

Little girl, what's the rush?

Stay mine a little while longer.

An Early Mother's Day Note to My Girls

I take pictures in my mind

Of things I hope to never forget

Like your big toothless smile when you wake up next to me

Or the sight of you running down the school lawn

With your arms outstretched to hug me.

The way your eyes disappear when you laugh

Or the way you sleep with your mouth open in the car.

I want to remember

Seeing you fall

And watching you pick yourself up

The way you twirl around in my room with a frilly skirt and flowers in your hair.

My girl.

My girls.

But how will I take a picture of....

The sweet smell of your breath

Or how it feels to hold your tiny hand in mine.

There will be no pictures of.....

Your big, wet, sloppy kisses

The sound of your laugh

The feel of your hand rubbing my arm as you try to fall asleep

And the delicate scent of you as you sleep.

There are just these words

And my thoughts

And my prayers

That I will never forget

The things that make me grateful to be your mother.

You Were Tanya Titong Weren't You?

On the basis of an interesting episode of Modern Family and a recent conversation between mutual friends, I've decided to write this post.

In the episode of Modern Family, Claire tells the camera that daughters should never, ever, know who their mother were before they had their kids. As far as kids should know, their moms are saintly, pure and wise. Coincidentally a bunch girlfriends had gotten around to talking about me at a friend's shower. And two of them mentioned how they liked to follow my status messages on Facebook, but they never felt quite sure if the person they were following was me, because I sounded so different from the girl they knew back in college.

Well, I'm not ashamed to admit that I have changed. The wild, carefree, careless, chain-smoking, perpetually drunk rejection junkie I used to be has been replaced by the soccer mom from hell. I personally feel that most of the change has been for the good, but every so often I (and some friends of mine) miss the old me.

She was crazy but she sure was fun.

Will my girls ever get to know the person I was before I was their mom? Hell. No. Hahaha!

As much as I would like my kids to know that I was once a cool and fun person, I would rather just let them think that I was born.... Mother. Bossy, conservative, caring, loving, not necessarily fun but full of life lessons and worthy of respect.

I wouldn't change the life I've led. Not.One.Bit. I think that I am wiser for all the experiences I've had. And I'd like to share whatever wisdom I have with my kids. They just don't need to know how I "learned" these life lessons. I don't think I merit much respect in the way I learned a few lessons like:

1. I once tried to "dive"... into a Jacuzzi. I was very drunk at the time and am just basing this story on the anecdotes of friends, and the bizarre collection of cuts, scrapes, bumps and bruises I had the next morning which I don't remember getting. Lesson learned: drink in moderation. And never around bodies of water.

2. I took a week off from work (unknown to my boss and parents) to learn how to scuba dive. Mostly because I had a crush on my scuba diving partner. And that same guy was the reason why I went on a 3 day dive trip with 6 guys I didn't know because he invited me.... and didn't show up. Lesson learned: Never let a guy dictate what you do or where you go. Learn to do your own thing.

3. To maintain my weight of 96 lbs. I spent 4 years drinking diet coke and smoking cigarettes for lunch and dinner (aka the Kate Moss diet). Lesson learned: Yes there is such a thing as too skinny. And never believe that line that "nothing tastes as good as being thin feels". Because there is, and it's called carbs. Learn to love the body that God gave you. Take care of it.

4. I bungee jumped on a dare. I accepted this dare while drunk. Which taught me the lesson of never accepting dares while drunk. Actually, never accept anything while drunk.

5. I went parasailing in South Africa. While it was winter. On a dare. Which I accepted while I was drunk. Which taught me that some lessons are hard to learn and I am also very hard to teach.

6. I was the blind date queen of the Philippines. While single, I went on 22 blind dates over the course of 3 years. Because I believed in being open to the universe and the possibility of finding love in the strangest places. It taught me that true love can sometimes be right beside you (or in my case 3 cubicles away). It also taught me to never accept a blind date set up by Steve Crisologo.

