Grad School Chic

Maverick turns 25 in two days, on December 11 exactly. She won't be home with us then, but she will arriving on December 16 to spend the holidays with family. Here are some photos she sent of her and her classmates monkeying around for a breather, I guess, before hell week descends on them, and all requirements need to be turned in, and the semester comes to a close. As always, humor never fails to save the day. She looks well. I am happy.

Separation Anxiety

Letting children go never gets easier. Today, I sent Bidi off on a class trip to Chiang Mai, Thailand for five days. I've sent Maverick and Kitty off to University and Belli had gone off on this same class trip two years ago, so you would think that this would be a breeze, right? Not!

First off, the packing was no small feat. We had to complete a list and I had to secure a corded flashlight, which he could hang on his neck to go potty at night in the mountains, where they have scheduled a visit with an indigenous tribe, and where there is no electricity. I had to get bug spray, sun block, river sandals for white water rafting, and grown-up pajamas. He REFUSED to take his cartoon-printed pajamas, his favorites--SHHH!--which are so comfy. Their packing list also specified: sarong. So, I sent him my navy blue sarong. But he almost had a coronary when he saw it. "What the heck?" he screamed at me. "But the list said, sarong." I reasoned out. "I don't care what the friggin list said, you can't make me bring that sarong!" "What's the matter? Did you want it in another color?" "Mom!!!" Okay, so the sarong stayed behind.

Off we were to school this morning all locked and loaded. I had to do the hugging and kissing while we were in the car because there already exists an unwritten rule that he has gotten too big for PDA. Right before he boarded the bus that would take them to the airport, we just gave each other a high five--the final touch that must carry me through five days of a son-less existence. How much more dramatic can I get, really?

I was melancholy on the ride home but it hadn't even been 10 minutes when my cell phone beeped. It was him and the text message read: "Goodbye!" This one word has never been as meaningful as it was today.

Belli just got home exactly two seconds ago, as I post this, and shouted out that Bidi, who is two years younger than her, just sent her a text message that said: "I love you.

There is one thing I am most certain of: he will have the time of his life. And me? Well, I'll live.







Moms in conference with teacher, entrusting her with their most precious creations


Pretty Moms in a row. Boy, will their sons have a hard time finding partners who will trump their beauty. Real tall order!


Bidi with BFF, Tino

Besieged in a Bus

Bathtub
Potty for two
Sentry in Rayadillo uniform



Why do I do this to myself time and time again?

I chaperoned a busload of 30 kids on a field trip to Casa Manila in Intramuros. I had been to this magnificently preserved old Manila style house three times, also as chaperone to Belli's, Bidi's, and Pippi's classes. So why not to Mouse's? This was how I convinced myself to make the trip yet again.

The destination was fine. I always enjoy visiting this grand turn-of-the-century house with perfectly-polished narra floors, Venetian chandeliers, hand-knotted Belgian carpets, canopied beds, stone walls, brick ovens, and nonexistent plumbing. It is the ride that tortures me and turns me into a monster.

Imagine being in a small, confined space such a bus with 30 relentlessly screaming, squiggling, chattering, shouting, unruly six-year-olds. And if you attempt to quiet them down they say, "Why, who are you?" Maaaan, I was so tempted to answer, "Lucifer. Welcome to hell." But hey, I do have a bit of a conscience.

I lived to tell with everything intact including my sanity and just a bit of a head ache. Just another day at the office of motherhood.

Emotional Floodgates Open

As I previously mentioned, i have been in the thick of moving to another house these past two weeks. Lots of sorting out and packing are involved. It is remarkable how powerful emotions can be stirred up when one goes through personal effects. It's like a portal to the past, a sort of time machine that catapults one to days long gone. I had to sift through all the children's things. It was quick and almost painless for the younger ones but the entire exercise of going through Maverick's and Kitty's things was a test in restraint.

