Sister stories

Two women have been the subject of my posts recently so I guess it’s about time I let you meet them. Nang, on the right with short(er) hair, is my soup-sipping eldest sister. On her left is my Goldilocks-cake-loving sister, Rae, who incidentally happens to be the real nurse in the family. I took this picture last April 6, Friday, during the family’s Eat-All-You-Can Japanese lunch.

We three sisters were together the day before, braving the still-chilly air to go to Nang’s plastic surgeon. Her drain tube was about to be taken off. With Nang’s husband Chris at work, Rae drove for her to the hospital. As for me, well, it just felt right to tag along.

At the clinic, my sister’s name was called out while we were in the waiting area. Rae and I wanted to accompany her all the way inside so Rae asked, “Can we come inside too?” Nang answered, “I’m not sure.” I suggested, “Let’s just go for it and wait for them to drive us away.”

No driving away happened when Dr. Borah (who should be grateful the last letter of his surname was an H) saw us. The big doctor with a balding head, amused, simply quipped, “You’ve brought a whole team here.”

Yeah, one’s from Indiana, and the other’s from the Philippines, Nang wanted to answer back. She was expecting the worst, with somebody giving her first-hand information weeks before about how painful the actual removal of the tube felt like. The surgeon, with his skillful hands, immediately went to work. No screaming happened which prompted me to say out loud, “That wasn’t too bad.” In retrospect, I should’ve kept my mouth shut lest the doctor think this petite Filipina was evaluating his performance, he, the chief of plastic surgery at Robert Wood Johnson of all people. No offense, doc. I’m kinda nice in real life, just not always tactful. Going back to the procedure, after ten minutes, we were already on our way out.

Our next stop was at McDonald’s where we had a quick lunch peppered with talks about family, food, and why the honey mustard wrap I ate tasted like it was slathered with nail polish. Then it was time for the sisters’ favorite activity: shopping. But this time, it was controlled (the act of looking and the spending itself) because my eldest sister’s upper body movement was still limited. But you can’t really put a good shopper down—with surgery and all (Rae was already shopping for her daughter’s clothes in the hospital the day after her C-section). Determination, unexplainable strength, love for shopping—what woman doesn’t have these strengths?

* * * * * * * * * * *

I’m already back in the Philippines, still trying to fight off jetlag at the time of this writing. But I brought home more than two heavy checked-in luggages with me. And am I glad that no airport officer can make me surrender this: memories of moments spent with family who should be getting the most costly investment from us—our time.

Sidepost:

Here are pictures of me (taken using a Canon powershot camera and my low-res SE cellphone) with my sisters’ kids: Nang’s Ian and Noah, Rae’s Ethan and Emma. Don't they look adorable? But of course, this Tita is biased. :)

Not about me

My eldest sister will be undergoing surgery three days from now. At this very moment, she's in the other room, working from home with her laptop. An applications manager of a leading investment firm, she has always been an achiever. Always with a good head above her shoulders.

Friends who know about her condition would ask me how she is, and I always say, "She's doing OK. If you look at her, you wouldn't think she's sick." Even I am amazed at the normalcy she's exhibiting. Of course, the thought of the surgery is probably looming in her head but I don't notice that it bothers her. Yes, sometimes, offhand she'd quip that she's a little nervous but that's just about it. No crying spells, no staring in space.

She's the reason I'm here in the US. Last year, when she was diagnosed with cancer, I offered to fly here and be her children's nanny-slash-cook-slash-nurse if and when she goes through the surgery. This year, she took my offer. In no way I am trained medically but I have done my share of taking-care. In fact, I've been in two ambulance rides already, as a companion to the patients, and by God's grace, I still managed to think straight then. But stop, this is not about me.

Going back to my sister, her name is Nang, and many people are praying for her. In another state, an American author who hasn't even met her tells me they're praying for her. In another country--the Philippines--dozens more are praying. Thank you. You just don't know what this means to me, and her.

This woman is teaching me how to trust God unreservedly, to see the silver lining in the clouds, to be brave enough to learn everything about the enemy. Her faith did not waver in this health crisis and did not doubt for a second that God is good.