I smoke. I drank. I cussed a lot. I was a bit of a cutthroat bitch in the workplace because I was ambitious. I dated a lot of guys. Loved a few. I did whatever made me happy, and I never let anyone tell me what to do. I lived my youth to its fullest and I believe this is something every one should do. (Jesus, I'm starting to rhyme). May be not in the same way I did (God I hope my girls don't), but the important thing is to live it on your terms. To do things that you want, to live with no regrets, and to take each experience and turn it into something that enriches your life. Good or bad.

Which is why I'm so different now. Because I've been that person, learned the lessons that that person's life offered and because of those lessons I've grown into the person that I am today. I wouldn't have wanted to stay Tanya Titong. As fun as she was, she was also oftentimes very lonely, scared and insecure. She had a lot of growing up to do.

And she had to grow up the hard way. Had her heart broken. Betrayed a friend. Lost a father. Struggled with infertility. Lost 3 children.

But along that way was also blessed with: True Love. Faithful friends. Solid siblings. A great life. And 2 beautiful kids.

I'm happy to be Tanya Medina now. 50 lbs heavier. Goes to bed at 10 pm. Gets up at 5 am. Doesn't smoke anymore. Rarely drinks. Talks incessantly about her kids, her husband and cooking.

I live a new life now, shaping the ones that God has blessed me with.

Now I just sit back and watch the show that is my kids' lives unfolding. And I'm glad I've got front row seats.

A Sister Speaks

In honor of the Oscars yesterday (which I missed because of my brother's wedding), I am posting the speech I gave last night. A lot of people came up to me afterwards because they really liked it. I told them that it took me an hour to write, and I wrote in the middle of the night because I completely forgot about it because I was out of the country up until the day before the wedding. But may be it resonated with a lot of them because I wrote it from my heart. Even though he's a fully grown man, even though he's now married with a family of his own, he will always be my baby brother and I love him.

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I’ve been asked to give the speech on behalf of our family tonight, not just because I’m the smartest and funniest of all us Titong kids, but also because being only 18 months older than him, having been his room mate, and having spent countless hours listening to Dave Matthews and U2, smoking illegal cigarettes and experiencing existential angst together --- I’m the one who knows Epi best.

And knowing my brother as well as I do, I have decided to entitle my speech tonight: Top 5 Reasons Why We Wish Anj All the Luck in the World (aka Stuff that might have changed your mind about marrying him 2 hours ago but now its too late and we have a strict no-return, no exchange policy in our family).

5. He’s secretly in love with… the best man (you know I’m talking about you Anton Palma!), and they may or may not have been carrying on a secret affair for the last 10 years. Later tonight ask him about OMD’s song Secret and why it has special meaning for the two of them.

4. He carries all of our genetic waste material – case in point: notice how white I am, notice how dark he is. He is short. He is fat. And in the words of Homer Simpson: “Baldness is hereditary”. That’s why it’s a good thing Anj is so pretty, because at least now his kids will have a fighting chance.

3. And speaking of genetics, it is a fact that the father carries the math gene and will determine how well your kids will do in math. Your husband carries the dubious distinction of earning the lowest math grade in the history of the Ateneo High School. So Anj, I hope you’re also good in math.

2. You are marrying the world’s biggest cry baby. He’s more emotional than a woman who is having PMS. I would say he cries like a girl, but that would be an insult to girls. He cries at tv commercials and sad movies. I have seen him cry when girls dump him. He used to cry during swimming class when we were kids. Nowadays (and Anj can attest to this) he cries in the hospital when they have to stick a needle in him.

1. And the number 1 reason why we wish Anj all the luck in the world --- He has not one, or two, but three bossy, loud, cranky, OLDER sisters. And everyone knows that a sister-in-law is 10x worse than a mother-in-law, and now she has 3. So if that doesn’t merit her all the good luck in this room, I don’t know what will.

While he is not a prized catch, I must admit that my brother has redeeming qualities:

1. He is kind. And generous. To a fault.

2. He is funny. Sometimes even when he doesn’t mean to be.

3. He is loyal.

4. He is smart. Hopefully in all the right ways.

5. Most importantly he values family. And in the sum total of all things, that balances everything out. A man who values family, who puts family first before all things, is a very rare and precious man. And you should count yourself lucky for having found one in my brother.

