Creamed

The never-say-die boys
Number 17 is the love of my life
Our bench
Xavier bench

Basketball is one of Bidi's great loves. He may not excel in it, nor is he in the bottom rung of kulelats, but it is one of his great passions. His team is comprised of around ten friends and classmates who practice once a week under Coach Pat--assistant coach of the Purefoods pro team. Aside form the camaraderie and the health benefits that this weekly activity provides, It is the main source of fun in Bidi's life right now. There is much giggling, heckling, and ribbing along with the actual hard work that goes into every session.

Last Monday was their very first game against another team--the Xavier boys who are the three-year reigning champions of their division in the grade school league. The boys were so excited but no sooner had they started when it slammed right in their faces that they were simply outmatched in number, age, height, and most importantly, skill. Our boys were mostly ten-year-olds with a sprinkling of nines. Xavier had 12-year-olds, and one as tall as Yao Ming. Okay, I exaggerate; he was probably at least 5'9". And they had 20 players compared to our ten. But enough excuses; they were really good.

Coach Pat didn't warn our boys that they were up against champions so they don't walk into the game psychologically defeated. In fact, he wanted them to be beaten badly so they could learn all the lessons that come with it.

Many times I thought to myself, c'mon, let's just concede. If we leave now, we can end the agony and have an early night. That would have taught them the wrong values but it would they would have cut their losses. Believe it or not the final score was 95-23. But I must say, the boys' spirits did not waver at all, not for a moment. They fought like tigers to the last and died for that ball. I could learn a lot from these ten-year-olds. Shame on me.

After the game I asked Bidi how he felt. he said with a smile, "We were creamed, Mom! But that's okay it was fun and we'll do better next time!"

"Do you want to go somewhere special for dinner?" I asked him.

"KFC, Mom."

And so went, ordered, and sat down to dinner quietly for the first couple of minutes, like an old couple.

Then he said, "You don't like ketchup with your chicken."

"Not really. Don't want to drown the chicken taste."

"You only like it with your burger and hotdog. Plus the hotdog has to have lots of mustard."

"Wow," I said, "You remember!"

"I know these things about you," he said. "And you don't like soda."

"You don't like french fries," I told him; it was my turn.

"Yeah, I don't"

And then, out of the blue, I said, "I love you."

He replied, in a very low voice, and without once looking up from his chicken dinner. "Love you too."

Then I said, "I'm going to love whomever you love, regardless. I'm going to love whomever you choose to marry."

He looked up and said, "Huh?"

"I promise you that," I said.

"If you say so," he said before turning back to his dinner.

He is the only man in my life.

Collateral Damage

I have discovered this about all my children: during the initial years of their involvement in after-school activities like piano, violin, ballet, basketball, taekwondo, swimming lessons, etc., they struggled with the commitment to the routine of attending sessions, week after week, when they could very well be at home doing free play or burying their noses in their electronic games.

It was difficult to keep them motivated. The stress of having to argue the point of commitment and dedication and learning took its toll on both them and me time and again. I kept repeating the mantra of, "your skills define who you are," and "doing something difficult builds character," and "learning is its own reward," but somewhere in the middle of that, I started questioning them too. There were lots of tears and bargaining and it just become too emotionally taxing to keep them motivated. It was way too much effort. But just as I threw the white towel in, I noticed that at around a certain age, somewhere between 9 and 10, something clicks--they experience an aha! moment. They either begin to understand the whole point, or their body starts responding to the sport, or they develop if not an attachment, an enjoyment of the music that they play.

Belli had hers much earlier than the rest--at around eight years old, when she grew to love ballet. But it was a different story for her violin lessons. It took much longer. It was only two years ago, when she turned ten, that she came up to me and said, "I'm gonna practice some more because I really want to improve in violin." She never looked back.

So there truly is that tipping point for children, when they start to appreciate or even look forward to the lessons we enroll them in, when they truly become one with it and take it a step further on their own. So, Moms, please persevere; you just might be on the cusp of the period of reckoning. Please don't give up just yet. I promise, the aha! moment will come. It will take lots of time but it will definitely come.