Some people can display courage and faith that seem larger than life. Yes, it's true. And this is not about me.

Fun Saturday

Yesterday, my sister Nang (more on her in future post/s) and I braved the snowstorm to go to NY. Two seats were waiting for us to be filled at the Marquis theater in Broadway. And two minutes before The Drowsy Chaperone, the musical within a comedy, start did we arrive.

It was hilarious and entertaining. I wonder how long actors rehearse before they can deliver flawless performances at Broadway. Incidentally, Lea Salonga is playing Fantine in another theater within the area. While walking along the snow-carpeted streets, I saw this poster which simply said: "She's Back." And then below the two words is the image associated with Les Miserables. [I wondered then if she was actually referring to Lea and today, that hunch was confirmed when I saw it splashed in a Philippine-American newspaper, with a reference to her underneath. Wow. Her presence was enough to make people come. She had that great drawing power. I am proud to be pinay. :)]

After a very late lunch at Pongsri, a Thai restaurant, we were walking towards the Port Authority when I saw this three-storey shop: M&M's world. Needless to say, we just had to go inside. Right across is the Hershey's store but it was boring compared to this shop. I never saw so many M&M's--and in every color imaginable (black, lavender, pink, aqua--name it!)--and other M&M's products under one roof. I could live here. Health-conscious people would advise: Eat your greens. In that case, I'm taking their advice. I won't mind eating all the green M&Ms here.

Look, it's a bird

Ian, 7, is doing his assignment. He asks me for words starting with letter Q and I almost told him, "Come back to me when you get to letter S."

Queen. Check, he got that one already.
Quota. No, too complicated. He doesn't know what it means.
Quail. Yes, that could work.

And then I spell it out for him. Q-U-A-I-L.

What's that Tita Beng, is that a bird or a noun? (Or so I heard. I'm blaming it on jetlag. And I think I slept a million braincells to oblivion.)

It's a bird, Ian. It's a bird.

No, Tita Beng. Is it a VERB or a noun?

(I laugh out loud and think, what good is it to have an editor aunt to teach you when she can't hear you?)

Here's another Q word. Q-tips, or in the Philippines, cottonbuds.

three wishes

A genie granted a man three wishes.

“My first wish, I want a million dollars.”

POOF! A million dollars appeared.

“For my second wish, I want a Ferrari.”

POOF! A gleaming new Ferrari appeared.

“For my final wish, I want to be irresistible to women.”

POOF! The man became a box of chocolates.

*Are girls the only ones laughing here? ;) Got this funny text from Nechie.

slice of heaven

“I haven’t told Nang yet but that’s what I want for my birthday.”

That, incidentally, refers to the ubiquitous cake that has become a staple fare in any middle-class Filipino celebration. And the hopeful wisher for the cake is Rae, another older sister, also based in the US, a nurse, and a mother of two.

I talked to her just recently. Most of our conversation revolved around her two kids, the eldest of which, Ethan, can say in his cute way, “I love chicharon.” Rae told me this US-born toddler has very pinoy tastebuds. He eats whatever his dad eats. Boy Bawang, beef jerky—only time will tell what else. Did I tell you he’s just about to turn three?

Going back to the sis, I don’t get to talk to her much but when I do, we almost always erupt into laughter. Here’s a partial transcript of our exchange:

“Bili mo ako ng lucky me pancit canton, yung maliit.”

“Magkano ba diyan yun?”

“Mga 3 for 1 dollar.”

“Okay na yun. Isipin mo dadalhin ko pa diyan.”

“Ah alam ko na. Ang gusto ko talaga Goldilocks cake eh. Gusto ko pagdating kina Nang, yun ang kakainin ko.”

“Ha? Meron bang Goldilocks sa New Jersey?”

“Wala. Eh baka pwede niyang orderin.”

“Sinabi mo na ba sa kanya na yun ang gusto mo?”

“Hindi pa.”

“Ano bang flavor gusto mo, try kong aralin gawin.”

“Ayoko! Siyempre iba ang lasa nun. Iba ang ingredients diyan kaysa dito.”

“Eh di magdadala ako ng ingredients diyan. Sige na, sabihin mo. Titikman ko dito, aaralin kong gawin.”

