I’ve been enjoying dressing my Kitty doll so much that often, it actually feels like I have a “daughter.” I shop for clothes on a regular basis, and my loved ones, feeling the happiness I derive from this experience, have also contributed to Kitty’s growing clothes closet. Aside from her original yukata and polka-dotted bikini, she now owns a pink ballerina dress, a white satin Sunday dress (you know, for more formal occasions), a pair of blue denim pants, a pink denim skirt, and a couple of shirts. 

One of my new friend Marge’s legacy to Kitty lovers like me was this chance to own a closet drawer for my Kitty. Thank you so much, Marge! Kitty and her mama love organizing her tiny drawers! (*Hugs*)

And how nice that Kitty gets presents too from her aunts? My sister gave me these clothes to add to Kitty’s drawers- pretty pink jumpsuits and dresses!

The latter reminded me so much of Kitty in Wonderland that I decided to play around with photoshop and do this:

Kitty in Rabbit’s home

But my sister’s kindness didn’t just end there. My sisters and I all went to Maryknoll College (now Miriam College). I did my stint in grade school while they stayed in MC till high school. She thought Kitty might want to go to school there too. Well, I’m not sure they accept cats, though, even the brilliant ones. :-)  (For high school, Kitty’s definitely going to Pisay, heehee. I’m having her uniform sewn out of my old ones.)

Aww, my Kitty’s all grown up! She’s now a schoolgirl!

Lastly, I wanted to show off her custom socks. These are sewn out of some of Alex’s preemie socks; I’ve made a few others in different colors from the boys’ leftover baby socks. How cute that their little “sister”  gets to wear their hand-me-downs? 

Now if I can only find some shoes…

(I’m getting really good with Photoshop, thanks to sites like this where I learn all sorts of cool things.)

A good friend of mine I’ve reconnected with just recently over Facebook sent me a message about the name Okasaneko. I am glad that he shared his thoughts with me; he is, after all, quite fluent in the Japanese language as he took his doctorate studies at the Nagasaki University Medical School in Japan.

Here is what he told me:

“Okasan would translate to Mr. Oka.

“Okaasan (with a long second syllable) would be Mommy, or you could drop the honorific O and just   have Kaasan. Or much easier would be the third person form, HAHA. But HAHANEKO doesn’t really have the same ring to it does it?

“Just my 2 cents.”

And here is my reply:

“My tita (aunt) said the exact same thing, but I was going for more of the sound than the spelling. Oka, she says, means “hill,” but in the beginning, when I was starting my blog, everyone (meaning, people I know) read it as o-ka-a-san, with emphasis on the a-a, (read separately as ah-ah with the short a sound) as in a-a-sa-han of Filipino (I will hope). It (Okasan) was just easier on the ears but okaasan is indeed the correct form.

“Oh, at least you know the intent, and you can breathe easy that I do pronounce it with the long second syllable, heehee.

“Just my luck to run into a guy who took graduate studies in Nagasaki! (Actually, he took his doctorate degree there, in molecular virology! What a brain!)

“Thanks a lot! I miss bumping heads with brainy people.

~♥Kittymama

So, now, we know. Everyone, let’s try to read it the correct way so Kittymama does not turn into Mr. Hill- O-ka-sa-ne-ko (prolong the ka, please!).

Once again: O-ka-sa-ne-ko.

Thank you! Have a great Day!

This was written by my youngest sister Jasmine. I asked her permission to put it here in honor of our Dad’s 67th birthday today. I am not able to write about this as bravely as she has and so, I am borrowing her words today. Thank you, Jas.

Daddy and his first grandchild, Alexander

And to our dearest Daddy, the first man I ever loved, the man who gave all five of his children the sun and the moon and the stars- Happy Birthday! We love you so much.

~0~  

Lost-And-Found Daddy

by Jasmine N.O.

My father smells awful.

And I am glad.

Most days, the smell of sweat, cigarettes, rust and hard work cling to him, trailing his every movement. It is an odor that has followed him every working day of his life. And for a time, during my adolescence, I found it quite embarrassing.