It has been the same for Bidi with his basketball and taekwondo lessons. He comes home now saying, "I luuurv basketball!" or "I really wanna beat someone up in taekwondo," as a joke. What a dramatic turn around when he used to throw mega temper tantrums just to get out of having to attend lessons. He tried every trick in the book: from feigning illness to bribing me with his savings.

The same goes for Pippi with her swimming and piano lessons. Now piano playing is her pick-up activity. Straight from school in the afternoons, with backpack still slung behind her, she stands in front of the piano and plays it for long periods, oblivious to everything else. I have to actually remove the backpack from her because she thinks it's a waste of piano playing time for her to stop for one second and take it off.

The struggle, however, continues with six-year-old Mouse, who mounts a one-man revolution each time she has to go to piano and ballet lessons. I'm talking Oscar-award performances here and honestly, I feel like I'm getting too old for this. But I have got to hang on to my own words... but when I do the math--she's 6--it means I have to endure another three years of her Bella Flores-ish acting. I might not last that long.

Anyway, I shall digress onto an interesting story about Bidi's new found love affair with Teakwondo. Coach Tyrone has recently called our attention to his remarkable improvement in the last months. I credit this to his recent aha! moment concerning the sport. So, he has, in fact, gotten much stronger in his moves.

Well, last Saturday, he was forced to spar with A, an exceptional, lovable girl his age, who is a family friend, neighbor, and carpool mate. They are practically brother and sister, which is why we have repeatedly asked the coaches never to pit them against each other. But they so happened to be short on partners that day so they ended up face to face for the first time. To get to the bottom quick, A had to be taken to the ER for a fractured finger. Her Mom told me over the phone and I was in a bind on whether to tell Bidi or not because A only complained of pain long after she had gone home from the session.

"Bidi will never forgive himself if he finds out," I told A's mom, knowing how much concern and brotherly affection he has for A. A's mom said, "Don't tell him na lang." But I figured I had to because he would see the cast on Monday anyway when they ride to school together.

And so I did tell him, very gently. repeating over and over again how it wasn't his fault, and it was what was considered collateral damage. His face said it all. There were tears wanting to come out, I could clearly see, but he held back. He just kept nodding to what I had to say.

Monday came and went and when I asked him yesterday if he apologized to A in the car he said, "Yes, in the car, in school, all day, for around one million times. I really, really, want her to get better fast."

I went to Bizu and bought two big boxes of macaroons--Bidi's absolute favorite. I showed them to him and said, "I got one for A and one for you." To which he replied, "Thanks, but please give them both to her." My jaw dropped because he normally would kill for those macaroons.

Baptism by Pool Water

Last Saturday there was an International Schools Swim Meet. Pippi, together with her teammates were each signed up for two events: freestyle and breast stroke.

In order to give this story justice, I will have to paint a brief character sketch of Pippi. She is a quiet, reserved child, with a very big heart--she will give someone in need the shirt off her back and she truly delights in sharing her things with others. Most of the time, she is plagued by self-doubt--not the strongest child in the area of confidence. She is self-effacing, never wanting to call attention to herself. She guards her privacy passionately and likes to be left alone to do her business.

She was composed in the days leading up to the meet. But somehow, I knew there was something brewing because she wasn't quite her carefree self. I slept with her the night before the meet and talked about several scenarios that might happen. She started expressing anxiety. We talked some more and prayed. I told her that she should just go ahead and compete because there's nothing to be lost in the exercise and all to gain. "You're going there with nothing, so there's nothing you can possibly lose. But if you win, you can just imagine how big a thing that will be for you because you trained so hard." She fell asleep holding my hand so tight.

When we got to the venue (Brent, Mamplasan) I saw in her face, how disturbed she had become. When they started stripping down to their suits and gearing up, her tears started to fall--copious amounts in a steady stream. I hugged her and assured her that everything will be alright but inside I was losing composure as well, wondering how heartless a parent I might be for making a nine-year-old endure something terrifying like this. I kept asking myself if I was doing it for me or for her.

