I get my daily newspapers at night, when A comes home from work. He brings home nine different newspapers each night, part of a journalistic exchange practice they’ve had for years. Nights, however, I have very many things going on all at the same time so I am always hard pressed to finish all nine of them. I usually get my paper time in the mornings before Alphonse is up, while I have my morning brew.

Monday was a holiday so reading the papers was out. A was home, which meant conversations over breakfast, and not my solitary pursuit of hot drink and the papers. This morning, as I was reading through Monday and Tuesday’s papers, a name jumped out from the byline- my friend C! She had written an article about autism (she didn’t tell me ) and it was on one of Monday’s papers. I was so giddily happy I texted her right away and told her I’m keeping a copy to have it signed.

Here is a scanned picture of her article. (I couldn’t find a link on the online archives anymore, even as this is a major broadsheet.) I’ve also blurred her name to protect her privacy.

Congratulations, my friend!

What made me even happier was the fact that Hello Kitty got special mention. Even better, C was referring to MY Hello Kitty autism awareness widget! Yay for friends!

Great job, C!

Just one of those days when nothing seems right. I burnt my laminator to a crisp while making PECS cards last night. A brought it to the repair center today and it set us back a tidy sum to have it repaired (I think I fried the heating element). Then, after 40 minutes of Wii Fit this morning, I forgot I left the game disc when I turned it off. When I turned it on again, I heard a popping sound and the Wii won’t start anymore. I have to wait for A to come home to look at it. I’m hoping it isn’t broken…

I’m complaining, I know… which is pretty bad considering the circumstances of the world today. Gas is at an alltime high. The cost of energy has significantly increased just in the last few months. Food is so expensive (imagine, a can of luncheon meat costs 1/7 of the minimum daily wage in the country!). People line up almost all day just to get a kilo or two of cheap rice (I see them everyday; I live rather near a government rice depot.) The list goes on…

And just when I am feeling low, along comes this beautiful reminder of hope. That while there are many things out there that can hurt us, He is always there to shield us and protect us from the hailstorms of life.

I’m hanging in here, my friends. Hope you all are too. 

For the sake of A’s privacy, I have decided not to post any pictures from my birthday vacation. Instead, I would like to share the many, wonderful ways A surprised me for this special event.

The night before we left, A brought home this cake for me and the kids. (See the dedication? How sweet!) I know Hello Kitty looks a little ragged in this cake, but I was so pleased that he remembered that I loved it just the same. Besides, Keroppi looked kinda cute!

A then asked me to pose for the camera, but I didn’t know he pulled a prank on me until I reviewed the pictures for uploading.

See how he switched the numbers from 41 to 14? Funny man, but he later made up for this by saying he has loved me since we were 14. Ahhh, what could be sweeter than that?

The cake would literally prove to be just the “icing” for my birthday celebrations as A had more surprises up his sleeve.  

At exactly midnight of May 31, just before he and I went to bed, he pulled out two more boxes from I-don’t-know-where-he-hid-them.

I was confused why he would give me another SD card until I opened the beautifully wrapped gift. Imagine my astonishment when I saw this-

“AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!” I shrieked and jumped and hyperventilated for joy!

And when I settled down from the screaming and the jumping, he gave me yet another one…

A beautiful hello kitty-red Crumpler camera bag! How many more surprises can my heart take?

A and I then spent another hour fiddling with the camera and taking shots of each other. I fell asleep that night, wrapped in his arms, with the camera manual draped over my chest.

Over the next few days, as A and I enjoyed our brief vacation, he never failed to pull a surprise or two on me. They weren’t always  “over-the-moon” kind of surprises, though. Sometimes, it would be the simplest little thing, like a bar of chocolate or a bottle of Coke zero (”Coke is outrageously pricey in hotels,” he repeatedly reminded me. So one time, I ordered this very exotic tasting juice from room service, proud that I did not order Coke, and when the bill came, the juice was worth almost PhP600! I went back to Coke zero brought elsewhere, haha. But I digress…)

Most of the time, it was just the way he made his presence felt to me, like how, after 17 years of marriage, he still moves over to the side of traffic when we cross streets, or how he always gives me first dibs on the better pillow. Or how he starts and ends our days with “I love you.”

If I had honestly thought that by the third day, he had pulled enough surprises, I was in for a bigger shock. A knew that Hello Kitty would not be too far behind when my birthday comes every year, so he also whipped up this Kitty bag of goodies for me: three different Hello Kitty NDS lite styluses (reminder to self: plural of stylus is styli or styluses, but I like the latter better), a HK lunch bag, a metal water bottle, a pencil case (which can also double as PSP case) and stationery staples in pink and red.  