But now I welcome it.

It is the smell of a self-made man.

When I was growing up. My father made a decent living managing a factory he single-handedly built from the ground up. Daddy worked incessantly, day and night, weekdays and weekends- always with the seemingly untiring precision of a clockwork figure.

During those early years, we lived in a modest house half-perched on top of the factory. And each day, he would descend the stairs wrapped in a cloud of soapy freshness. Yet he would always come back smelling like the chemicals and metals of his trade.

As a matter of routine, upon returning home, he would lie down, still reeking like a sack of rusty nails. Then we would scramble up his bed and sidle up next to him, unmindful of the odor.

As we grew, his business flourished. Daddy’s hard work provided us with all we could ever need, and much more besides. We were by no means spoiled brats, but all our young lives, we never knew what it was to want for anything.

We lived a privileged existence. Pampered with more books and toys than we knew what to do with, chauffeured to and from the best private schools, encouraged to bloom through dance, art, and music lessons. We had the best of everything, all due to his tired, sweaty factory smell.

As the youngest child, I was Daddy’s Girl. On shopping trips, when a clean-shaven and perfumed Daddy would firmly tell me that a certain purchase would be my last for the day, I would turn on the charm and get him to agree to buy me the last, last item. And the last, last, last after that. And the last, last, last, last after that. And so on. I was loved.

When I was about four years olds, I lamented being born three days before Christmas. Much to my dismay, I would always get joint birthday and Christmas presents from relatives and friends. To make up for this “gross injustice,” Daddy declared that my birthday would officially begin on December 1st and stretch all the way down to January 6th, the Feast of the Three Kings. True enough, beginning the first of each December, I would receive little presents from Daddy.

To be sure, Daddy was not a selfish man. The success of his kamalig (translation: warehouse), as he liked to call it, allowed him to send all five of us to college, and the other four on to medical or law school. But he always kept his widowed mother and younger siblings in mind.

The kamalig allowed him to provide jobs for his younger brothers and sisters. It allowed him to build a spacious house of his own and an even grander one for his mother. He was a father to the entire extended family. Even down to our less fortunate cousins, majority of whom he sent to school.

But in 1992, a series of strokes and a family dispute put an end to life as we knew it.

While in his sickbed, Daddy was accused of theft by the siblings he loved and employed. Never mind that he gave them more than he ever kept for us. Never mind that the deeds to majority of the property he had accumulated were in their names. Never mind that he had to do without a lot… for us, for them.

Confused, weakened, so much unlike himself, he yielded. And he lost everything he had ever worked for, save for the home and the cars. He lost the kamalig and with it, that kamalig stench.

I was still in college then. And pretending like nothing was different, I plodded my way through school, surrounded by the din of friends and classmates, many of whom were none the wiser to my new predicament.

When left to my own devices, I would try not to cry. Yet sometimes, sorrow and anger would get the better of me and I would wrap my fists tightly around a bunch of coins. Then I would wait. Wait for the rusty smell to grow on my sweaty palms. It was almost like that kamalig smell. It was comfort when I needed it most.

From school, I would often return to a quiet and darkened house. To a grieving family suddenly thrown into hard times.

We were not used to worrying about money. But more than that, we were not used to having to take care of Daddy. He always took care of us.

Robbed of his pride and his notion of self worth, he withdrew into a deep depression. His strokes left him with virtually no physical deficits and yet he remained bound to his bed. His work-calloused hands and feet grew soft and smooth from disuse.

What disease could not do, his siblings and his mother did effortlessly.

They broke him. They defeated him. They all but killed him.

Whereas before, he hardly ever raised his voice, he became prone to fits of rage. He lost his laughter- a man who once seemed invincible, reduced to muted tears of anguish and anger. Gone was his enviable zest for life and living. In its place was much sadness and thoughts of death and dying.

He became a stranger to us.

That above all was the greatest loss. Far greater than the loss of money, property , or extended family.