Earlier I said that I am giving this speech tonight on behalf of our family because I’m the one who knows Epi best. To be honest, I am giving this speech on behalf of the two people who loved him the most, but could not be here tonight.

It was no secret growing up that my mom loved Epi the most, more than all of us girls combined. We never held it against either of them, because they always had a special bond. Plus it was kind of obvious that he was her favorite because when we were kids and my mom used to ration the M&Ms because they were hard to come by (for the benefit of those of you too young to know what PX goods are --- imported chocolates were hard to come by and were usually brought home by relatives from the States or bought in Cash and Carry), my mom would give each of us girls 10 M&Ms after dinner for dessert. And she would give him 20. And it was like that with everything, so medyo obvious diba?

Eps, she loved you so much. She loves you still. And while we argued about whether or not she could be here today, I know you understand that it would be too much for her, and it won’t be good for her health. But she is always with you, with us. Remember the M&Ms, the kisses good night, the hand that held yours through so many things in childhood and after --- and know that she is here with you now . And always.

And if Dad were here, well, who knows what he’d say? You think I’m funny? You should have met that guy. He might joke about the fact that you were the rascalliest of all his little rascals. He might kid about how different you two are from each other, and how much better looking he is than you.

I like to think that he would say, in a very simple way, how proud he is of you. Of the man you have become. He never gave up on you, and I believe that is why you never gave up on yourself. And I think it’s the most wonderful thing that even he, with all his love and hope and faith in you, could never have imagined how far you would get, and how much further you can still go.

And while he is no longer here, he still lives on. In you. In all of us. He can live forever, if we raise our children right. If you love you children the way he loved us. If you believe in them the way he believed in us. Then his legacy of what a great parent is and should be, will be continued, first by us, then our kids, so on and so forth. And that will be how he lives on.

If you could be half the father he was to Sophia and all your future kids, how lucky they will be. If you could be just as he was, they would be so blessed. And if you could be more than that, then Daddy would consider his life well lived. Because all he ever wanted from you, from all of us, was to be the best person you could be. And you are on your way to being that. You could be the man he always knew you would be. And that would make him so happy.

I know that he’s looking down at us right now from heaven, smoking his cigarette and drinking his scotch. And I know he’s telling everyone he’s with, with pride: That’s my boy, that’s my son.

I love you little brother, even though you still owe me P500 from 1998. You are the best brother a girl could ask for.

And Anj, I hope you like David Hasslehof. I hope you don’t mind being the one who turns off all the lights at night, since my brother is afraid of the dark. And I hope you like guinataang bayabas because that is the Titong national dish and we all have to like it.

We’re so happy to welcome you and Sophia to our family, the only family that makes the Addams family seem normal.

Congratulations to you both.

If a Blogger Blogs But No One Reads It.....

Does the blog really exist?

Well so much for my New Year's resolution to keep this blog updated. Aside from that entry, this is the first one I have for the year.

I am prepared, however, with a list of excuses:

1. I don't have the time - who knew motherhood was such a busy job? For all working moms and dads who think that stay at home moms spend their days lying in bed, watching trash tv and eating bonbons ---- can I just tell you that there are days when I fantasize about going BACK to work, just so I can get some rest. Hahaha. Not only do I have to manage my household of 7, I am also the personal and social secretary of my husband and my children. If I am able to squeeze in time to get a haircut or a pedicure I consider myself blessed. Having time to eat by myself or just trawl about the malls is a luxury. So who the hell has the time to blog?

2. I don't have anything to write - my husband has already warned me about writing too many posts about him. We once had an argument about whether or not he can censure my blog, and believe me - it was a long, weird and tiring conversation. I also recently read an article about being careful about how much we blog about our kids and how we should realize they have a right to privacy too. Not that my 6 year old and my 9 month old particularly care (or know) what mommy is saying about them on the world wide web, but they wont be that age forever. I can see Pilar 10 years from now stumbling on one of my posts about a) her ability to channel Damien on a regular basis; b) her chronic constipation; c) her obsession with a boy named Hugo in school - and suing me for parental emancipation. Or royalties. Depends on how she grows up. So if I can't write about my husband or my kids, what the hell will I write about?