How can you not love a man who feels secure shopping for Hello Kittys? 

Just this week, a few days after we came back, A brought this home for me. His gift, he says, for my birthday. “But you’ve given me so much already,” I cried out. “For your wee feet,” he jested and smiled broadly as once again, the house was filled with screams and thumps of heavy-butt jumping.

I’ve always loved Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poems and when I was young, I took to heart Sonnet 43 of her Sonnets from the Portuguese. I always prayed that when I meet the man of my heart, he would love me this same way.

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.”

He already does. Am I not a lucky woman indeed? 

I started writing my own stories earlier than most children, in huge block letters at age three, at a time when Efren Montes and Vilma Santos were the rage on television. (I wrote a story about being his girlfriend, silly, precocious me). In grade school, I automatically drifted to the yearbook organization and the literary club, where I horrified my teacher with a very graphic story on decomposing, maggot-infested flesh (hey, I was eleven!) long before I learned all about blowflies. In high school, I was co-editor-in-chief of the school paper (the “co-“ part  because I didn’t have enough years behind me as member of the paper; in fact, the year I joined the paper was the year they made me co-editor-in chief). And in college, I applied for apprenticeships in local newspapers and got them, only to back out at the last minute because my parents did not favor a career in journalism. (Haha, I married one!)

When I went on an indefinite hiatus from medicine many years ago, it was without expectation of a definite date of return. Somehow, the farther I strayed, the easier it was not to look back. I kept myself busy by writing in journals, documenting our lives as we transitioned from couple to a family of four within three years of marriage. As I found the courage to listen to my own voice, I found the same courage to put that voice in paper. I ventured into professional writing  by happenstance; one particularly blessed day, I sat down to write about our family’s early years with autism and this got published in a local paper. Later, this same story would be included in one of Dr. Queena Lee-Chua’s series of Blessings books.

As my expertise in technology grew (ably guided by my then-five-year-old’s natural talents) I started writing for e-magazines too. Aside from the thrill of actually having a second career, it was the easiest way to make a little money for a stay-at-home mom like me. Days, I took care of the kids, did the household chores, and home-schooled my son with autism; nights, I bled my heart dry on those virtual pages, writing about our lives, and about music and movies and books. In one of those wonderful experiences, I even got to interview my personal hero- Col. Buzz Aldrin!

I suppose the leap from online writing to blogging is a natural evolutionary step, seamless, logical and smooth. Yet until late 2007, I hadn’t seriously considered taking the plunge. But things happen for a reason, and in my case, it was the events of a year before that, in late 2006, when our lives turned upside down again, that I felt like a lost a big part of myself. I stopped writing. Completely. I was emptied of everything I was then. It’s difficult to explain in a few words what happened, and I include this not to horrify you about my life, but to give you a sense of where I came from.

Read more »

I’m writing this from an undisclosed location, away from the kids for a change. I am on a very special birthday vacation. Yes, friends, tomorrow, I turn a year older.

I was hesitant to celebrate my birthday away from the children. Aside from the worries of the long days and nights without my boys, I worry about the people who have lovingly volunteered their time to be surrogate parents to them (my parents and sisters). And yet, they all agree, son Alex included, that I deserve this. And that I should grab at this chance to replenish my soul, to rejuvenate my spirit, and to renew the commitments I made to myself and to my family for personal changes. I am speechless with their generosity.

So now, here I am, alone in a picture-perfect room, away from my Alexander and Alphonse. A is running some errands for me, and I only have my laptop to keep me company. I am unused to the silence. I have never been alone this long before.

Languidly, I click on my Hello Kitty mouse and the pictures change. I find myself lingering on some blogs, one of them, Toni’s Wifely Steps. For a woman many years younger (and lighter, hehe) than me, we have surprisingly similar interests. I smile as I browse through my favorites. Books, games, crafts, home, marriage and family. Perhaps that’s why I am drawn to her every day.

Sometimes, her posts are fluff and light, filled with juicy tidbits and humor; other times, they can be somber and thought-provoking, filled with soul-searching and gravitas. You can never tell what strikes her fancy, but I always hope for the following: Sims 2 (and other gaming news), Twilight, books and, of course, lots of “A Day In the Life” and “Spick and Span” posts. After all, I wouldn’t have gotten around to fixing my son’s sleeping bag if it were not for Toni and her Bostik Sew No More.

I am distracted by the knocking on the door. Room service, I think. I wait a bit more before I open the door, distracted by the upcoming Sims 2 IKEA Stuff, to be released in June. The knocking continues and I run to let the server in.