“Ah basta gusto ko Goldilocks cake. Gusto ko yung nasa BOX ng Goldilocks.”

“Magdadala ako ng box!”

Nobody won in our verbal tug-of-war but the phone company who was made richer by the many seconds we wasted on the long distance call just laughing.

In the end I wasn’t able to convince my dear sister that I was serious about baking her a cake because she doesn’t want any other cake. Maybe it’s the taste of the familiar she is craving for. The taste of home. Of her days as a nursing student at Makati med. Of her medrep days for Wyeth. Even if by some miracle I could bake a cake that tastes just as good as Goldilocks, or even better, it still wouldn’t be enough. Because nowhere could I buy an ingredient packaged in a box labelled memories.

I promised to go to Goldilocks and ask how long the shelf life for their cakes is. She said she could settle for a half-roll of chocolate and mocha. I’m not sure yet how I could protect them from getting crushed in my luggage. But then again, there’s no way the boxes of rolls will be checked in.

Next time I'll eat a Goldilocks cake, I think I'll have a better appreciation for it. Because somewhere across the globe, a Pinay needs no diamong ring, no fancy car, no expensive clothes to make her happy. Just a slice of an all-too familiar cake will do.

Postscript: I found a Goldilocks website that serves online orders in the US. There's a 99% chance my sister is getting her birthday wish. Now I think it's a good thing she doesn't check out this blog often. Or else, I'll spoil it for her. The surprise, not the cake. ;)

nanny duty

Yesterday I clocked out of work on the dot. A more pressing matter was waiting for me at home. Two words: Nanny duty.

But before I boarded the south-bound bus, I swung by 7-11 to buy microwaveable popcorn, the only food specifically requested by one of my wards. Last night was "movie" night and I needed the popcorn to complete the moviehouse effect.

Pong, 6, and Robyn, 4, excitedly greeted me the moment I stepped into the room. By instinct, Pong collects the DVDs for last night’s showing: Chicken Little, Mr Bean, and Justice League.

If you haven't tried watching TV or a movie with kids, you should try it sometime. The entertainment value is upped not by what's on screen but by the reaction of the little creatures beside you who will infect you with their excitement. Pong saw something that made him laugh hard and insisted that I see it. He rewinds the part where a monster-enemy of Justice League spits fire. I didn’t quite get what was amusing about it but I laughed anyway.

Approaching the second hour of my duty, I asked permission from them if I could close my eyes for a while (the three of us were cramped in their parents' bed). Just when I was starting to doze off, Robyn signaled to his brother to tickle me, and thus the source of their delight was transferred from the laptop screen to their helpless half-asleep aunt startled by tiny fingers on her back. The next time I tried to steal a nap, a feather duster was brushed over my neck seconds after I closed my eyes.

I wave the white flag in surrender. No nanny can sleep with two precocious boys on her watch. Boys, in general, are probably harder to entertain than girls. For the next hour or so, they wrestled and I refereed. They played Chuzzle and Zuma and I coached. They worked on their coloring books and I gushed.

Last night I hit the bed with a sense of satisfaction for a job well done. No, not for the nine hours I logged in at work editing books. More for the three-and-a-half hours I spent keeping my two nephews entertained. I might not have been paid a single cent but I won’t hesitate on saying it’s one of the best jobs in the world.

three stanzas for sophia

Don’t grow up so fast, little girl

And miss out on all the fun

Take time to twist and twirl

And enjoy playing under the sun

Don’t grow up so fast, delicate one

The world is your playground

Go out—hop, jump and run!

Delight in everything you see around

Don’t grow up so fast, lovely baby

Let the make-up and high heels wait

Wear bows and dresses, all pink and frilly

Live each day and learn love, hope and faith

[Picture taken yesterday during Sophia's first birthday party that her parents, Reggie and Chayen, lavishly gave her. This just-awakened butterfly is my first niece.]

"Dandalan"

While I’m typing this*, two boys in Superman sando are within my line of vision. The chickenjoy meal they just ate is being burned as they run, and slide in the Jollibee play area. This day, being a weekend, is a day when I disrobe of my professional persona and play the easiest role of my life: cool aunt slash nanny.