They proceeded with the warm-up: several laps across the 25-meter pool length. And each time she surfaced for a water break, she sobbed, tears drenching her face. She kept coming up to me asking to be taken home. It was serendipity that my good friend, psychologist Sophie Bate, mom of Pippi's teammate, Cali, was there too. I always look to her for wisdom in such matters and she said, "Let her cry. It'll be good to let it all out. She will be fine." Had she not been there I probably would have whisked Pippi home and spared her the agony.

It was Pippi's first time ever to compete and I knew that if she copped out on this one, she will never be able to live down the sense of failure, which might affect her self-confidence for a long time. I just kept telling myself that even if she doesn't finish the race, she must get in the pool. She must get in the water. She must do it, in spite of herself, in spite of her fear.

Minutes before the race she started lashing out at me, "Why did you bring me here? Why are you making me do this?" It was so easy to have simply snapped at her with as much anger but I kept calm and tried to appease her. When they called for her heat, I could see she was shaking. But I let go of everything--that was all I could do at that point.

They got up on the boards for the freestyle event. There were six competitors and she was in the middle lane. The girl on lane 6 accidentally fell from the board before the starting horn blew. The other 4 girls thought it was a start cue so they dove in. meanwhile, Pippi, who was drilled many times never to jump in without hearing the horn, hesitated, but seeing that she was the only one left outside the pool, she dove in as well. The referees called it a false start but the girls continued to race to the finish. Pippi, swam past each and every girl in spite of being the last one in and won it. After I saw how fast she swam, I felt very confident. But then, they had to do the race over again and I thought fatigue may slow her down in the next run.

Anyway, she breezed through it a second time and won first. I screamed my head off like a crazy woman trailing her from start to finish by the side of the pool. I probably would have jumped in there if there were no cordon. When she finished she was completely clueless. She didn't realize she had won it. It only sank in when they handed her the first place ribbon.

By the time she was called for the breast stroke she had already calmed down and I dare say that she appeared like she was looking forward to it. She was so relaxed that she was waving at me before she got on the board. Breast stroke is her favorite and so she breezed through it and got her second first-place ribbon!

For the rest of the day she was floating on air. The next morning I asked if it felt good to know how powerful one is inside, how great it must be to realize how one can dig deep and find so much strength and talent and bravery hiding way inside the soul. She smiled and said, "Yes, Mom." "You feel macho?" I asked her. She giggled and said, "Yes, very." I told her how lucky she is. Some people go through life shying away from challenges, never realizing how much they can do and just how far they can reach. Then she added, "Actually, that wasn't even my fastest. I was just, you know, swimming around. I can do way faster than that!" So I said to her, "Next time?" "Yes, Mom, next time."

A Painful Decision

Pippi came to a decision today, a painful one. She has been dancing ballet--taking classes under Toni Gonzales Garcia along with her sisters--for five years now. She has also been swimming and training under coach Toti.

We noticed early on, when she was probably three or four years old, that she was a natural in the water, a very strong swimmer, who had the lung endurance to stay underwater for extended periods and the muscular strength to maneuver her body in and out, and through the water effortlessly.

She started formal swimming lessons because her best friend, Cali, was taking them. Because of this, the sport had become extra attractive to her. Many times, as I watch her swim, I ask myself howcome, among all my kids, she has this gift for swimming and I remain as clueless as when the question first entered my mind. However, I have been toying with this theory: since Pippi is asthmatic, she is on and off asthma medication, using the nebulizer, and during severe attacks, resorting to short prednisone doses,which is a kind of steroid. So, I think that the asthma medication, may have, in fact, fortified her lungs.

It is worthy of mention that her lung capacity is so strong that when her coach exhorts her to follow rules by coming up for a breath every two strokes and she questions and says, "Why do I have to? I don't need to breathe."

I have mentioned this quack theory to family and friends time and again but then I also think to myself, yeah, right. Anyway, for the past two weeks I was glued to the Olympics because of the phenomenon that is Michael Phelps and the oldest Olympian medal winner, swimmer Dara Torres. Lo and behold, it was mentioned several times during the course of the games that both Phelps and Torres are asthmatic. Imagine that! I might just have a nine-year-old Olympian in the making running around my house at this very moment!

