I'm not a smoker. I'm not addicted to nicotine the way I am with caffeine and Starbuck's brownies. I smoke twice, maybe thrice a year, purely ceremonial really, to mark a highlight in my life like, say, surviving a flood that destroyed my precious book collection or finishing a Sylvia Plath novel without slashing my wrist.
Lately though, ever since giving birth, I've been smoking more often. It's growing on me. On days when I am overwhelmed by the roles I have to play (wife, lover, mother, teacher, daughter, sister, yaya trainor and part-time couch potato), I smoke. On days when I am consumed by guilt because 2 yayas, instead of 1 mommy, are taking care of my son, I smoke.
On days when trying to be just a decent mom is chocking me, I smoke.
Don't get me wrong. I love being a mom. Most of the time. There are low moments though. It cannot be helped. Like when I realized that the next time I will ever get a decent night's sleep is when my 10 month old turns twenty (Coz while still young, he'll be waking me up in the middle of the night. And when he becomes a teenager, he'll be waking me up in the middle of the night to let him in). Or when I watch, helplessly, fragments of my life-prior-to-having-a-kid floating far, far away from me. So long, size 2 denims! G'bye, pack-and-hit-the-road-in-just-a-moment's-notice-who-cares-where-our-feet-will-take-us-ladi-da-da urges! Yes, yes, time to light up a stick. Because when I puff--or more precisely, when I inhale killer fumes--my world turns dreamy and it's just me and my cigarette smoke in total embrace. Nothing else in between.
Smoking, I've read, kills brain cells. I think that's why I smoke. So I don't have to think so much. Even for just a few minutes.
September 28, 2007
September 27, 2007
The Skinny on Jeans
I have a beef against Levi Strauss and his lot. They're anti-mommies and pro-liposuction.
Last weekend, I decided it was high-time I should reward myself for being such “a great mom” (My son’s words, not mine. And he doesn’t talk yet. Go figure).
So off to Shangrila mall I go a-hoppin’ to buy meeh-self a nice pair of jeans! The last time I bought a pair was two years ago. Turns out two years is a loooong time to be out of the fashion loop. 'Cause I was really surprised (and the surprise spiraled into a 10-minute depression, tops) when I saw what the "in" thing was in jeans: skinny jeans. “Skinny” meaning “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but just your skin will do so do leave your skeleton in your closet, thank you for understandin’, ma’am, appreciate it.” They're barely there. They're tIght (tighter than Matt Damon and Ben Afleck). And low. I tried one on and it barely covered the bikini cut (aka My Guy Smiley) I got when I gave birth last year. The zipper rubbed against M.G.S. His smile is a bit crooked now. The denim seemed to be glued to my legs. I suppose that's meant to keep my cellulites all snug. Tight on the crotch area, too. So no air would pass through? Why, Levi and Co. must be smart ‘cause I remember in my Science classes that warm air goes up and causes early menopause or something. So, thank you boys for preventing that to happen. So thoughtful. Appreciate it. They even knew my bums were gonna just fall off any sec that’s why they made ‘em oh-so-tight on the behind. No air can pass through. In or out, doesn't matter. It used to be that my pair of jeans act as a girdle. Because of the thickness of denim, I didn’t need to hold my breath in to hide my beer belly. But now with this low rise skinnies, the stretch marks on my stomach just hang grandly like the gardens of Babylon. Who’d want to buy jeans that make one look like a hooker, anyway?
Well...I do. I did. Pretty Woman kind of hooker, though (I'm picky that way). In my mind, after giving birth to a 6 pounder, who's now four times his birth size, I deserve a reward. The illusion that I'm a a Hot Mama is good enough for me. So my pair of skinnies is there, hanging in my closet, waiting for me finish doing crunches. And dips. And laps. And lifts, 5 reps each. Maybe I should just call Jenny Craig.
Last weekend, I decided it was high-time I should reward myself for being such “a great mom” (My son’s words, not mine. And he doesn’t talk yet. Go figure).