“Anong gusto mong drink?” I ask Pong.

“Dandalan.”

Huh? Two more seconds were needed before the image of the yellow juice flashed in my mind.

“Ah, dalandan!” Can’t blame him. He’s only six and still building up his vocabulary.

The rest of my time with my Pong and Robyn, my nephews, was uneventful. I don’t always get the chance to be with them sans their parents and this time I notice things about them that escaped me before. Like what? Like they can burp at will, and laugh about it (Men!). And that I can ask them to do some things and they will prove to be responsible.

(*I brought my laptop when I treated my nephews to an early afternoon snack. After I fed them, I occupied the nearest seat to the playground and multi-tasked: going through my files and watching over them.)

------

This blogwriting marathon is proving to be harder than I expected. I go through my day screening the bloggables and non-bloggables. And just like Cinderella, afraid to be caught in her rags when the clock strikes midnight, similarly I race against time and write a post before the next day officially starts. Why did I even think of doing this anyway? Will I ever make it to the 30th day? Pangs of doubt are starting to attack.

Day 12

It’s everywhere. I watch TV and I see this Goldilocks ad with a woman taking out a black forest cake from the ref. I scan through today’s Philippine Starweek and a feature on The Last Chocolatier greets me. Why is it that after you’ve decided to swear off something, this very thing taunts you and makes its presence felt as if saying, “Hey, don’t you miss me?”

And if I may answer back, “You know I do.” Like crazy.

The first few days after I’ve declared my self-imposed 30-day choco fasting were peanuts. For two consecutive days, I’ve had opportunities to sink my teeth into two varieties of chocolate and I’ve turned my back on them. How hard can that be? After all, my tongue can still remember the taste of the three months’ worth of chocolates that has passed its fibrous road. Now, on my twelfth day, I’m miserable. Miserable enough to wonder, “Why did I ever decide to give it up in the first place? Is there anything inherently sinful about chocolates? It’s not as if I’m taking Ecstasy or smoking marijuana. Did God even want me to do this chocolate fasting?”

I count the days, like a little girl counting the days till Christmas. Day 12 of 30! I’m not even halfway through. How will I possibly make it through the next eighteen days when thoughts of McDonald’s hot fudge sundae, Nestle crunch, chocolate cake—any kind, and other eatable chocolates dance in my head like John Travolta doing his signature moves in Saturday Night Fever? (Now where did that metaphor come from? I plead temporary insanity, your honor.)

Forgive my ranting. Withdrawal symptom, I guess, alongside the headaches and depression. Yet my fleeting doubts notwithstanding, I know I am still convinced why I'm doing what I'm doing. If this small sacrifice can help me honor God with my body, then I know He will honor the heart behind it and give me the strength to make it. I love God more than all the chocolates in the world.

So when you see me in the hallway and you’ve got a chocolate, do me a favor: Don’t let me see it. :-) I’ve got a serious chocolate battle to win.

About a boy

What is the national food of the Philippines?
a. Turon
b. Adobo
c. Chickenjoy
d. None of the above

If that question was asked of me five months ago, I wouldn't know how to answer. But now, courtesy of a five-year-old nursery student, I can. It's D, none of the above!

"Ang pambansang pagkain ng Pilipinas ay lechon!" Well, at least, that's what my nephew Pong tells me. But when I follow up with a trick question, "Anong klaseng lechon, baboy o manok?", he just shrugs and says, "Di ko alam."' How irrational of me. Of course, he wouldn't know. They learn that in Kinder. It's unbelievable what they teach kids nowadays. (I'm suspecting that Aling Mila and Mang Tomas are somewhat involved in cooking up this national fact.)

Pong also loves knock-knock jokes. Here's a sample:
Knock, knock(which sounds more like nak, nak).
Who's there?
Titanic.
Titanic who?
"Tay-ta-nik ay di biro, maghapong nakayuko. Di man lang makatayo . . . "
(The joke gets lost in transcription. Believe me, it's funnier listening to it.)