He was robbed of everything that made him who he was. And we found ourselves just as lost as he was. Perhaps more so.

A very good school friend who knew a similar fate once told me how much of a stranger her own father had become. “I love him,” she said sadly. “But I no longer like him.” For a time, that summed up how I felt about my father. I could not find even a glimmer of the man he once was. And that is a horror and tragedy that I never would have thought was possible.

But opiating forgetfulness is kind.

In time, the gaping wounds healed.

Grandchildren brought back a twinkle to daddy’s eyes. He found his laughter again. He regained his pride.

The sale of the lavish residence, so close to his mother’s and siblings’ homes, gave him renewed vigor.

It was like cutting ties again. Only willingly this time. And permanently.

We packed up our things and never looked back.

And from the sale of the house, daddy constructed a new home. And a new factory. A modest one that can’t compare to what he once had, but it’s his. All his. Pabrika (translation: factory), he now calls it.

And each day, he leaves the new home under a cloud of soapy freshness.

And each night, he returns, the smell of sweat, cigarettes, rust and hard work clinging to him.

Like old times.

Well, almost…

For a few minutes yesterday at lunch, I was a queen dressed up in the fashion of Henry VIII’s reign. I should have expected it when the invitation for the advanced screening of HBO’s The Tudors landed on my hands. It was just the kind of kooky and fun thing the creative people behind Virtusio Public Relations would have up their sleeve. And really, as a  prelude to the screening, it was a perfect way to break the ice with a group of journalists.

I had some misgivings at first with the heavy period costume, with its faux fur collar and sleeves, layers of petticoats, and heavy satin lining; besides, I did not relish the idea of dressing up, only to be decapitated. :-) After a while, however, I started to enjoy the lavishness and outrageousness of the costume. I mean, how often in one’s life does one get the chance to be a queen, if only for a few minutes? Before I knew it, I felt immensely royal and, ehrm, queenly. I was also seized with this sudden urge  to command people around.

“Let them eat cake!” I wanted to scream. (Oops, I channeled the wrong queen; that’s Marie Antoinette.*) 

“I will make you shorter by the head!” (Still the wrong queen; that’s Elizabeth I, daughter of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. I am a history nut.)

I was brought back to earth when I was introduced to the wonderful Ms. Karen Lai, Director for Communications for HBO. Over a sumptuous repast, I also had the privilege to exchange a few thoughts with Mr. Romy Virtusio, the man himself, the force behind Virtusio Public Relations. He is a thoroughly engaging man, with a quick wit and a very unassuming manner that makes one feel instantly at home with him.

After lunch, we headed to the theater, free popcorn and drinks in hand. We were shown the first two episodes of The Tudors and I must say that despite some awfully large liberties with history, this series is sure to catch the public’s imagination. Too bad they only have it on HBO Signature for now (starts September 10). I think I’ll ask A to buy for me the complete first season boxed set at Amazon (retails $20.99) so I don’t have to wait while Skycable Platinum finds its way into my area.

In the league of Henry’s Queens? 

The wives of King Henry VIII plus one: Queen’s photos from http://www.eriding.net/media/tudors.shtml#3a

At the end of the screening, we were asked to vote which of the people who had their pictures taken as King or Queen would be awarded King Henry and Queen Anne (Boleyn) for the day. Votes for the King were unanimous, but the Queens slugged it out neck and neck. Alas, I should have voted for myself because I lost by only one point. Boohoo! 

Still, I have have no regrets. When I got home late afternoon, I still felt very much like a Queen, surrounded by a retinue of gorgeous men (three, to be exact, heehee) who obeyed my every beck and call. Pondering upon the fates of Henry VIII’s queens, I realized, however, that perhaps I must exercise more discretion with all the commanding and summoning and beckoning that I do. For indeed, the last thing I want is suffer a tragic fate like this:

photo of headless Anne Boleyn doll from http://joycestahl.blogspot.com/2008/05/ghosts-and-pumpkins.html (Go visit this very creative, if a little morbid, site!)