I fingered through their old picture albums, which held photos taken as far back as seconds after their birth and a million others that documented the important milestones in their life. And of course there were also the not-so-important, plus the down right silly ones of sticking the tongue out at the camera for no apparent reason. I poured through report cards, notebooks, test papers, letters, notes, sports paraphernalia, medicine, cosmetics, clothing, accessories, shoes, etc.

I was okay for the most part, able to hold everything together until I stumbled across Kitty's old Cornell University paraphernalia and her high school prom photos. There were Cornell pennants, shirts, IDs, reports. She had aced her first semester there but was very unhappy and so she left Ithaca for London. I felt my stomach lurch and the tears sort of pool into my eye sockets but I held it together until I stumbled upon her prom photos. She was all girly and all dressed up. She had flown to Cornell after the prom and her move to London, along with her decision to embrace an alternative lifestyle happened around the same period.

I slowly got up, locked her bedroom door and let the floodgates open. I had a moment there--a long moment to grieve over what seemed to me as the perfect girl getting into the perfect school living the perfect life and I was ecstatic! But that was just it. She wasn't happy; I was. It wasn't perfect for her; it was all skewed and troubled. I wanted Cornell for her because I probably would have never gotten in. I had pinned my pride on her personal achievements and nothing could have been more wounding. And so, after several minutes, I packed them away in a box that was for transport to the new house. Along with it I packed away my tears.

I have never seen her as happy as she is now, as true to herself, and as liberated. I am proud of her--so, so proud!

Middle Schoolers

I received a letter from the children's school last Friday and it was about Middle Schoolers, kids aged 11-14. I know I have put the children in the right school because they thrive there. The school's concern doesn't stop with education inside the campus. Over the years they have found ways to involve the family and have maintained a strong school-home communication system that keeps parents in close touch with their children's affairs.

I am transcribing in this post, word for word, the letter about adolescents that they had sent, hoping that it may shine the light on how our youngsters are and how we, as parents, may better understand them.

As children grow, they begin to experience physical, intellectual, and emotional changes. The way they learn, feel, see the world, and relate to other people becomes different from when they were younger. These changes, along with demands from present-day society and peer pressure, create conflicts and tension in the adolescent, which are reflected in their behavior in school and at home.

Young people at this age show a good number of contradictions and conflicts, which is normal. There is no "model" adolescent. All young persons are individuals with strong and weak points and with positive and negative qualities. There are some common characteristics that should be kept in mind in order to understand and help the middle schooler in daily activities at home and at school:

1. Adolescents have high levels of physical and emotional energy, which may contrast with long periods of idleness, generally disapproved of by adults.

2. They take risks, are curious, and love danger and adventure, yet their feelings can be hurt easily. This is the time when they feel immortal, but they worry a lot about what their friends think about them.

3. They want to be independent from their families, and at the same time, they need to be pampered and protected.

4. They withdraw and want a private life, and at the same time, they worry about being accepted by their peers.

5. They demand privileges but avoid responsibilities. At the same time, they are developing an awareness of social problems and the welfare of others.

I haven't read anything as insightful as this about middle schoolers. It has given me that proverbial "moment of clarity" (when the light bulb suddenly turns on in the brain) on how to deal with my pubescent children. I hope it helps you too.

Pushing the Body

Belli has been dancing classical ballet for many years. It takes up much of her time. Ever since she got to middle school she has had to make a serious commitment to the dance because juggling her schedule has been challenging. She goes three times a week: Mondays, Fridays, and Saturdays for three to four hours each time. Too much for a 12-year-old, I think sometimes. But she loves it: the dance itself and her ballet family of extremely supportive classmates and and an excellent teacher and mentor. Her body looks for it; she doesn't feel good whenever she stops for extended periods in the summer. She cries each time we go out of town because it means missing her dance classes. It has been the bone of contention in the family because we have had to give way to her dancing. But this is how parental support is measured, I believe, when we have to have to make sacrifices as well.