This rice-loving, basketball-playing fella is one of the few people who can make me do what I don't want to do. Like play catch football when I should be finishing a parttime editing job. Or make me watch TV with him when I'd rather be catching up on much-needed sleep. But you can't really blame me. For how else can I discover that lechon is the national food of the Philippines? :-)

* * * * * * * * * *
I actually asked some people if they knew about this national-food-fact. Surprisingly, two out of three answered in the affirmative. Maybe I just wasn't listening when this was discussed in my preparatory school class light years ago.

*picture taken very recently at the Enchanted Kingdom.

Chocolate Chronicles

“So you can’t eat ice cream?”
“No.”
“And you can’t eat chocolates?”
“Nope.”
Gasp! “What kind of life is that?” I smiled and rhetorically asked D whom I spent five days with in our most recent conference. What elicited my shock was her declaration: "I'm allergic to sugar." I enumerated all the sugar-laced food I can think of, leading me to mention ice cream and chocolates. Ice cream, I can manage not to see for a month or two but chocolates. Now, that’s a different story.

On top of my desk is a bank of chocolates that allows me to make daily withdrawals. This bank, in the form of a canister, currently holds the following assets: a mini-Nestle crunch (the last piece from the bag of chocolates my sister gave me), a tiny bar of Hershey’s milk chocolate, generic chocolate bites wrapped in foil, Harry and David’s chocolate almonds, and the chocolate raisins I bought from Toby’s house of nuts last night.

Since I came back from my month-long vacation in the US and reported back to work in January, I have not missed a single workday when I did not eat chocolates. Not one. It’s March already. You do the Math, and figure out how much chocolate has tickled brown my tongue. By the way, did I tell you that I couldn’t donate blood? With the amount of chocolate I’ve ingested, the RBC, the WBC, the hemoglobin and all the other components of blood officially adopted cocoa as one of them and made it the leader of their team. So now my blood type—C (for Chocolates)—wouldn’t match anybody’s.

But I don’t intend to let chocolates rule my life this way anymore. I am declaring Proclamation 0-choco-30. No chocolates for one month. Thirty days, I think, is long enough to convince my brain that this body is not made for and of chocolates. Thirty days can help me clean my palate of the sweet, smooth taste of this brown piece of heaven. With God’s help, I know that I’ll survive the thirty chocolate-less days. In fact, I can’t wait to be free of my addiction that I’ll start not eating chocolates—tomorrow.

As for today, I will seize the day. I have some serious clearing of assets to do.

Supersidetracked me

“Superman…Superman…”

A tiny voice calls out. I turn around and see the owner of the voice: Flash Gordon himself. But how could that be when I’m nowhere near the Justice League headquarters? Instead, I’m here in the living room, in front of the computer, planning to spend a productive hour. In fact, for the past fifteen minutes or so, I was thinking ("it's the thought that counts")of writing and meeting my self-imposed deadline (tomorrow) for a promotional article. Now, with two superheroes a few feet away from me, can you blame me if I am held hostage by their cuteness and write about a different thing altogether?

"Superman" (aka Pong, 5) asks me to tie his cape, turns on the electric fan and simulates flying. "Flash Gordon" (aka Robyn, 3) takes off his mask; he doesn’t need his disguise around here—he’s home. It’s past eleven and I’m wondering, with a smile on my face, why did they suddenly feel the urge to don their alter-ego suits? Is there an urgent call somewhere—a building about to collapse, a fire ravaging a town? My guess: with their adrenaline still high, they heard the irresistible call of late-night adventure, and wanted to rescue themselves from boredom. And let me say, they’ve rescued themselves rather successfully.

After several minutes of flexing their mini-muscles and strutting around, the superheroes decide they’ve had enough of their powers and needed to recharge. “Flash, halika na. Akyat na tayo (C’mon now. Let’s go up).” Flash, true to his name, goes up in a flash while Superman lags behind, asks his Tita Beng to untie his cape. I figured he didn’t need it anymore because he’d rather step up the stairs than fly over it.