For more gruesomely fascinating photos of decapitated Queen dolls, visit www.headlesshistoricals.com.

~0~

A thirty-second history lesson: “Let them eat cake!” is a statement often attributed to Marie Antoinette in the days leading to the French Revolution, but historical scrutiny has shown that this came from French philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau in his autobiographical book Confessions which was written in 1766. And in 1766, Marie Antoinette was only 10 years old, certainly too young to be married to Louis XVI. 

I was officially released from my “husband-imposed quarantine” (sorry, hon) last Friday, when A, Alex and I took in the third-to-the-last show of Cinderella at the Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP). By then, while I still couldn’t wear abrasive clothing (like jeans) which would scratch at my healing abdomen, I was well enough to put on a soft, slinky dress (imagine me in a dress!) that A had bought for me and stay out till late at night.

As soon as the lights went out and Lea Salonga’s voice filled the hall, I wept like a hormone-addled PMS sufferer. I couldn’t help it. Something about her voice evokes that same reaction every single time. Indeed, Ms. Salonga’s voice has definitely grown more refined and more elegant with time, mirroring her emotion and thoughts with subtle changes in inflection, tone, and body. And as old (at 41) as I am and as jaded as I am now of real life, I still wept when she finally found her Prince.

A held my hand tightly in his. I think he was a little afraid I would pass out from the excitement. I saw him glance at me a few times in the dark, as he wiped a tear or two from my cheeks.

A got good seats for us, just four rows from the stage. We were so close we could see the microphone stuck on the actors’ foreheads, heehee. And much like the four-year-old child I was when I first saw Disney’s Cinderella (technically, Disney’s Cinderella is much, much, much older, having been created in 1950), I had my mouth open for most of show, in turns guffawing in laughter, holding my breath in excitement, and weeping with happiness. Moreover, I was enthralled by the details- the lavish costumes, the wonderful colors, the elaborate sets, and the lightning-quick changes (Ms. Salonga changed from servant girl to fabulous-princess-of-the-ball in less than a minute). The production values were excellent in every way.

I loved Cinderella, loved it so much that I begged A to watch another show with me, even just a matinee. I knew, however, that with Alex’s exams coming this week, our weekend would have to be spent at home. I was sad to go but A always does the sweetest things to cheer me up. He gave me a souvenir program, a CD of the international tour cast recording, and a charm bracelet (with slipper, pumpkin, and Cinderella charms) to bring home. On the car on the way home, Alex was already singing lines from the song. When he asked me which song I loved the best, I said it was this:

Prince: Do I love you because you’re beautiful,
or are you beautiful because I love you?
Am I making believe I see in you
a girl too lovely to be really true?
Do I want you because you’re wonderful,
or are you wonderful because I want you?
Are you the sweet invention of a lover’s dream
or are you really as beautiful as you seem?

Cinderella: Am I making believe I see in you
a man too perfect to be really true?
Do I want you because you’re wonderful,
or are you wonderful because I want you?

Both: Are you the sweet invention of a lover’s dream
or are you really as wonderful as you seem?

While Cinderella and the Prince sang this song, I was reminded of myself and how I saw myself through my eyes. Sometimes, fairy tales do come true. At least, it did for me.

~0~

I looked for this article which I wrote years ago and I read this to Alex when we got home that night. He was asking too many questions, wanting to understand why that specific song resonated loudly in my life. I think he understands now.

The Beauty of Loving

Early on in life, I knew I was no ravishing beauty. At an age when many little girls dreamt of becoming Miss Universe, I knew as early as then that it was useless and foolish to pine for this impossible dream. I didn’t chance upon this conclusion by myself. One of my earliest memories was that of my paternal grandmother pinching my flat nose and saying, “Eto, pango, hindi talaga maganda.” (This one has a flat nose, not beautiful at all.”) I was only three years old.