Anyway, she has been taking ballet lessons twice a week, and swimming twice a week as well. She has finally decided to drop ballet and concentrate on swimming, adding yet another training day to make it a total of three swimming sessions per week. It took a while for her to decide. She has invested many years in the dance and has become quite attached to it. But I think her heart is truly in the sport of swimming.

Synchronicity

The opening ceremonies of the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing last night was simply sublime. It wasn't the flashy, ostentatious display of a super power's resources that never fails to elicit shock and awe from viewers but an honest to goodness show worth thousands of hours of hard work, synchronicity, and harmony among thousands of performers. That was what wove the magic--sheer man power--not technology, not science, not electronics, but down home, old fashioned practice and perfection.

The performers, 15,000 total, exhibited impeccable precision. One can just imagine the logistics and the discipline involved to mount a spectacle powered purely by humans. Out of the 2008 performers in any given number, there was no one out of beat, no one out of synch, nor out of line. Truly unbelievable!

But then a friend muttered under his breath, "What do you expect, imperfection? These people are followers, who are so used to being ordered around. Let's not forget here that they are still under an iron dictatorship, no matter what the West does to claim otherwise. They follow orders or it's their head on a plate." Touche!

Ice King

I watched an ice hockey game today and felt fatigued afterwards. There was too much testosterone floating around the ice rink. The speed of the game, the clear and present threat of violence; the sound of the stick slapping the puck and hurling it yards into the air,;the slamming of the sticks on the boards when players try to intimidate the opponent; the flagrant fouls--elbow jabs, body slams, and stick pokes; the verbal abuse; and the constant grating on the ice of skate blades that have been known to slice jugulars and kill players instantly on the arena, really sapped my energy.

All I did was sit there and cheer for my man, Mr. T, but the distress over possible harm that might befall him ate me up.

Still and all, he was poetry on ice.

The Haka

The highlight of last night's send off party for Mr. Kay was the performance of the Haka as an ode to his heritage, by around 150 boys and men (the entire student body male population, plus the male teachers, and the maintenance and security staff). They were chanting, stomping, and grimacing, sending shivers down the audience's spine--truly spectacular!

The Haka is a traditional Maori war dance from New Zealand--a kind of war chant and challenge. It is now mostly performed by New Zealand's national rugby team, the All Blacks, in front of the opposing team before every match. The All Blacks version of the haka starts with the chant "Ka mate, ka mate "(It is death, it is death"), it is this haka, called Te Rauparaha's Haka (so named after its perceived traditional origins) that most people, particularly rugby union football fans, know as the Haka.

It is characterised by loud chanting, aggressive flailing of arms and stomping of feet, fierce looks and, in the end, an angry sticking out tongues. The All Blacks' version is said to have come from Te Rauparaha (1768-1849), chief of the Ngati Toa tribe and one of New Zealand's last great warrior chiefs. Te Rauparaha cut a swathe from the Waikato to the South Island where his followers killed both European settlers and southern Maori.

His haka is said to have actually originated during a time Te Rauparaha was fleeing from his enemies,. He hid in a sweet potato field one night and by morning awoke to be told by a hairy chief that his enemies had gone. He then performed his victorious haka. "Ka mate, ka mate"

The words of Te Rauparaha's haka (1810) used by the All Blacks:

Ka mate, ka mate

Ka ora, ka ora

Tenei te tangata puhuruhuru

Nana i tiki mai

whakawhiti te ra

Upane, upane

Upane kaupane

Whiti te ra.

These words are translated as:

It is death, it is death

It is life, it is life

This is the hairy man

Who caused the sun to shine again for me

Up the ladder, up the ladder Up to the top

The sun shines.

Please click on this You Tube link to experience the real Haka by the All Blacks. Pretty intimidating! If I were the opponent, I would hightail it home faster than you can say, "Haka."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKnUMaR5IkA

And Now...The Tricks!

And again, here was last night's street party right outside the house. There was carving, boogeying, shimmying, booty shaking, Jonh Travolta-ing, Superman-ing while on top of a careening long board. Fidel, our executioner-looking French Bulldog but Parisian hairdresser at heart, sat--tense and uptight--in one spot, totally terrified of the unidentified, speeding long board that kept whizzing past his snub nose. Mighty proud of our long boarders!