Now, I’m really the one who needs rescuing—from my procrastination and lack of determination. But I'm trying to ease my guilt over my non-accomplishment of my primary goal with this rationale: It’s not every night that I can write about superheroes. Supersidetracked me is just seizing the moment. :-)

My temporary career shift

After many years of editing books, I’m trying my hand in a different career. It’s a short-term employment and I get paid in hugs and kisses: being a nanny. Of Ian and Noah, six and four, respectively. Last night, their parents and grandma had to leave for somewhere and I volunteered to stay behind and watch over them. I assure their mother that the kids will be fine with me. My sister’s eyes betray her doubt that I had to remind her that I once was left with them last year. For two hours. Well, this time, I’ll be logging in five.

Two hours since they've left, the phone rings. My sister Nang greets, “O kamusta na (So how are things)?” I answer, “Buhay pa sila (They’re still alive).” She laughs and retorts, “At buhay ka pa din (And you’re still alive too).” My turn to laugh out loud.

It’s amazing how many things can happen in the span of five hours—my longest five hours ever. I cook and feed them. Wrestle and play with them. Clean up after them, and at one point, stand as a referee in their toy feud. Some moments stand out in particular:

I ask Ian if he’d like me to sing for him. His song of choice: Feliz Navidad. And so I sing. “...I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas from the bottom of my heaaaaart...”

Was he satisfied? I ask, “So Ian, did you like my song?” He answers, “Umm…a little bit.” What? I complain, “Just a little bit?” He thinks again and says, “O—kay! When you sang ‘heart,’ it was good.” He gets up from the couch where we were lying and comes back a couple of seconds later. Written on bond paper: 100. He tells me, “This is your score, Tita Beng. But only for the ‘heart.’” O—kay. I’ll take it.

Meanwhile, Noah is up and about, running around, doing his puzzles. I load the Jollibee VCD and he joyfully dances and sings, “Jolly, jolly, Jollibee, jolly, jolly.” Just when I thought everything is fine, he comes to me, takes my hand and leads me to the bathroom. Now, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to decipher what needs to be done. And so I did it—assist him in doing his “thing.” Twice, in a thirty-minute interval. My baptism of fire. Quite appropriate because “baptism” and what I did required water.

I think I’ve managed quite well. There were no dirty dishes left on the sink. No toys were lying around. No blood, no broken bones. As I tucked myself to bed, I felt a heightened sense of respect for mothers and guardians who do 24/7 what I did for five hours.

Nang, my pretty sis

That's how Nang identifies herself when she makes a comment on my blog, my pretty sis. Of course, my two other sisters will probably disagree but since they seldom visit this site, I just have to let Nang, my eldest sister, claim that honor. But before I continue, let me come to her defense and say that she is not in any way conceited. We siblings are just a funny, playful bunch.

Of all my siblings, she's the one who first knew about this blog. I can't recall how I told her, most probably over the phone. But ever since, I'd be thrilled whenever I'd see her leave a comment. These comments are few and far in between but nevertheless, I know she's reading. Sometimes she'd confirm about something I wrote over the phone, or through our occasional email exchanges. I guess it's one of the greatest benefits of blogging--that connection you make with people. People you otherwise won't be able to get in contact with through conventional means. Some people you don't see everyday--like friends far away, and like thousand-miles-away Nang. Especially like Nang.

How I wish she'd get her own blog too. So I could read about what happened to her day. How Ian probably drove her crazy with his cute antics. How Noah charmed his way to her heart. How her date with her "Babs," my cool brother-in-law, went. If she had her own blog, I'd probably be her number 1 visitor. Well, maybe number 2, next to "Babs."

But since that day has yet to happen, I figured I'd just blog about her. Today I got an email from her saying that she'd give me Northwest 2K miles points in exchange for a post on her. She wrote it in jest and wouldn't have expected that I'd take her offer. Well, I did. Except that she doesn't have to keep her end of the bargain.

Hey Nang, my pretty sis.I can glady write a post for you--for free! See?! :-)

A Poem for Ian

Once there was a boy named Ian
Who loves to laugh and have fun
He likes his ice cream vanilla white
And with his necktie is quite a cool sight

He’s the sweetest boy you’ll ever meet
How could I tell, you might think
With his skinny arms he’d hug me tight
And ask if he could stay by my side

He’d say out of the blue, “I love you”
Now if you were me, what would you do?
What else but smile and wonder out loud
How of him his parents must be so proud

Over the phone I ask him one day
“May I come on your birthday?”
He says, “Okay, just ride a big airplane”
Now, if it were only that simple and plain!