My younger sister Joanne (the one who grew up to call herself Joee), well, she was the beauty of the family, everyone agreed. She was lithe and petite, whereas I was chubby and chunky. Her complexion was golden and creamy, whereas I was pasty and white like a ball of dough. She had deep-set eyes fringed with long eyelashes, while mine were hairless Chinese slits I inherited from our father. She had pouty lips that I tried to imitate, only to end up looking like a fish without gills. She even had dimples — on both cheeks! Hands down, my Incredible Hulkette was no match for her graceful beauty.

Foolishly, I took all those against her while we were growing up, as if she had any choice on the matter at all. I deeply resented her luck. Thankfully, she didn’t quite catch on that I didn’t want to be around her most of the time. I’d devise ways to get back at her, though she always put one over me, no matter how deviously I tried. Looking back, I was a rather lame evil sister. I’d play with her Barbie toys and leave them lying around (so she’d get scolded by my mom), and as soon as I turned my back on her, she’d be running around the house innocently gumming and chewing on my Ballerina Barbie doll’s leg. By the time I rescued Barbie, my sister had already dripped drool all over the doll’s hair and painted face. She even decapitated it accidentally.

I was the big sister she desperately wanted to close be with. She hounded me like a sweet little puppy and tried to insinuate herself into my life. I kept her at bay and distanced myself from her. At family reunions, I’d sit as far away from her as possible so that our critical and tactless relatives wouldn’t have to compare her to me.

A funny thing happened when I reached adolescence. I sprouted a foot and a half overnight. I grew breasts and curvy hips. My face developed a semblance of cheekbones as puberty distributed the fat in all the right places. All of a sudden, I was no longer fat and plain of face. Sure, I was still no beauty, but I didn’t think I looked all that bad. My sister, on the other hand, remained a child for some years after I had grown. Because she was always small for her age, even in adolescence, she remained smaller than most. I got to wear hip, teenage clothes while my mom forced her to wear baby dresses with Peter Pan collars and Dumbo patches, much to my sister’s chagrin. I almost pitied her then.

When she finally caught up with me (I think she started to grow and develop around her junior year in high school), I lost steam again. Ah, that was it, I gave up. I felt that I had no chance of ever competing with her in the arena of physical attributes so I buried myself in books. I stayed up late at nights to do more work for extra credit. I made myself adhere to a rigid schedule of study and it paid off. When I got a science scholarship in high school and later on got in the state university, I heaved a sigh of relief. Finally, people were no longer wont to notice my funny-looking face or my large figure, only my brains.

There was a commercial advertisement many years back that struck me on a personal level, not because of the message but because of the character they employed to get the message across. In the past, I often identified myself with that girl in the commercial. Rosa Axion Bida had pimples on her face, a few blackened teeth, a large flat nose, and an ungainly, awkward build. In short, she was pimply, fat and ugly — a cruel stereotype of household help. Many days, I felt as ugly as she was depicted.

I carried that image in my heart for many, many years. I even dreamt of her, and in my dreams, I was Rosa Axion Bida. Her image was seared in my brain.

I didn’t realize it then, but when I finally acknowledged that I could achieve something on my own by sheer hard work, I stopped becoming preoccupied with physical beauty. I learned to laugh more. I learned to laugh at myself. I laughed from my belly and from somewhere deeper down, a layer I hadn’t known existed. I ran and played and enjoyed myself. I became comfortable in my own skin. And somewhere down the road, I forged a real friendship with my sister, never mind that she is and will always be the ravishing beauty of the family.

Still, I didn’t chuck all the cosmetic trappings; rather, I learned to use it for my own pleasure. I dressed to please myself and I made myself up not for anyone else but for my own satisfaction.

The people in my life attested to this change. They never flattered me and called me beautiful; that would be hogwash, of course, but many complimented my grace and my spirit. Some loved my feistiness and my grit, others my determination and my persistence. They loved my laughter, which they said was natural and devoid of artifice. They admired my words, which they said could evoke strong feelings in them. I was happy. I was being me.