3. The laptop is such a hassle to boot and I can't blog from the iPad. Actually this is my excuse for buying a Macbook air, but hey - if I can hit 2 birds with one stone....

4. I wrote something but it got deleted - this happens more often than you think when your 6 year old knows how to work your Mac, but not necessarily the programs in it. Or when the 9 month old thinks its amusing to smear baby food on the trackpad.

5. I had an idea, but then I forgot what it was - there have been days when I've had quite a few ideas for posts. But these happen normally late at night when Excuse #3 rears its ugly head, and I have to weigh the benefits of the extra half hour of sleep I can get versus another post my 2 constant readers can enjoy. Sleep wins every time. Plus, having been anesthesized at least 6 times in as many years, I can barely remember what I had for breakfast, let alone what random thoughts were running through my mind at 2 in the morning.

But I do have so much to say, to share, to post in this great void of verbosity --- that oddly enough, every so often, gets "heard". I wish I just had the time, the words, the tools to do it.

My New Year's Resolutions (1st Draft)

I figured since 2011 is the Year of the Rabbit, my year, I will, for the first time in a really long time, make some resolutions. (That's a lot of commas).

I will be realistic and reasonable, and not set myself up for defeat, by making them simple and easy to implement. I'm calling this my first draft since I will review them again at the end January and see if they really are as doable as I am assuming they are now. (You can take the girl out of the bank, but you can't take the process review out of the girl)

So here it is folks, my New Year's resolutions for 2011. May the force be with me.

1. I will love myself more - by losing 40 pounds and eating better, thus making myself healthier. I will exercise, diet, and give up soda, candy, ice cream and chocolate. I already feel sorry for the people who have to live with me. My incentive is that John promised if I hit my wedding weight ---- I can have a tummy tuck. And when has scary major cosmetic surgery not been attractive to anyone?

2. I will stop channeling Joan Crawford - and yelll at my kids less and hug them more. I will not stress Pilar out about school work, and I will let Livie eat the upholstery of random furniture (provided I can steam clean them before and after). I will strive to remember that my children are kids and are therefore supposed to act like kids, and will act like kids and I should cut them some slack. They are NOT tiny creatures from outerspace sent to torture me and stress me out until I die from a migraine-induced aneurysm. At least I hope they're not.

3. I will be more forgiving of people who are not as wonderful as I am.

4. I will stop gossiping about people. Correction. I will TRY to stop gossiping about people. Really. I will. Try that is.

5. I will try to reconnect with people who, once, meant a lot to me. And if it fizzles out I will accept that people change, people grow apart, and it's their bloody loss.

6. I will blog more frequently. Not because I honestly think anyone out there gives a damn, but because it gives me a chance to psychoanalyze myself and I am cheaper than a shrink.

7. I will be more honest- about myself, how I feel and what I really think about you.

8. Before I purchase anything I will run it through the new 4 way test: a) Do I need it or do I just want it? b) Can I afford it? c) Don't I already own this? (believe me, this happens more than you think) d)Am I just buying this because its on sale and I think it would be a waste if someone who isn't deserving winds up owning it instead of me?

9. I will declutter my life by purging with purpose and thought - unnecessary things and people.

10. I will accept that I am now mother and wife and that this will be my career for the next 2 years. I will stop wondering what if and what could be and just live in the now. I will try to be the best mother and wife that I can be and hopefully not get institutionalized in the process.

Love. Peace. Happiness. I have declared this to the universe and I claim it for myself.

Happy New Year everyone! :-)

If I Didn't Love You

In the midst of a temper tantrum this afternoon Pilar yelled out: "you don't love me anymore!" and it broke my heart. I tried to explain to her why it was she couldn't play Wii after being so horribly obnoxious to both her yaya and me - and how it was because I DO love her that I was trying to teach her how treat people with respect and kindness. I know most of it went over her head. But I do hope she learned something today.