Yesterday, she complained of pain in her legs (Belli never complains and when she does, I know it is at an advanced stage). I was worried because she had a class in the afternoon so I asked her if she wanted to call in sick. She said no; she was adamant. I questioned her decision, maybe even having said something like it was silly to dance in pain. She lectured me about pushing the body and discipline. It was like hearing myself talk four years ago. Didn't I give that very same speech to her when she was whining about having to go to ballet classes?

She wobbled when she walked and had trouble stretching her legs. I was in the brink of pulling rank and demanding her to stay home but that familiar inner voice whispered that I shouldn't. So I didn't. But I went with her to class and sat there for the entire three hours to make sure she was okay. And she was. She danced like her life depended on it, through the pain and the discomfort. I saw her grimace every so often. She was sweating bullets and gulped down water as though she were in the desert. I kept quiet in my corner fighting the instinct to take her home and nurse her in bed.

In between routines she bantered with her classmates and giggled with them. Over what? I couldn't hear. They egged each other on the floor and clapped for well-executed steps. They were a happy supportive bunch. But more than that they were hard workers, athletes all, who pushed their bodies to the edge, falling and tripping and pushing some more.

At the end of the three hours, they were spent but still smiling. I thought to myself, how could they do all this? We all know the answer.

Empty Nest

It was Mouse's first day in the big school today. I had been dreading this for months. Having lunch with her had been the highlight of my day for six years because the five other kids were never around. I had looked forward to 12:15 every weekday, which was always heralded by a big shout out of "I'm home!" from her. Well, no longer...

Weeks ago I said to her that I had a brilliant idea. I explained that I had found the perfect solution to our impending separation. I would enroll in her school, in her first grade class, buy the uniform in my size with black shoes and white socks to match, and be her classmate so I could be with her all day. She snickered. "Why?" I asked. "Is it because it's a silly idea?" "No, Mom," she said in between giggles. "I was imagining you in the uniform and it's super funny." The little twirp...

She started first grade today and is on a full-day schedule. Of a sudden I am lost; I don't know what to do with myself. Last night as I put her to sleep I told her, "Mouse, I'm not ready." She simply smiled and said, "Don't worry Mom, you'll be okay. I promise."

So, I took her to school, lingered for a long time and stole peeks in her classroom. I went home to have lunch and then picked her up an hour early because the separation anxiety was too much for me to handle. I scooped her up when she came out and hugged her tight. I asked if she had fun hoping to hear that no, she missed me. She said, "It was so much fun, Mom, I can't wait for tomorrow."

Letting go is truly a bitch! But then who listens to a whining mother? I guess it's time to get a life.

One Mother's Wisdom

An insightful comment posted by reader Mary O' in response to yesterday's entry When Parenting Turns Scary is worthy of mention.  I think it more than merits space here.  She said about parenting, "It helps to remember to listen ( to children) with the intent to understand not with the intent to respond."  There is so much wisdom in her words.  This is a gift to all parents.  Thank you, Mary O'.  

I received a lot of responses in my personal email address from those who obviously know who I am.  I figured many are not ready to openly discuss the delicate issues on parenting over a forum as public and as democratic as the Internet.  But hopefully in time, we will all get the courage to speak without fear and reservation.  The object of concern here is our children--the most precious part of our lives and bringing attention to issues surrounding them in the hope of having a better grasp of their world is something we need to champion.

We have Alcoholics Anonymous, I think we should have Parents Anonymous or some similar support group for one of the most if not the most difficult and complicated vocation known to man.

When Parenting Turns Scary

This is a belated post because I needed to distance myself from the issue before writing about it.  Yes, It is weighty.  I was wary of publishing my take on the subject for fear of being judged but on second thought I had put up this blog in part to engage parents, mothers especially, in active exchanges concerning real issues.  I had committed myself to this cause and I can't cower now.  

I was at a dinner a few weeks before coming home when a good friend sidled up to me and brought up the issue of mothering young adults--twenty somethings.