I met my husband when we were both thirteen. When we were eighteen, he said I was the most beautiful human being he had ever known. I punched him hard in the arm and guffawed. Me — beautiful? He must be joking! He took it all in stride and punched me back lightly in the arm, all the while grinning and exposing his pearly whites like crazy. He learned never to call me beautiful again.

Then late one night, a few nights after I had just given birth to our first son, I awakened to the light rustling of sheets as my husband sought to swaddle Alex in flurry of blankets. I heard him crooning softly to our newborn baby. “You’re the luckiest baby in the word,” he said softly. “I love you, do you know that? And you are as beautiful as your mom.” My heart leapt for joy. Fast-forward to today. My son is ten, and beginning to appreciate the different faces and figures of people. “Human beings are like art, Mama,” he says knowingly. “Some are abstract art, but their colors make you happy. Some are beautiful paintings, but they leave you cold inside.”

“What about me, then?” I asked in jest. I wanted to see what he would say. I remembered suddenly, with a twinge of pain, how in kindergarten, he wrote about his mother being the kindest woman he had ever known. He added that his best friend wrote that his mom was pretty and had a nice figure. Why didn’t he write the same of me? “But, Mama, that would be a lie.” I had to smile despite myself.

“You, Mama?” I heard him breathe deeply. “You are the most beautiful painting in the whole world because you make my heart sing. I love you.”

I should learn a thing or two from the people who love me. Maybe I am beautiful. In their eyes, anyway. And if so, it is their love that makes me that way. So today, in the midst of eyebags and stretch marks, cellulite and thunder thighs, I no longer see myself as Rosa Axion Bida. I am beautiful, this I’ve learned from those who love me.

I am beautiful because I accept. I am beautiful because I forgive. And I am beautiful because I love.

My Hello Kitty Dress Me doll arrived last Wednesday from the US. I had been waiting for her for months. She was a gift A bought for me on my birthday but since the Sanrio site does not ship internationally, she had to wait in New York with other items and gifts my father-in-law was sending back home. Finally, after a month and a half of a lengthy ship voyage, she finally got home. 

I got the idea for a Kitty travelogue from Travelocity’s roaming gnome, the one who was gnomenapped from his owner’s front yard in North Carolina and is now living a shussing, jet-setting, high-rolling lifestyle. I wanted Kitty to be part of my everyday life, never mind that I do get stares from people who think of me as nuts.

Kitty got here with very scanty accoutrements, just her standard underwear and two sets of clothing (a polka dot bikini set and a Japanese yukata). They ran out of other clothing designs before I could purchase them so I guess I’ll have to start looking for them on eBay.  

I made up my mind to bring Kitty to Friday night’s concert as early as Wednesday. But I didn’t think any of her two dresses would suit the concert scene so I simply dragged her along in her underwear. A promised to bring us shopping the next day, though.

Kitty at Burgoo Gateway

Kitty at Sharon Cuneta’s concert

On Saturday, we dropped by SM Megamall for a special Sanrio sale at the Atrium. I managed to pick up a few items on sale. However, I missed out on the afternoon activities (a meet and greet affair, a Kitty photo shoot, and face painting) because I went very early to avoid the crowds. Kitty managed to squeeze in some pictures, including one with an overweight Kitty cheerleader.

With Chiqui of Sanrio Surprises Megamall A

Then it was off to Trinoma for clothes shopping. My cousin had told me of an Animaland branch in Trinoma that might carry clothes for my 12-inch Kitty, and we weren’t the least bit disappointed. Animaland is much like Build-A-Bear, where you can stuff your own doll and choose clothing and accessories for them. Although there were a limited number of items for smaller female dolls like my Kitty, I did find jeans, shirts, a ballerina dress, sequined hot pants and matching blouse. The staff were very accommodating and very enthusiastic about their jobs. They even gamely posed for my camera. I liked Animaland a lot and they’re going to see much more of me soon.