He looks at me funny as I sign for the meal. I catch my reflection on the mirror and see that I am, in fact, grinning to myself. I remember that I have yet to show one of my favorite posts from Toni, “There is no love in laundry,” to my husband. It brings me back to our early days when A and I were newly married and we did everything together (we still do); I think he’ll get a smile out of this.

The door opens again. A is back, smiling. He proudly shows me a bottle of Coke Zero he got somewhere (“Coke is outrageously pricey in hotels,” he reminds me).

This is what this vacation is all about. Time to just be a wife to A. Time to recommit to our marriage. Happy birthday to me, I thought to myself, as I pull A to the large comfy bed.

~0~

I didn’t think I’d have time to blog during my vacation but I wanted to squeeze this in before time runs out at midnight tonight.

Toni of Wifely Steps is celebrating her fifth anniversary as blogger (and also five years of marriage). I write this out of appreciation for the enjoyment I derive from her weblog. Thank you, Toni! Happy Aniversary and Happy Anniversary!

(This originally came out in the e-zine Outpost. With minor changes, I am posting this as my entry to the 11th TBR hosted by Doc J.A. of  Ripples From The River Of My Thoughts.)

I came upon my own recipe for lasagna the year I started medical school. My social life was drastically curtailed as I was forced more and more to catch up on reading assignments. I had broken up with my boyfriend the year before and my emotional health was at an all-time low. While I had lost a considerable amount of weight during the years he and I were together, the summer before med school saw me adding more than 15 pounds to my girth, perhaps in trepidation over the dreaded years ahead.

So there I was, unhappy and fat, confined to my room to face a mountain of textbooks, desperately trying to get out of doing homework. To escape the dreary monotony of schoolwork, I puttered to the kitchen for the nth time that day, scrounging for leftovers, sandwiches, and packets of previously opened junk food. Having scraped the refrigerator almost clean, I started opening pantry drawers in search for more munchies. The pantry was almost empty by then, save for a few boxes of popcorn, a jar of peanut butter, a tetra-brick of tomato paste, and a box of lasagna noodles.

Then, a flash of inspiration hit me! I rushed to the study room and looked up old cookbooks. I saw an entry for lasagna and scanned the recipe for details. The cookbook was almost a decade old so the recipe seemed a little staid. Now armed with the basic know-how, I turned the kitchen upside-down searching for possible entries to my revised recipe. There was no Parmesan cheese so I settled for quickmelt cheese. There was ground meat in the freezer and there were tomatoes fresh from mom’s garden that day. I saw a fifth of a bottle of white wine in the chiller and I decided to appropriate that for my white sauce. There were some also leftover boiled crabs from dinner the night before so I decided to use that too.

I hurriedly took some money from my wallet and walked the block down to the grocery store over at Times Street, all thoughts of anatomy forgotten. I filled in the rest of my shopping list and ran all the way back, breathless and wheezing from excitement.

In two hours, I had prepared my first lasagna. I ate about half before the rest of my siblings were drawn to the scent and devoured the rest of the dish.

In the following years, I must have made more than a thousand lasagnas for my friends and myself. Most often, the urge to eat lasagna comes when I am at the nadir of my life. Case in point: the day I flubbed the big neuroscience practical examination.

Two weeks before the semester’s end, the college’s most eminent neurologists tested us individually, medical school freshmen, to see how much we had learned from a term’s work load. There would be two exams of that nature for the year, one at the end of each semester. Failure in both exams would doom the student to an entire summer of ward work and lectures while the rest of the class enjoyed the summer break. Failing one meant doing extra research and more course work, courtesy of one’s preceptor.

We held study groups to prepare ourselves for the big day. Older students shared their savvy and expertise. Their most relevant tip? Don’t make a fool of yourself.

We did the rounds of older students’ groups, siphoning them of information which teacher was kindest or who was the strictest, and which chapters to concentrate on. Rumors flew around us and we spent many an hour milling around the lecture lobby, waiting for some salvation from our dreaded state. Some said the techniques on physical and neurological examinations were supposed to count so we used each other as dummy patients. In the end, however, we were told that the entire graderested on the diagnosis.

It was supposed to be a simple case; all one needed to do to pass was to decide whether it was a lower or upper motor neuron disorder. On the day of the examination, we drew lots to see who will test us and just my luck! I drew the stub with the name of this professor notorious for giving out the most difficult questions in any exam. All my false bravado flew out the window, replaced by fear, anxiety, desperation and terror.