So I’m giving him this poem instead
He’d be thrilled upon seeing our picture posted
“Ian, as you turn six today, stay as cool and sweet
Of all the Ians in the world, you’re my favorite!”

H A P P Y B I R T H D A Y, Ian!

Freezing Ice Candy, Learning Patience

How long does it take for a tube of ice candy to harden in the freezer? Tell me please because for the past ten minutes, my nephew Pong has been asking me if he can have one.

"Tita Beng, pwede na?"
"Hindi pa."
(Pong, whining) "Pwede na. Tingin ako."

I lead him towards the refrigerator and take a tube out of the freezer. I tell him it’s still juice and that we have to wait a little longer. The four-year-old, three-foot fellow squeezes the tube, finally believes me and goes up their room. Meanwhile, while I am trying to surf the internet, he comes down the stairs, almost every two minutes, to ask me:

“Tita Beng, gusto ko ng ice candy. Pwede na?”

I laugh out loud. Can I blame my persistent nephew? He is still mastering his ABCs and there’s no way he will understand the concept of freezing point, of how it takes time before liquid turns into solid. Besides, even if by some stroke of genius his brain allows him to understand, will I be able to explain it to him? I’d rather coach him on writing an essay detailing the link between ice candy and world peace. It’ll be quite a stretch, I know, but hey, I can try. I’ll find that easier than explaining how the movement of molecules causes the change of a matter’s state.

Going back to Pong, I realize he is starting to exhibit the inherent male quality of having a focused mind. The conqueror in him has been awakened. He has a goal (the ice candy) but its fulfillment is not yet within reach. Nevertheless, that doesn’t stop him from channeling every ounce of his mental energy thinking about a tube filled with flavored liquid in the freezer. He wants his orange-colored ice candy NOW. I hear heavy footsteps. . .

“Tita Beng, okay na ba?”
“Hindi pa. Tatawagin na lang kita.”
“Okay.”

I’m making progress here. At least he’s starting to take my word for it and doesn’t feel the need to touch the ice candy himself. Ah, my nephew is displaying faith. Learning patience.

While I’m checking in on his ice candy, I’m considering giving him some words of wisdom. “It's not always easy to wait for something but if it means so much to you, it will be worth the wait. Trust me. God is teaching me the same.”

* * * * * * * * * * *
Epilogue: Pong didn't have to wait until the next morning to enjoy his much-coveted treat. Shortly after I finished writing this post, the ice candies were ready and I gave him and his brother a piece each. And since I did my own waiting on it too, I figured I also deserved one, a red one, as my prize. Just in case you're wondering, let me confirm, "Yes, it was worth the wait."

To Noah

You’re turning four today, Noah. And how my heart wishes that New Jersey is not as far as an eighteen-hour plane ride away. I terribly miss your smile, your bright smiling eyes, the warmth of your hugs. What I wouldn’t give to have you in front of me. You’d probably look at me with mischief in your eyes and playfully reach for my ear and then giggle—something you enjoy doing for some inexplicable reason.
I am waiting for the day when I could finally talk to you—ask you what you did at school or why you like listening to Barney, or how come you are fond of touching my ears. I will ask you about your favorite book, what you dreamt of the previous night, how you like your hot chocolate—with or without marshmallows? I will talk to you until you tire of Tita Beng pestering you with so many questions. But while that day has yet to happen, let me think about you and tell the whole world how crazy I am about you. Happy birthday, NOAH!

Ethan (aka Baby Santa Claus!) Turns One

Nang with Noah and Ian, Rae and Ethan, Me

Ethan is the latest delight of my life. My number 5 nephew (only according to the order of birth; they're all number 1 in my heart), he is celebrating his birthday today. My sister Rae and her husband Ronnel waited seven long years for this bundle of joy. So is he worth the wait? I think so(Of course, I'm biased).

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To you Ethan, how I wish I could hop on a plane, be in Indiana for even just a day, and see you celebrate your first birthday. But in my small way, I hope I could span the miles with this entry as I say, "Happy Birthday!Don't grow up too fast, okay?"