So off to Shangrila mall I go a-hoppin’ to buy meeh-self a nice pair of jeans! The last time I bought a pair was two years ago. Turns out two years is a loooong time to be out of the fashion loop. 'Cause I was really surprised (and the surprise spiraled into a 10-minute depression, tops) when I saw what the "in" thing was in jeans: skinny jeans. “Skinny” meaning “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but just your skin will do so do leave your skeleton in your closet, thank you for understandin’, ma’am, appreciate it.” They're barely there. They're tIght (tighter than Matt Damon and Ben Afleck). And low. I tried one on and it barely covered the bikini cut (aka My Guy Smiley) I got when I gave birth last year. The zipper rubbed against M.G.S. His smile is a bit crooked now. The denim seemed to be glued to my legs. I suppose that's meant to keep my cellulites all snug. Tight on the crotch area, too. So no air would pass through? Why, Levi and Co. must be smart ‘cause I remember in my Science classes that warm air goes up and causes early menopause or something. So, thank you boys for preventing that to happen. So thoughtful. Appreciate it. They even knew my bums were gonna just fall off any sec that’s why they made ‘em oh-so-tight on the behind. No air can pass through. In or out, doesn't matter. It used to be that my pair of jeans act as a girdle. Because of the thickness of denim, I didn’t need to hold my breath in to hide my beer belly. But now with this low rise skinnies, the stretch marks on my stomach just hang grandly like the gardens of Babylon. Who’d want to buy jeans that make one look like a hooker, anyway?
Well...I do. I did. Pretty Woman kind of hooker, though (I'm picky that way). In my mind, after giving birth to a 6 pounder, who's now four times his birth size, I deserve a reward. The illusion that I'm a a Hot Mama is good enough for me. So my pair of skinnies is there, hanging in my closet, waiting for me finish doing crunches. And dips. And laps. And lifts, 5 reps each. Maybe I should just call Jenny Craig.
September 18, 2007
Wink-Wink
I planned the perfect getaway last weekend. Just my husband and me, on a road trip to Tagaytay. Stopover at Petron for some Starbucks coffee and chunky brownies. Aircon off, windows rolled down once we pass the rotunda. Fresh, cool air gently touching our cheeks. Romantic dinner at Antonio's (or any bulalohan overlooking Taal lake). Conversation over more coffee (or beer, whichever's cheaper). And for our night cap, a little somethin'-somethin' (wink-wink).
We've been talking a lot about having a break from parenthood, my husband and I. The past ten months saw us really tutok-barok, hands-on parents. We have 2 maids, but when we're home, we usually hang out with our son. Man, we just have one kid and we're tired, nay, exhausted beyond reason. How couples with so many kids manage, I can't figure out. With just this one kid I am convinced that I would rather not have sex for the rest of my life than have another Tasmanian devil in the house.
I digress. So how was our weekend, you ask? Well, let me tell y'all, the gods were smiling at us.
Yes, we did get our coffee plus my brownie square, but at the Shell station instead. Yes, we did feel the breeze gently touching our skin. The touch was damp, though; it was raining that afternoon we arrived. So no rolled down windows there. No matter. Upon reaching our hotel, my husband went straight to the bathroom to freshen up. I lay on the bed, just enjoying the crispy clean sheets. Ahh. Sheets that don't smell like baby powder or Nenuco. Or diapers with urine. It's been a long time. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the solitude and the silence. Man, tranquility. Been a loooong time. Ahh.
When I opened my eyes, it was the next morning.
And I was really hungry. Needless to say, there wasn't any romantic dinner. Forget romantic. There was no dinner, period. No somethin-somethin, wink-wink either. Sadly, even my libido couldn't raise me from the dead, este, bed. Imagine that. I shelled out PhP2,000+ for a romantic weekend, and the only thing that got wet was the road.
The gods were definitely doing the wink-wink on us.
We've been talking a lot about having a break from parenthood, my husband and I. The past ten months saw us really tutok-barok, hands-on parents. We have 2 maids, but when we're home, we usually hang out with our son. Man, we just have one kid and we're tired, nay, exhausted beyond reason. How couples with so many kids manage, I can't figure out. With just this one kid I am convinced that I would rather not have sex for the rest of my life than have another Tasmanian devil in the house.
I digress. So how was our weekend, you ask? Well, let me tell y'all, the gods were smiling at us.
Yes, we did get our coffee plus my brownie square, but at the Shell station instead. Yes, we did feel the breeze gently touching our skin. The touch was damp, though; it was raining that afternoon we arrived. So no rolled down windows there. No matter. Upon reaching our hotel, my husband went straight to the bathroom to freshen up. I lay on the bed, just enjoying the crispy clean sheets. Ahh. Sheets that don't smell like baby powder or Nenuco. Or diapers with urine. It's been a long time. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the solitude and the silence. Man, tranquility. Been a loooong time. Ahh.
When I opened my eyes, it was the next morning.
And I was really hungry. Needless to say, there wasn't any romantic dinner. Forget romantic. There was no dinner, period. No somethin-somethin, wink-wink either. Sadly, even my libido couldn't raise me from the dead, este, bed. Imagine that. I shelled out PhP2,000+ for a romantic weekend, and the only thing that got wet was the road.