The minute I saw Dr. Neurologist, my legs turned to jelly. I had to calm my nerves quietly before I could even step inside the room. I kept chanting under my breath, “Don’t make a fool of yourself. Relax. Smile.” I forced a smile but it came out as an expression of sourness. The doctor stared at me, returning a look of exasperation in his otherwise stoic demeanor.

I examined the patient in haste and started running through the differential diagnoses in my clouded mind. “Lower motor neuron disorder secondary to what-was-that, the thing with the whats-its and whos-its, ahhh, dang it!” I had memorized a whole chapter on the topic yet my mind was drawing a complete blank!

The seconds ticked on slowly, and in the corner of my eye, I saw the doctor stifle a yawn, impatience flashing through his features. He asked a series of pointed questions, all the while motioning for me to hurry up and be done with it.

In my panic, I blabbered like an idiot, trying to swallow the bolus of fear that had lodged deep in my throat. When his patience finally ran thin, he whispered, “Decide now, doktora,” in a low, serious tone. It was make or break time. I decided to end my agony by blurting out the first diagnosis I thought of. Read more »

Was feeling particularly lonely today. And then I got this via email, and suddenly, I am grateful for the chance to reflect on the burdens I bear. I think Someone is sending me a message.

When I am weary, O Lord, and my burden is heavy, teach me to be grateful for the cross I bear.  

I was looking at the santol tree that looms large in front of my house when this thought crossed my mind. Life finds a way. I live in a concrete jungle, where everything is covered in cement and stone. Even our small scrap of lawn, before we had it completely covered in stone, used to be made of artificial grass, the kind that covered commercial mini-golf courses.

I grew up in a similar environment. My dad’s business involved the finishing of metals (plating, powdercoating), and as such, we flourished in a home that was made largely of stone, steel, and cement. My mom’s green thumb definitely came in handy; where she could find a patch of dirt, she dug and planted. She was able to grow flowers, vegetables, even trees. By the time we sold our family home in the late nineties, it had a beautiful garden hidden behind massive stone edifices.

When my turn came to have a family, I promised myself that I would plant a garden too. Alas, I did not inherit my mom’s green thumb. Also, Alphonse’s pica was such that he dug through earth to eat roots and fallen leaves, and before I knew it, my little garden became stone again.

One day, many years ago, (Alphonse was only three then) I saw a small tree struggling to break through the concrete. I later found out that one of the nannies threw a single santol seed in a small crack in the concrete. I let the tree be; I figured, it’ll either die or flourish and it’ll all be the same to me. As the days  passed, the santol tree, although thin and sickly looking, grew. It was barren and without fruit, but I liked the idea of having a tree (even just a single one) so once again, it was spared of the ax. After that, it would bear fruit once a year, and produce three to five puny santol- little ones that were smaller than a tennis ball and slightly bigger than a pingpong ball but  oh, they were so sweet.

When typhoon Milenyo ravaged the metropolis two years ago, the tree broke. I thought that was the end of it. We gave away the broken branches for firewood; a wise old neighbor even made one large branch into a bench. Surprisingly, a month later, the santol tree was already sprouting new branches.

This year, for the first time ever, this tree has been producing the sweetest fruits in an astonishing number. Every branch has santol, some heavy with clusters of the fruit.  Alphonse likes picking up the falling fruit and usually takes a big chunk out of them, skin, rind and all.

And this brings me to the thought that indeed, life finds a way. Who would have thought that a crack in stone could yield a tree?  That a single seed could surprise even the most jaded of us ?

I love this tree.

I’ve been lurking in my own blog for a few days now, never actually logging in, just checking every now and then on activity in the site. I’m glad that some of my friends have still visited despite my absence and I am grateful for their words of support and encouragement.

I’m almost there where I should be, in terms of catching up with housework, my teaching load (with Alphonse), my part-time business (I make laminated PECS cards and I also sell autism awareness jewelry), and my writing (I’ve submitted two articles this week, edited two more, and started on another one just now- not bad). Once I get over this huge hump, I plan to blog more and write about what I’ve been up to in the last few weeks. In the meantime, while I savor a few minutes of downtime (I just emailed my article to my editor and I am awaiting his comments via SMS), I thought to say hello to everyone I’ve missed. HELLO!

Once my work load is decently managed, I am scheduling more ME time. Time to blog. Time to take pictures and edit them at leisure. Time to listen to music. Time to meet up with friends. Time to watch movies.

Speaking of movies, I just saw the trailer of Sharon Cuneta’s latest movie, Caregiver. I’m a big Sharon Cuneta fan, really, and I’ve had the opportunity to meet her (and hug her in person!!!) because of my writing (I do reviews of music and movies, on the side). I’m not a big movies fan; moreover, I’m not a big Filipino movies fan. Still, despite the limitations of our entertainment industry, we do manage to come up with stellar performances that are at par with world-renowned talent.