I write these words in the hopes that she'll read them someday and know how much I love her and that my life will always be dedicated to making sure she lives hers in the best way that she can.

Today you said that I didn't love you anymore.

I would have laughed if it didn't hurt my heart so much.

Part of me wanted to scream: what more do you want from me?!?

I put my life on hold for you. To be always with you. To help you grow. To make sure we could give you the best childhood that we can. To help you become the best person you can be.

How do I explain to you that everything I do that you dont like, I don't like either. But the rules, the schedules, the consequences, the rewards, and even the scolding - they are all for you. And for your own good.

If I didn't love you I would let you sleep when you wanted, not caring that you have to be up at 5 the next day, making you sleep deprived and unprepared for the big day ahead.

I would let you watch TV until your eyes popped or play Nintendo or PSP until your fingers fell off. I wouldn't care that they keep you from developing your own imagination and that they wont teach you how to deal with REAL people and REAL situations.

If I didn't love you I would let you yell at your yaya, the driver and the maid whenever they didn't do what you wanted or were slow in getting you what you asked for. I would let you hit them or hurt them so that you won't learn the values of kindness and respect.

I would let you grow up an abusive brat who took people for granted, especially those who live their lives away from their own children and families to take care of you. I would not teach you how to value these people who try to work with dignity despite their station in life, and who love you as they would love their own.

If I didn't love you I would let you talk back to me and your pappy. I would give you everything you wanted, whether you deserve them or not. I would not care if you didn't learn the value of working toward a goal. The value of hard work. The lesson of disappointment. The drive of determination.

If I didn't love you I would let you grow up thinking everything is owed to you, just because. I would let you grow up with a false sense of entitlement, and not teach you the value of self worth.

If I didn't love you.

But I do.

Love you with all my heart.

And every breath in my body.

And what I want for you when you grow up --- more than becoming a nuclear physicist or a rocket scientist, more than a Harvard graduate or a master of the universe is this ---- That you grow up to be a good person. A GOOD person. The best person that you can be.

Someone who is kind and loving. Someone who respects all people, regardless of who they are. Someone who will try to do the right thing, the good thing, each and every time.

So I try, and we struggle, but never forget that I do, always have, always will, love you.

That's why I make you stand in the corner.

For Olivia

I call you Livie-Love-Love. Because I love you so much it bears saying twice.

You look like me. Should I say sorry? When I was pregnant with your older sister I prayed that she would get daddy's straight hair and beautiful arched eyebrows, and my legs and dimple. When I was pregnant with you all I could pray for --- was not to lose you and for you to make it to term. And here you are, born at exactly 37 weeks. Yes you have my wavy hair, my big bushy eyebrows and daddy's thighs.... But I wouldn't have done it any other way. You are beautiful in mine and God's eyes.

You laugh without sound. One side of your head is flatter than the other. Your poop smells like a toxic dump (literally and figuratively). You throw up half of what you eat 8 times out of 10. And you get angry when no one talks to you while you're awake (even if that's at 3 in the morning).

You are a sight to behold. You are a miracle.

When you smile it brings tears to my eyes. You smell like love.

I am watching you sleep as I type these words, and my heart is filled with the wonder of you. And the knowledge that everything, every big, little, painful, awful, wonderful thing it took for you to get here (on my lap, snoring like your father) was worth it. So worth it.

You are living proof that God loves me. And I love you.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

I just finished watching this funny documentary by Chris Rock (my favorite black comedian of all time) called Good Hair. And while it focused primarily on black people's obsession with their hair, a lot of it hit home for me.

My hair has always been a source of love and hate for me. I have super fine, thin hair, but it's wavy. Trust me, that's a bad combo. Its just a step above thick and kinky.

To adequately manage it I have kept it short most of my life. I did try growing it long at various points in my life, but the curls would always get me in the end. On a good day they would be cute little ringlets that gently framed my face. On a bad day I was a frizz away from an afro.