The gods were definitely doing the wink-wink on us.
September 9, 2007
The Break Up
My baby and I, we need a cool-off period. Like right about now. We’ve been together for 10 months. It’s been really great and all that. But we need some space, you know. To think things over. To see where our relationship is headed. Maybe spread our wings. Get a feel of the world outside us two. Maybe even see other people.
The first three months, we were exclusive. Real tight, man. Couldn’t get enough of each other. A 24/7, joined-at the-hips kind of thing. My world revolved around him, his world revolved around...well...around my areola really.
Of course there was the usual adjustment period, but that’s normal at the start of any relationship, right? I mean, he couldn’t expect a 35-year old, highly independent woman to be an instant expert in taking care of something so delicate, right? He couldn’t expect me to distinguish between his I-am-hungry cry and his hug-me-coz-I-feel-insecure-being-alone-in-this-crib-and-oh-incidentally-I-am-hungry-too cry, right? Likewise, I couldn’t expect him to immediately adjust to my quirks, like my need every morning to spend a few minutes away from him so I could relieve myself. I couldn’t expect him to immediately understand that it takes about 6 seconds to unclasp the flap of my maternity bra while carrying him, and that any delay in feeding him doesn’t mean I love him less, right?
But we stuck it out, my baby and me. After a few more months, we had a feel for each other’s needs. I learned that I needed to hire a yaya to help me out; he learned to cry louder. So we’re still together, and why not? It was love at first sight after all!
Recently though, we haven’t been seeing eye to eye. He’s becoming more demanding, you see. Nowadays, he wants more than just milk and clean diapers. Now he wants me to make faces so he could laugh; to read “I’m the Biggest Thing In the Ocean” (Kevin Sherry) at least 4 times per day; to stoop down to hold his hands for long stretches because he wants to practice walking; to duck when he throws his spoon or his bottle; to endure my hair being pulled just so he can see hair being pulled; to carry all 25 pounds of him downstairs so he could have some morning sun and polluted air. I mean how much abuse can a woman take? I love him so much, but frankly, I desperately need a break from him.
He probably feels the same way anyway. ‘Cause he used to cling to me with both hands. Wouldn’t let go, you know. But now, after discovering the use of his legs, he brushes off my attempts to hold both his hands. Like he’s saying, “I just need half your help now, mommy. I need only your one hand now to help me stand.” Soon, he would need none at all.
Sure. No prob. A cool-off period would be perfect right now. I’ve been surfing the net for vacation packages anyway. So fine.
Nothing that involves a plane ride, though.
Or more than 3 hours by road.
Or more than an overnighter. Not yet.
The first three months, we were exclusive. Real tight, man. Couldn’t get enough of each other. A 24/7, joined-at the-hips kind of thing. My world revolved around him, his world revolved around...well...around my areola really.
Of course there was the usual adjustment period, but that’s normal at the start of any relationship, right? I mean, he couldn’t expect a 35-year old, highly independent woman to be an instant expert in taking care of something so delicate, right? He couldn’t expect me to distinguish between his I-am-hungry cry and his hug-me-coz-I-feel-insecure-being-alone-in-this-crib-and-oh-incidentally-I-am-hungry-too cry, right? Likewise, I couldn’t expect him to immediately adjust to my quirks, like my need every morning to spend a few minutes away from him so I could relieve myself. I couldn’t expect him to immediately understand that it takes about 6 seconds to unclasp the flap of my maternity bra while carrying him, and that any delay in feeding him doesn’t mean I love him less, right?
But we stuck it out, my baby and me. After a few more months, we had a feel for each other’s needs. I learned that I needed to hire a yaya to help me out; he learned to cry louder. So we’re still together, and why not? It was love at first sight after all!
Recently though, we haven’t been seeing eye to eye. He’s becoming more demanding, you see. Nowadays, he wants more than just milk and clean diapers. Now he wants me to make faces so he could laugh; to read “I’m the Biggest Thing In the Ocean” (Kevin Sherry) at least 4 times per day; to stoop down to hold his hands for long stretches because he wants to practice walking; to duck when he throws his spoon or his bottle; to endure my hair being pulled just so he can see hair being pulled; to carry all 25 pounds of him downstairs so he could have some morning sun and polluted air. I mean how much abuse can a woman take? I love him so much, but frankly, I desperately need a break from him.
He probably feels the same way anyway. ‘Cause he used to cling to me with both hands. Wouldn’t let go, you know. But now, after discovering the use of his legs, he brushes off my attempts to hold both his hands. Like he’s saying, “I just need half your help now, mommy. I need only your one hand now to help me stand.” Soon, he would need none at all.