"This business of their relationships, you know, it tortures me," she said and I listened intently.  "I really am clueless about how to deal with it.  Their boyfriends and girlfriends come to the house, hang out there, which I like because I would rather have them at home than anywhere else.  But no matter how many times I impose the no-boyfriends-in-the-bedrooms rule, they end up there anyway.  I wasn't born yesterday; I know what happens in there.  But birth control is something we never discuss at home.  I don't know why...we just don't."

I picked it up from there.  I asked, "Why, is it because you think bringing it up might be misconstrued as permissiveness, as a gesture that shows you condone the behavior."  

"Exactly," she answered.  "So we just don't discuss it."

I let her ramble on the whole night, listening closely to her very real concerns and commiserating but opting not to say anything.  Mothering is an extremely personal thing; what works for one may not work for the other.  I admit, I didn't want to be held accountable...

Raising Maverick and Kitty, now 24 and 22, is never a walk in the park.  It is more like a soldier's tour of duty in war-ravaged areas.  Their generation is plagued by much more vicious threats: readily available recreational drugs, free flowing alcohol--sobriety issues; relaxed if not absence of rules on dating and coupling; relaxed gender rules; muddled sexual orientations and preferences; full disclosure of personal life on the Internet via Face Book and the like; rampant eating disorders; clinical depression and a host of other psychological disorders--things we grew up without and are ill-equipped to handle. 

I have faced each and every single one of the issues I've listed as a mother and continue to face them.  How?  Sadly, there is no formula.  Have I failed?  Yes, many times over, I have failed the girls by not being exactly what they need or saying or doing exactly what is essential at the very moment they need it.  But I get up instantly after each fall and soldier on.  Have they failed me?  Never.  Because in my mind, they are only as equipped as I have armed them; only as good as I have mothered them.  

When they came of age, I discussed the issue of sexuality in depth with them and have helped them gain access to gynecologists and birth control.  Many are scandalized by how a good Catholic can do such things.  I take my faith seriously but I never let it come between my most important job here on earth, which is raising happy, well-adjusted adults.  We are parenting our children in post-modern times; we can't employ methods of the past millennium.  We have all heard of extremist Catholic schooled girls who grow bellies and eject babies on the first year they step into the real world.  I can't risk that.  I can't delude myself into thinking my children are nuns and problem free.  We are all problem plagued but we tackle it the best way we know.  So I get into the frey and offer support where I can and resistance when I must.  All we really have is affection that is unconditional--the fierce love that we hope will sustain us throughout.

Before the evening was over that friend also asked if I preferred to know the goings-on in my children's relationships.  I simply smiled at her, dodging the question entirely.  Now, I think I'm ready to answer it, if this may be considered an answer at all.  I'd rather not be privy to their private lives.  Fights, arguments, squabbles--these are things better kept from parents because even after children had forgiven their partners already, parents retain the memory, which ultimately affects their view of the children's partners.  Personally, I would rather not know.   However, I'd rather the child come to me than to someone else ill-equipped to give advice.  So, again, we have a major dilemma.  What would you do?

 

Out of Control

Cruella de Ville is never ever far behind, this, I keep learning over and over. Just when I relax and think that her personality has finally assumed some form of gentleness, she strikes again. This time, it is at the children--innocent, guileless, defenseless creatures, who are too young to be introduced to the meanness of the world.

She has repeatedly told one of my children to her face that she needs a nose job and should have it done soon. She has told another child four times that braces are needed. When the child voiced out an honest concern, "But I'm afraid to look like a geek," Cruella replied, "But you already look like a rabbit, so what's the difference?" What incredible damage she is able to do to a child's floundering self-image. But no, the kids are very secure in who and what they are.

She fights with them--these six to twelve-year-olds--on a regular basis, She does the dramatic walk-out, the I-won't-sit-beside-you-on-the-dinner-table affront, and name-calling, voice-raising.

I am too shocked to say anything. What drives an adult to the depths of despair as to behave like this? What kind of human being thinks and acts this way? The only answer I can find is that she was abused as a child. I may never know the answer so I may never make sense of this.