In college I discovered that the perfect length for it was the severe cropped hair that Mia Farrow sports in Rosemary's Baby and I kept that hairstyle for a long time. The problem with that hair cut though is that it takes a very good hairstylist to cut it right, which most of the time means an expensive stylist. And it needs to get cut every 3 to 4 weeks. Which makes it a very expensive habit. Kind of like snorting crack. But I was addicted to the short hair and, while it ate up most of my teeny tiny salary, I would dutifully go to Rodger Craig's salon at the Manila Pen every 3 weeks to get my fix. Only an addict will spend 2,000++ on hair with a 10,000 pre-tax salary. Hahaha.

When John proposed marriage it gave me an excuse to try growing my hair out once more. I grew it a little too late in the game so in our wedding pictures you'll see me with a semi-bouffant hair-do which was really just my stylist's way of trying to manage my shoulder length curly mess. Needless to say I never took off my 15-foot long veil even if it meant it would get stepped on or torn, because I was afraid of what my hair would do during the reception.

When my hair was finally long enough I tried having it straightened. Or relaxed. On good days I'd look like a Pantene shampoo model (albeit a fat one). On bad days I looked like I was wearing a helmet or a wig. But regardless, I got addicted to straightening the same way I got addicted to short hair. Except now I'd spend 6,000 a month on my hair instead of 2,000. Fortunately I was making better money then.

And so the story goes. And my I continued to love my hair and hate it at the same time. It doesn't help that I have friends like Katcho who has the most beautiful, thick, glossy, straight hair that I have ever seen. Or that my husband also has beautiful, thick, glossy stick-straight hair --- so beautiful its a crime that its on the head of a guy. When I was pregnant with Pilar I spent 9 months praying that God would give her John's hair and not mine. Thankfully He answered my prayers. Since I have had more pressing things to pray for now that I'm pregnant with Olivia, I forgot to include her hair in my prayers, and if she comes out with thin curly hair I will have no one to blame but myself (and my dad) for cursing her with bad follicular genes. (It's ok Livie, Mommy will save money so that you can have your hair rebonded too when you're old enough).

When we started with the IVF treatments 2 years ago I had my long hair shorn off, because there was no way in hell I was exposing my fetuses to the chemicals that are in hair products. Oh well all know they're no good for us. The fact that the stylist applies it with gloves should be a clue. And the fact that my favorite stylist Edwin had to retire at the age of 42 because of respiratory problems caused by prolonged exposure to hair treatment chemicals should be an alarm bell type of thing.

When I found myself pregnant with Olivia I was planning to keep the short do. Except that I figured that since I was on bed rest, there was no point in spending 3,000 a month on hair that no one but my husband (who loves me no matter what I look like), my child (who couldn't care less one way or the other) and my ob-gyn (who has seen the hair on my vah-jay-jay so what else can I keep from him?) would see.

So for the past 7 months my adversary has been growing on my head. At a very slow rate I might add. I now have what could be, at best, described as a curly mullet. I'd post pictures but I'm afraid Billy Ray Cyrus might call and want his hairstyle back.

But watching Chris Rock's documentary has helped me come to grips with my hair. It isn't the most wonderful hair, but it isn't the worst hair either. At least I have the option of cutting it short (although while the pixie cut was cute on me when I was 23 and 110 lbs, its not so becoming now that I'm 34 and ---- bigger), or letting it grow long. I have sworn though never to have it straightened or rebonded again. It's a little scary when you consider what goes into those straightening products.

Ah, who knows. In the same way that Supersize Me got me to swear off McDonalds for 2 months, you might see me next month with super straight hair that will obviously look like I wasn't born with.

Now I know why Samson had such issues when Delilah messed with his hair.

Mother's talk

I never wanted to become a mother. I never even wanted to become a wife.

When I was 23 I promised my dad that I would never get married, and at the time I meant it. I was preparing to take my GREs, I had just finished taking my TOEFL and all I could think of was moving to another country and getting my master's degree.