With Ice (I hope I got his name right) of Animaland Trinoma

In the afternoon, before we prepared for Saturday night’s concert, Kitty and I tagged along with A to have the car’s matting changed. The car was parked near the sidewalk and people could see me taking shots of Kitty. Some smiled at me, others laughed, and yet a few others gave me shocked stares. Whatever.

Having a 12-piece car mat set fitted at Miggyboy’s

Notice Kitty’s new outfit? They didn’t have shoes in her size though. Early evening, A and I chose to have a light snack at the Gateway Food Express before heading off to the concert venue.

And at Tony Hadley’s concert, Kitty was seen jumping up and down with Kittymama. The cameras also pannned over them a few times.

The night ended with a quick repast at Cafe Bola. Here is Kitty, trying to decide on what to eat.

And before we knew it, another day was done. Kitty rested in her brand-new Disney Princess stroller because Alphonse wanted to crush her in his embrace. He was also quite intrigued with her pink ribbon.

*Yawn* Good night, Kitty!

~0~

Thirty-second note on Philippine Idioms: Itchy feet (makati ang paa) is a local idiom that means one is a gallivanter, or fond of going places  

I choose not to give Savage any more space and time; the less said about him, the better. 

We’re back home and back to our everyday routines. Yet, before the last weekend fades into distant memory,  I want to thank all those who wished us well - Doc Mark, Casdok, Megamom, Leirs, Doc Ness, Beth (FXS Mom), Mari, and Odette — your prayers and well wishes are very much appreciated. :-)  Thank you, dear, dear friends. We had such a great time that already I am planning and saving up for the another weekend trip next month.

Last Friday morning, Alphonse woke up at the crack of dawn. He was too excited to sleep, I guess. He kept handing me a picture of ”car” and I had to repeatedly remind him that it was still too early to go anywhere. We sat down and looked at the picture schedule of his day and that seemed to quiet him down.

After a three-hour lesson in the morning, a leisurely lunch, and some play time, he knew it was time to go. He hurriedly dressed himself, slung his pecs notebook over his shoulder, and climbed into the back of the car, a silly grin plastered on his face as he waved happily to his nannies.

Thirty minutes into the car ride (we were not even out of the city limits), I took a peek at the back through the rearview mirror and was surprised to see both boys fast asleep. It’s not unusual to see Alex sleeping at the oddest hours- this boy sleeps as soon as the car starts- but Alphonse is another matter. Still, the day’s excitement was probably a little too much for him. Add the fact that he started his day long before the sun was up, and it  was understandable to catch him dozing off.

We got to our destination shortly before sunset. Alphonse spent a few minutes walking around the well-appointed hotel suite. He checked the mini-bar, flushed the toilet a few times, channel surfed, ate the complementary fruits, and paced the entire length of the room as if counting his steps. Then he insisted on opening the balcony door to catch a whiff of fresh sea air. He took three sniffs with his flaring nostrils, frowned at the thick, salty air that assailed his senses, then closed the door back to settle in on the airconditioned room. So much for nature.

Over the weekend, we were able to bring Alphonse everywhere. Alex volunteered to baby-sit while A and I have a quiet dinner but since I don’t trust two teenagers alone in a room together, we hauled them everywhere. Alex feigned hurt that I did not trust him to watch after Alphonse, and he seemed to get a kick from my response that if I catch both of them in a wild party with girls and drinking, I’d have to ground their a**es till they were in their thirties.

It was amazing to see Alphonse enjoy himself. The last trip we were in all together was almost two years ago, a few months before he went on “siege.” Since then, we’ve been wary about bringing him places, as new people, places, and experiences could set off a major tantrum. Lately, however, we’ve seen in him a renewed interest in the world. He’s been so much more attuned to others around him. And yes, his behavior has improved so much that most of the time, he now simply responds to verbal reminders on how to behave and act appropriately.

We were able to eat dinner at a Japanese restaurant and while he kept looking at the other tables, probably wondering why his food was taking a bit longer than he was used to, he did not whine at all nor did he attempt to grab someone else’s food. He played with memory cards until his food arrived, and when it did (a large order of tempura and a bowl of gyu saikoro don), he gobbled it up almost immediately. Not content, he begged for slices of Alex’s teriyaki chicken, and only after eating half of Alex’s food did he appear sated. Then he sat down quietly, taking in the conversations around him, till we were all finished.