As all these incidents unfold, I have chosen to take a back seat and be a spectator and watch how the children react. They do hold their own; behaving two times more of an adult than she could ever be: patient, courteous until the final moment when they absolutely need to vent out to prevent full-blown explosions. I let them snap, crackle, and pop at her in limited, subtle ways, using proper words--we've had to figure out coping mechanisms. I do meticulously process all the incidents with them immediately after to get their moral compass always facing straight up north and to neutralize the anger that is building up against her.

They get extremely exasperated, as I, but I explain that hey, the real world is filled with people like that, it's good practice. Then they retort, "Sure, we know that already, but family?" One of the children holds the best insight, I think: "She's insane," he said, which could just darn well be right.

Outgrowing Santa Claus

"Mom, I know you're Santa Claus," Belli said this in the car yesterday. I had always known this day would come for her but it still caught me flatfooted. She's twelve and had just learned that her tooth fairy, Blessilda, was me as well.

It has been a tradition in the family and I have kept at it for over 24 years, ever since Maverick was born. Each Christmas, I make a big production of Santa Claus' arrival. Weeks in advance, I ask the children to write him letters with their Christmas wishes. Then, I set out to get their gifts and hide them in the most inconspicuous places. I do such a good job of it that sometimes I forget where I hide them. On the eve itself, I go through crazy lengths to strengthen their belief in him. One of my kookiest moments was actually having our houseboy trod on the roof to simulate Santa approaching the window. Hungover from an evening of revelry, I trudge downstairs at 3 am to arrange the presents. Every year I ask myself why I do it when I could very well be snoring in bed. I stuff the the food that they lay out for him in my mouth and chug the milk. I'm lactose intolerant so it's never pleasant. I could chuck the milk down the sink but how, then, do I get the mouth print on the rim of the glass? Yes, I am that serious.

They would wake up to a marvelous Christmas morning, shrieking and delirious with joy, while I sip my hot tea and will my head to stop throbbing.

We're dead serious about tooth fairies at home as well. They each have their own. They write letters and enclose their teeth and slip them under their pillows. In the dead of night, I creep to their rooms, retrieve the letter and the tooth stealthily, and use my left hand to answer their letters with a glitter pen that I keep solely for that purpose. Then I leave money in place of the tooth with my reply to the letter.

I have created a whole fairy world where little winged people play peanut ball, sleep on clouds shaped like hammocks, go on vacation in the North Clouds (I made this up when once I completely forgot to wake up and take the tooth so I wrote a letter the following night explaining that the fairy went on vacation). Their fairies are named Laxmi, Wandalou, Prospero, and Blessilda. I don't know how I even came up with such names. Their ages range from 749 years old to the high thousands. I have drawn their portraits to show the kids what they look like.

Why do I do all these? I figured childhood is too short and that I should make it as magical as I can. Maverick, Kitty, and Belli have now outgrown Santa and their fairies; three more to go.

Meet The Parents

It is pleasantly warm and sunny here in Los Angeles, where I am visiting with family, partly because of the weather but mostly because of my sister and Maverick, who provide all the sunshine I need.

My sister has lived here for the past 18 years and I get to spend time with her only once a year. The separation was painful at first but then, time and distance has anesthetized that initial hurt. I forget how much I miss her until I see her again. A writing classmate, Risa, has articulated the phenomenon of sororital separation very well in her nonfiction piece, which will be published soon. So now, we sit and eat and talk, and sit and eat and talk some more. There's nothing I'd like to do more here than hang out with her.

Maverick has been here since the end of April and has decided to do her graduate studies at the Annenberg School of Journalism. I had presumed that she would go back to Europe for that since I thought she never much liked America and I am thrilled with her decision. She's close to family here and that, in my book, counts for a whole lot.

Also, her boyfriend, Andreas is here, who I met fort the first time last night--it was a meet-the-parents moment. He did not disappoint. He's the type whom all mothers would love: well-groomed, conservatively-dressed, well-mannered, charming, conversant, funny, and most of all very solicitous to Maverick.