When my friend Twinkle told me she was getting married, I spent long hours trying to convince her that it was a ridiculous idea. We were only 23 (well, she was 24)! The world was at our feet. She was supposed to go to law school, the same way I was supposed to get my MA. After her wedding reception a bunch of guy friends and I went out drinking and toasted our wonderful single-ness and vowed to never let ourselves get caught in the same trap.

Then 6 months later I met John. At first there was no cause for alarm. He was a die-hard bachelor who had never had a serious girlfriend. On our 3rd date he told me that if I was the kind of girl that just wanted to get married and have babies then may be I should date someone else. Because he wanted to get married at 40, if he ever did decide to get married. I told him that by the time he was 40 I'd be 33, so that would be perfect because I didn't want to get married either, and by then I'd be old enough just to be his live-in girlfriend without killing my parents.

Three months later he proposed. I don't know who was more surprised by the words that came out of his mouth, me or him. Or by the fact that I actually said yes.

A year later I found myself married, but at least we both agreed that we didn't want to have kids. At least not right away.

After a year of marriage we decided that we would "casually" try to have children, thinking to ourselves: "how hard could it be?". A year later we found out just how hard.

Nothing makes you want children more than finding out that you can't have any. At least not in the easy, normal way that other people could.

So we got on the 3 year roller coaster ride that was our (well, more like "my" really) life on fertility medication. First we tried the oral drugs, but those only caused more cysts on my ovaries --- none of which resulted in a viable egg. We switched doctors. And then again. Until we finally met Greg. Then the shots in ass started. And oh what fun they were. But at the end of it all, I finally developed 5 eggs. Which promptly started dying. One by one. By the end of our cycle we only had 1 left. And Greg was doubtful that it would get fertilized. He recommended that we do artificial insemination, just to increase our chances of fertilization. So I got the turkey baster up the wazoo --- and when we got home from the clinic that night, we did it the old fashioned way. Just in case.

2 weeks later they said the words we never thought we'd ever hear: you're pregnant. Followed by: now you have to go on bed rest. For the next 9 months.

The next 35 weeks were the most beautiful, harrowing, nerve wracking, fantastic 35 weeks of my life. I was hospitalized twice. Once when I started bleeding for no reason and almost expelled the little embryo that was growing inside me. Another when the placenta partially detached itself from my uterus and almost caused us to bleed out again. On my 35th week check-up Greg saw that my placenta had started shriveling and was threatening the baby, so he delivered me via c-section the next day.

On November 13, 2004, I met the person who changed my life. Forever.

Pilar Zita T. Medina, 10:54 a.m. November 13, 2004. 6 lbs. 4 oz. 18 in.

Changed it so much that 3 years after she was born I quit the job I loved so that I could be with her all the time.

I am now Mother. And I can't imagine not having wanted to be this person. Because I am a better person now for having had her, for knowing her, and for helping her grow. I am now the person that I know God has always wanted me to be. Far from perfect, but always struggling to be better --- so that I can help her be the best person that she can be, whoever that is 15-20 years from now.

She has shown me how much love there is to be found in the tight embrace of arms that can barely enfold you. In hands so small they fit in your palm. In the sweet breath that blows against your face at night when someone snuggles up close.

So much love. So much that I found myself wanting more. Willing to go through the shots in the ass, the turkey baster, the petri-dish, the catheter.

I was blessed to hear those magical words: you are pregnant, 3 more times. Never losing hope, even when two of those magical times ended so abruptly, with so much pain and loss.

Soon we will be meeting the next person who will change our lives. Forever.

And I will tell her, "you know, I never wanted to become a mother. But may be that's only because we've never met. Not until today. But today I know I have always wanted to be yours."

On Grief (My Melancholic Schizophrenia)

For Cari on Chris' 40th day.... I wrote this awhile back and our conversation regarding the fine line between grieving and becoming crazy reminded me of it.


I am lying here
Staring at walls
My mind simultaneously
Blank
And rife with thought

While my ears tingle
As I wish I could shut off
The noise
Knowing that I am secretly afraid of
The silence

This is the dichotomy of my grief

As I struggle to hold on to you
While letting you go
I have become the melancholic schizophrenic

Surrounding myself with people
Even though I want to push them away
Wanting to be alone
Knowing I will never be

Alone

How can I be when you
Are always with me
You will always be with me
How can you go
When I can't say goodbye?