It was the same thing when we brought him to fastfood joints. Here in Manila, drive-thrus and home delivery are commonly the methods of food acquisition we use, as they limit our interaction with other habitués of any dining facility. Over the weekend however, we discovered that Alphonse could now tolerate waiting periods, could eat independently, and best of all, would not grab at other people’s food or drinks. It was such a major stress reliever.

The trip without the nannies was a big test, true, but he seemed to enjoy the independence. Of course, I looked in on him while he bathed and dressed (I supervised), but I no longer needed to help him with a lot of things. Also, he used his communication notebook and pecs cards more consistently; we were surprised to find him “asking” for things and not simply waiting for it to be brought to him. And these were some of the lessons we brought home for his nannies. They were there to watch over him, to prompt him occasionally, to help him cope with the things in life, but they are not his hands or feet. Many things he will have to do by himself. It’s time to stop the babying and let him be the man he is destined to be.

Alex and I were reviewing our weekend pictures last night when he remarked, quite aptly, that our pictures seemed so mundane and would hardly merit any praise as travel pictures. (“Mom, you took pictures of the bathroom? Did you take one of the park? How about the beach?”) He didn’t want some of his pictures shown, the ones where I catch him holding on to his PSP as a fifth appendage, and I had to twist his arm a little (not literally) to convince him to allow me to show people how he sleeps with his mouth open. I certainly agree with his astute observations; I did forget to take shots of the lovely beach and the verdant park. Yet, I explained to him, that this last weekend was not about the destination but about the family, not about the sights but the journey. And if those 48 hours were any indication of what our future will be as a family living and loving and thriving with autism, then I can look forward to tomorrow with inextinguishable hope.

We’re taking the kids on a weekend getaway, only this time, Alphonse’s nannies will have to be left behind. I think of this as some sort of a test we have to pass as a family and the only criterion for passing would be surviving without help for at least 48 hours. I’ve noticed how we’ve all become a little too dependent on the help lately and I think it’s time we shake things up a little bit.  

Then too, this will help us prepare for that trip sometime in the future when it’ll have to be just us for a month or so. If things go well over the weekend, then it’s time to take Alphonse to other destinations.

So far, I’ve got everything packed and ready to go. Alphonse’s bag is always a production number by itself and this one took me longest to put together. While he has his own overnight bag filled with clothes, I have to bring another, albeit, slightly smaller bag to house his emergency needs like a change of clothes and underwear (for “accidents”), disposable pee bags, timer, food, candies, bubbles, his pecs notebook, Lysol wipes, tissues, a small towel, a squirt bottle of soap and a foldable cup, his medicines, and his iPod. See what I mean by production number? 

But hey, no worries. I love the idea of Alphonse stepping out into the world some more. I know he loves it too. Last weekend, when we brought him out to go to the mall to get some supplies, he didn’t stop singing the entire time. He was using his falsettos, throwing off those high notes in remarkable fashion, singing a wordless tune which mirrored his happiness. He held my hands and walked and skipped happily with me and his dad. And despite some minor problems (people literally jumped out of his way when they heard him, as if they were afraid, or many, as usual, stared impolitely), he enjoyed his short trip to the mall so much that the good feeling stayed with him for a few more days.

I hope this trip works out well for him again. I’m cutting his classes short today (we leave after lunch). I’ve brought some of his things so we could continue classes while on the road. Wish us luck!

The Philippine Daily Inquirer carried the other day, June 30, 2008, a most beautiful piece written by Sibol’s beloved Mr. P entitled “What I Learned: The Gospel of the UP Chapel according to Mr. Pagsi.”. You can find it here. Please look up the link, and see how this 81-year-old teacher continues to inspire all those whose lives he touches.

Mabuhay ka, Mr. Pagsi!