The Initiate

Maverick introduced Bidi to her long board two days ago and he is quite taken with it. I wasn't around when she first took him out and she tells me that it was with much trepidation that he got on it. She, of course, gave the requisite clinic on how to get on, pedal, lean back and front, and how to bail. But he was clearly nervous as he first mounted the board, beseeching her not to let go as she held the board's back wheel fast between her feet.
He trusted her enough to finally ask to be released. So off he went, at an ant's pace initially. With her infinite patience he is now able to carve and make little zigzag motions as he traverses the street in front of the house. She, meanwhile, still runs alongside him for moral support.
On my way out to a dinner tonight, I chanced upon them both right outside the gate--at it again, long board in tow. I noticed that the street isn't properly illuminated and that there is a blind corner up ahead. I immediately got nervous; my mind filling up with worries and what ifs. But I remembered what my father said 23 years ago when Maverick was attempting to scale a low fence as a toddler. I was just about to shout out a word of caution to her when he said, "Don't! The moment you say 'Be careful' to them is the time they learn about gravity." So true; I bit my tongue and let her be. What do you know, she scaled that fence like a tightrope walker.
So I got in the car a tad worried still but said nothing to them except, "Have fun." I was praying for my phone not to ring, afraid it might be news of a bad fall, or worse, a collision with an oncoming vehicle. But it did ring. It was Bidi, proudly announcing: "Mom, guess what? I went over my first hump today! Maverick taught me how."
It is heartwarming--all this, from siblings 14 years apart and of different genders.

Sea Walking

Kota Kinabalu is in the island of Borneo; it is therefore surrounded by water. Predictably, most resorts in the area offer the entire gamut of water sports: scuba diving, kayaking, snorkeling, banana boating, sailing, parasailing, water skiing, and sea walking, which was much hyped and highly recommended.

I first heard of it from a friend and decided to try it out with the children. The drop in point was off of Tunku Abdul Rahman beach, an hour's drive and a 30-minute boat ride from the Shangri-La Rasa Ria.

The principle of sea walking involves donning a 35-kilo underwater helmet that serves a dual function: weighing one down and providing a clear bubble to house compressed oxygen, which is pumped from a hose for easy breathing. The pressure from the air pumped in creates a vacuum around the head and keeps water out enabling one to breathe freely. One is then lowered 15 feet onto the sea bed for a leisurely walk.

I was a scuba diver at some point in my life, before the successive pregnancies and the overlapping stretches of breast feeding so the experience of being underwater to closely observe marine life is not new. But the children had only tried it once in Palawan--scuba diving in 30 feet of water--and were very excited about the prospect of sea walking.

I was hoping to convince the two youngest, Pippi and Mouse, to try it as well but they chickened out at the last minute. Pippi, the most reluctant of the six children, refused to go under from the very beginning, but Mouse tried twice. Nerves got the better of her the first time but she gathered enough courage to have another go at it. The weight of the helmet and the harsh and noisy transition from terra firma into the acquatic dimension was so disorienting that it terrified her.

The moment the helmet was fitted onto our shoulders we were instructed to lower ourselves underwater and instantly, a sort of hydro-boom exploded in our ears and disconcerted us before the absolute quiet under the sea eventually set in.

There are never smooth transitions into other realms; moving on to another dimension always involves a shockwave of noise, blinding light, and extreme temperature change. The birth of a child is one such experience, which is why the 20th century saw a world-wide obsession with "gentle births" i.e. water births, classical music-filled birthing rooms, Lamaze, etc.

C.S. Lewis, Kurt Vonnegut, Stanley Kubrik, and Neil Gaiman are among those who have shown us what it must be like to teleport into other realms.

Sea walking was a pleasant experience, if not earthshaking. I much preferred staying above the surface and being swarmed by fish in as little as three feet of water. The only other place I have been to where fish is plentiful in the shallow was in Hanauma Bay, Honolulu, Hawaii. This was much closer to home and in warmer waters; definitely better!