Shine On

One of the things I miss the most about my dad are Sunday mornings that were spent lining up his various dress shoes outside the front porch and polishing them until lunch time.

It was a very ritualistic event. First we'd gather up all his dress shoes and bring them outside. Then we'd drag his shoe shining kits and set up our respective benches. Then he'd light up a cigarette and get started while waiting for one of us to bring him an ice cold beer. And over the strains of Frank Sinatra or Julio Iglesias we'd spend the better part of 3 hours shining, buffing and polishing about 30 pairs of shoes.

Those were good times. Over the smell of cigarette smoke, San Miguel Pale Pilsen and Kiwi shoe shine polish my dad and I would talk about anything and everything under the sun. When I started going to Catholic school, my regulation black shoes were included in the pile of shoes that needed to be shined. And when I started working my leather shoes got the same treatment.

He was always so scrupulous about shoes - how clean they had to be, and how important it was that they were well polished and maintained. He would always tell us that the state of one's shoes reflected a person's habits, sense of self-worth and work ethic. A person who takes pride in himself and isn't afraid of hard work should always, always, have clean and well polished shoes.

I always thought that it was about vanity, until I was about 10 and I asked him why he always took such pains to make sure his shoes were clean and why he always made sure he polished them himself. Then he told me this story:

My dad didn't come from money. He was only about 5 when my grandfather passed away from a heart attack, leaving my grandmother, who was a school teacher, with 6 kids and a small income. To help his family make ends meet he used to sell cigarettes to US army officers that were stationed near his hometown in Masbate. He then moved on from selling cigarettes to shining shoes because the margins were bigger and you could get a tip on top of everything else. For a little kid who wore slippers to school, those big shiny army boots were something he told himself he'd have one day.

When it was time for him to go off to college, my grandmother and my aunt, the eldest in their family, pooled together what they could so that he could go to university in Manila. He went to FEU to study Political Science, in the hopes that one day he would become a lawyer just like my grandfather. He arrived in Manila with 2 white short sleeved shirts, a pair of pants and 1 pair of black leather shoes.

He used to tell me that the second shirt was a big thing, since it allowed him to make sure that he always had a clean shirt to go to school in. When he'd get back to his dorm room he'd immediately wash whatever shirt he was wearing so that it would have the whole day the next day to dry up and he would always have a clean shirt. Since he didn't have much of a wardrobe --- it was a source of pride for him that no matter what happened.... his shoes were always clean and presentable because he polished them himself.

Even while in college, he'd still take the odd shoe shining job to earn extra cents for food, or to help defray the costs of his going to college so that he could make life easier for my grandmother and my aunt. So he never forgot those shoe shining skills.

He had to drop out of college in his 3rd year, because he had younger brothers and sisters who also had to go to school. He applied to PAL as a purser, lied about his college degree and started working.

A few years later, at a hiring event, he applied as a Medical Representative to Mead Johnson and the rest is mythic Eppie Titong history.

He became the youngest president of a multinational pharmaceutical in the Philippines when he was 39. He finally finished college, and was able to earn masters degrees from Columbia University and Insead. And when he retired, he was the head of a Fortune 500 company.

But through all those years, and all those achievements, he still spent every Sunday polishing shoes. From the GI boots, to his single pair of college shoes, all the way to his handcrafted fancy dress shoes --- he polished each and every one of them himself. More often than not, he said, to remind him of how far had he come --- on sheer hard work and determination --- and also so he would never forget his humble beginnings so that he would always be grateful for what he had.

To this day, almost 7 years since he's been gone, his shoes are still in his closet. Like they were waiting for him to come home and dust them off and shine them again.

I miss the smell of cigarette smoke, San Miguel Pale Pilsen and Kiwi shoe shine. I miss those long conversations spent covered in shoe polish.

But his stories, his lessons, and the shoes, shine on.