Sure. No prob. A cool-off period would be perfect right now. I’ve been surfing the net for vacation packages anyway. So fine.
Nothing that involves a plane ride, though.
Or more than 3 hours by road.
Or more than an overnighter. Not yet.
September 7, 2007
Color Coded
Pink is for girls, blue is for boys. What's with the color-coding?
A few days ago, I had my son wear a pink jumper. It's one of those Osh-Kosh hand-me-downs from my sister who has a daughter, now 4 years old. My husband reacted to the outfit. Eew. He looks like a girl. The neighbors reacted to the outfit. Eew. He looks like a girl. My yayas said, "Kawawa naman. Mukhang gerl. Oow." Say that again?! He's wearing Osh-Kosh, for gawdsakes! That's more expensive than the 3-for-250 shirts I buy in Greenhills! Hindi siya kawawa 'no!
What's wrong with pink on a baby boy anyway? Mababakla? Kawawa? Oh, pleaaase!
First, do you really think gays are gays because their mothers put them in pink cribs and pink diapers when they were babies? Second, how can a pink jumper on a baby boy make him look pitiful? I didn't notice my baby covering his face in shame when I took him out that day for his usual afternoon stroll. He wasn't hiding from the other babies on the block for fear of being called Baby Bach-lash. HE DOESN'T CARE. Babies don't care about these color stereotypes that adults like Martha Stewart obsess over.
In fact the day that my baby was wearing that pink jumper, I noticed he was more confident; there was a certain bounce in his usual unsteady, awkward first steps (I was holding his hands, of course). Hmm...I guess it's because the jumper matched his lavender bib and yellow stroller...
A few days ago, I had my son wear a pink jumper. It's one of those Osh-Kosh hand-me-downs from my sister who has a daughter, now 4 years old. My husband reacted to the outfit. Eew. He looks like a girl. The neighbors reacted to the outfit. Eew. He looks like a girl. My yayas said, "Kawawa naman. Mukhang gerl. Oow." Say that again?! He's wearing Osh-Kosh, for gawdsakes! That's more expensive than the 3-for-250 shirts I buy in Greenhills! Hindi siya kawawa 'no!
What's wrong with pink on a baby boy anyway? Mababakla? Kawawa? Oh, pleaaase!
First, do you really think gays are gays because their mothers put them in pink cribs and pink diapers when they were babies? Second, how can a pink jumper on a baby boy make him look pitiful? I didn't notice my baby covering his face in shame when I took him out that day for his usual afternoon stroll. He wasn't hiding from the other babies on the block for fear of being called Baby Bach-lash. HE DOESN'T CARE. Babies don't care about these color stereotypes that adults like Martha Stewart obsess over.
In fact the day that my baby was wearing that pink jumper, I noticed he was more confident; there was a certain bounce in his usual unsteady, awkward first steps (I was holding his hands, of course). Hmm...I guess it's because the jumper matched his lavender bib and yellow stroller...
September 6, 2007
Creepy
One a.m. I woke up with a start. My 10-month old was NOT beside me. Panic. Felt like my balls--if I had balls--were stuck in my throat. I scanned the darkness. Saw his tiny silhouette standing at the foot of the bed. He was holding on to a pillow with one hand, for balance. First thought: Phew! Nobody kidnapped him, he’s not lying unconscious, a pool of blood beside him. Next thought: What the hell was he doing, standing at the foot of the bed at one a.m.?! I wanted to scold him, tell him he’s grounded till his first birthday, scream, “What the hell were you thinking you little imp, you?!”
‘Cause it looked to me that he wasn’t just there to practice standing up or to wait for the sun to rise. It looked like he was on to something. Like he was planning to go somewhere. The bathroom? To try out taking a leak the way big daddy does? Next door to wake up his yayas? Oh me, oh my, not the stand fan, please not that! 'Just thinking of his tiny, tiny fingers reaching out for those blades...stop it! Stop!!!
My God. Just 10 months and I'm certified paranoid. Breathe, mommy, breathe.
‘Cause it looked to me that he wasn’t just there to practice standing up or to wait for the sun to rise. It looked like he was on to something. Like he was planning to go somewhere. The bathroom? To try out taking a leak the way big daddy does? Next door to wake up his yayas? Oh me, oh my, not the stand fan, please not that! 'Just thinking of his tiny, tiny fingers reaching out for those blades...stop it! Stop!!!
My God. Just 10 months and I'm certified paranoid. Breathe, mommy, breathe.
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