Aside from being a Sharon-starrer, this movie caught my attention because it tackles a theme very close to our heart- the plight of overseas Filipino workers. We are a country of migrant workers scattered in every corner of the globe. We are doctors, nurses, caregivers, engineers, bankers, domestic helpers, seamen, entertainers, and teachers. 

I hope that you enjoy the movie trailer as much as I did. When this comes out on the big screen, I’m hauling A and forcing him to watch this with me.  

I think A realized that I was this close to “flipping out”-  from dealing with this nasty, mutating cough bug, and with Alphonse breathing down my neck almost every second of the day (yup, he’s that close!), to unfinished work staring at me like a guilty reminder of sin, and still the day-to-day demands of a household — that he’s been very generous with the time I spend outside the home. Many times, he would take over the responsibilities of the household (including care of Alphonse) just to give me some breathing space. And I really, truly appreciate his kindness.

When Toto came to the country, A got us tickets to the show so he and I could have some time alone. Unfortunately, I was running a fever then and was hardly in any mood to jam with the band. Still, not wanting to spoil the mood, I went along, only to be horribly dizzy when the band segued into snippets of popular songs like Rosanna and Africa.

Three days later, Swing Out Sister was in the country, and once again, A and I had tickets. This time, he was the one who was febrile and coughing. While I enjoyed this concert more than I did Toto’s, it was hard to soak in the pleasure of the moment when your partner was almost delirious with fever.

Later that week, my brother and his family invited us to lunch at a country club to celebrate my niece Arielle’s 13th birthday. The whole family came, including grandparents and aunts and uncles. Then the boys (my brothers, A, and Alex) went bowling in the afternoon while Alphonse and I quietly watched and enjoyed from the sidelines. I’ve never seen him enjoy a day as much; usually, we’re not able to stay in one place for any longer than an hour. That day, Alphonse was all smiles as he basked in the loving attention of his family. 

The next day, April 14, A and I took a couple of  hours to attend the launch of Batjay’s “Mga Kwento ng Batang Kaning Lamig” at Fully Booked at The Fort. A and I are fans of Kwentong Tambay, Batjay’s weblog, and so we got a copy of his book to have it signed. I saw him at the corner of my eye while I was queuing for books. He was having pictures taken at the time, and my hand suddenly itched to grab a shot, too. Unfortunately, I was struck with a sudden case of shyness so I waited for A to catch up with me (he was paying for the book at the ground floor) before we went up to introduce ourselves. As much as we would have wanted to stay for the duration of the launch, A got a call and had to get back to the office. I had to get back to Alphonse, too, who was waiting patiently for me at home. Still, I got a book signed, and even without the BatJay’s picture to complete the experience, meeting one of our favorite bloggers was definitely well worth the trip.

I had a meet-up with friends the next week, all moms of Alex’s classmates. Being part of the same class has forged a special friendship and kinship among us. I’ve made quite a lot of friends in the last year, yet none as special as these moms. For people who’ve achieved and done so much, they are truly some of the kindest, humblest persons I’ve ever met. That was an afternoon well spent in talk and food. I truly love E, C, and S! (Not to mention C, S, R who were not able to make it that day.) Later, C and I went for coffee and more talk, until Alex called me up to remind me to go home early since one of the nannies was leaving. Drat!

These days, I’m attending a night school of sorts. Six to nine in the evening for the past five nights has been my “away” time from the family. A encouraged me to sign up for a special 10-day Applied Behavioral Analysis training program for parents run by Mrs. Miriam Sy, our gracious host, and Teachers Ian Agustino and Anna Abad (two of only three ABA practitioners with individual accreditation from the Philippine Association of Behavioral Analysis in the country; teacher Ian also used to be Alphonse’s case manager). We are a motley group of 14 parents- two dads, two love teams (husband and wife), and eight moms. All of us have children with autism of varying degrees and diagnoses, with ages ranging from two to 13. I immediately bonded with the moms of older kids, but the entire group is very easy to get along with. We have a lot of fun working out on training scenarios. Moreover, I am impressed by our teachers’ abilities to translate theoretical knowledge into more tangible experiences for us. We’re set to complete the course on Sunday, and while I’ll be very happy to have more time at home, I’m almost sorry to see an end to our “school” nights.

Looking back, I think A knew that I needed these activities to sustain me when I was near empty. When I reflect on A’s generosity and concern for me, I can’t help but be eternally grateful that this loving, loving man is mine.