The three of us: Andreas, Maverick and I, went to dinner at Kabuki, a Japanese restaurant that served a heavenly lobster dish. The sushi was terrific, the conversation flowed naturally, and I enjoyed the evening. It seemed that Andreas did too. But Maverick's is another story altogether. She was so nervous, so anxious that I wouldn't approve of Andreas that she was a wreck most of the night. She told me during our "debriefing," after Andreas had dropped us home and left, that she was tense, which I saw from the beginning. That was when I figured she must really like him. She hasn't ever been like that with anybody--didn't take her previous relationships seriously. She also said that Andreas mentioned he had never seen her as nervous as last night. His words, according to her, were: "I've never seen you like this; your mother does get to you." I don't quite know what to make of that statement.

I'm sure she is relieved It's over. Of course, a few hours is no gauge for Andreas' true colors but I rely on mother's instinct this time and I have his name written down on my "okay" list--for now.

Mothers' Day

It's Mothers' Day and we honor the women who raised us, the role we continuously aspire to deserve, and the role we hope our daughters would eventually be prepared to step into.

But what is it really--this motherhood and mothering thing? I don't think anyone knows; not for sure. We have books about it (how-tos, self-help, inspirational) but nothing so definitive, precise, fool-proof, and technically sound as, say, a flight manual, that at the turn of the final page the reader is enabled to fly an airplane.

Mostly, we fumble, grope around until we until stumble upon a workable balance between disciplining and nurturing; giving forth and holding back. There are no road-tested formulae that ensure a well-adjusted, happy, hang-up free child as product. Exactly how much do we subjugate our interests and our well-being to those of our children? How much do we prioritize their needs over their fathers'? It doesn't help that this profession/vocation we call motherhood happens within the tempest that we call "marriage"--the most difficult of all human relationships to perpetuate, simply because we all are thrown into an arena where there are zero blood ties to bind us to another, supposedly for life.

A child psychiatrist once claimed that 99% of what our children turn out to be is because of how we parent them. I don't think there is a scarier statistic for a parent to bear. But then another one said, "You want to know when you're being a good mother? It's when you start truly enjoying your children, which means you're not stressing out over something, which in turn means that they aren't either because whether you like it or not, they are extensions of you and they feel whatever it is you feel; no exceptions!"

Growing up I didn't have a close relationship with my mother. She fumbled with the role; wasn't really suited to it, I think. I could say, that because I wasn't mothered much, because I had no one to emulate, or worse, I emulated an errant one, I fumbled too with Maverick and Kitty, but no; no excuses there. It was purely my doing--too preoccupied with self and other extraneous things. There were many painful lessons learned but learned they were--I hope...

I continue to fumble and grope around in rasing the four younger ones: Beli, Bidi, Pippi, and Mouse, but I feel more impassioned to find the right formula, like it is the fight of my life, like it is my sole purpose. This, I think, makes the big difference, at least that's what Maverick and Kitty say.

The reason I may be better at the task this time around is that I have Maverick and Kitty with me, always readily stepping into the role at any given moment. They may have mostly raised themselves but from all the pain of those early years come an instinct, a pulse, maybe even a wisdom for motherhood. The concept of a nurturing mother is something so defined in their psyche because its absence when they were growing up created a yearning so deep that it had sculpted a concrete character that is now engraved in their souls.

So what might be the difference between them and me? And what is the assurance that they won't fumble as I did because we had deficient role models? Awareness, is what it is--on both our parts: mother and children--plus acknowledgement, remorse, dialogue, debriefing, processing, forgiveness. And most of all, grace--a lot of grace.

They are ready.

Happy Mothers' Day to all!

Sisters

Maverick and Kitty. Never together in the same place long enough anymore. After four years in Switzerland for undergrad, then a brief year here at home, Maverick leaves once again for graduate school in two weeks. I might not survive it...