The Alien I call My Husband

Husbands are such funny specie.

They organize parties at the drop of a hat and think that the whole house will magically get itself into order and food will miraculously appear on the table.

At least, that’s the impression my husband left me.  A week ago, he casually informed me that he invited over some of his friends to visit Saturday.  For days, I asked him for the headcount and menu preference.  He casually dismissed my concerns saying there would only be four (4) guests and food will be a breeze as it will be merely a drinking session of sorts.  What a relief I thought.  And that was that…

Until this morning.  Saturday.

Doing our weekly grocery at the supermarket,  I asked him if he got today’s affair covered and to confirm with his guests.

He did and horror of horrors – the four guests soon turned into fifteen, with his friends asking to bring along their wives and children, and the supposed drinking session ballooned into one big dinner party cum housewarming!

As our panic grew, we suddenly saw ourselves dashing through the isles of the supermarket to grab fish, chicken and pork in proportions bigger than our usual.  Soon, we were in the home section frantically buying glasses, curtains, bedcovers and plant decor in an effort to make our house presentable for the viewing guests.

I don’t know how I managed (was still able to squeeze in a late lunch with my best friend), but dinner was promptly served at seven with the whole house looking quite pristine.

The banquet table was a feast for the eyes – there was pancit palabok, chili chicken wings, inihaw na liempo and tilapia, crispy ulo, kilawin tanigue, with vegetable salad, eggplant salad and ensaladang mangga on the side. 

The guests seem impressed with the rooms, with its new curtains, bedcovers, plant decor and room perfume.

No sign of the fact that, just a few minutes ago, our house was in shambles and hardly could my hubby and I see each other thru the smoke from the grill.

As I retired at 10 pm and left the guests with my husband,  I thought that the affair went amazingly well considering the short notice.  I also made the mental note that, in parties, I should never trust my hubby’s judgment again. =)

 

 

Mother’s Day Reverie

Today is Mother’s Day. 

It’s also a Sunday, very apt to properly give thanks to the Lord for the gift of mothers.

It is also a day in which I found myself asking whether I properly qualify for the occasion and deserve a greeting.

A friend texted that she’ll greet me next year.  With good reason, the baby will be out by then, I thought.  I will no longer be an expectant mother or a soon-to-be mom as my status would have been elevated to real motherhood with the cooing and the sucking of my own child.  The battlescars of motherhood, i.e. lack of sleep, widened hips, and bad hair days, would declare and confirm my membership into the society of mothers that would properly earn me the most coveted greeting. 

But how do I explain the love that grows inside me for a child, not yet whole, at the very first instance of knowledge?  The silent conversations of assurance for every butterfly bump and turn I feel in my tummy,  the lump that swells to suffocate me for every fear and thought of imagined injury, the extraordinary care and caution observed for the coming of a most wanted one?  Do these emotions suffer a deficiency in terms of degree and credibility as these are exhibited for a mere expectancy?  As in Civil Law, no right can arise from a mere expectancy.  Does the same principle apply to being called a mother?

And if not an expectancy, alive and kicking but the source of which is not mine, the question still remains – do I still qualify for the greeting? 

My stepson doesn’t seem to think so.  The morning went by with nary a smile from him, just the usual “Good Morning!”  But optimist that I am, I excused it for mere carelessness of an eight (8)-year old only child trying to cope up with living with a woman he calls “Mommy”  while calling another “Mama” in another land. 

As for my husband, the greeting had to be cajoled from him as I believe he is in the same dilemma as I am.  Trapped in categorization and the usage of apt proper nouns. 

For how do you call one who cares and ministers over someone whom you know will never be yours?  Whose every word of caution and strong advise would be treated with suspicion rather than the usual justification of wise parenting?  Whose love will always not measure up to the one who did bear him?

I fear for the day in which these words will be finally thrown to my face.  Not by strangers or do-gooders, but by the one who I treated as my own. 

I fear that the answer may not be the one I expect nor deserve.

My nephew Anton’s voice broke into my reverie.  He had just greeted his mom and mama (lola) “Happy Mother’s Day!”

He then turns to me and with an impish smile warmly greets me “Happy STEPmother’s Day, Tata!”

For now,  I rest in his embrace and the people who love me…and settle for the wise-cracked greeting.

 

Boracay or No Boracay

Summer- a time to frolic under the sun, sandy white beaches under your feet, showing sexy love handles in those skimpy white bikinis, downing tequila by the number…

Or was that Enfamama?  

Woke up from my dream and realized no white bikini would ever drape my gorging belly, tequilas would have to be replaced by Anmum or Enfamama as I clumsily plod along the even cement pavements of Manila.

My parents tell me that summer in Boracay for now would have to be shelved.  Till I safely deliver the baby.

Sure…but that won’t stop me from getting out of Manila! Nor of having an ounce of fun injected into my incarceration!

So, it is with this sense of impish fun and rebelliousness that I nonchalantly asked Mr. P if he wanted to go to Tagaytay for a change.  No flight needed, no heavy bags in tow, just the two of us this otherwise lazy weekend, perfectly safe for the baby.

He readily agreed.

So, off we went at around 11 a.m. on our instant date to Tagaytay!  It’s not the usual summer adventure but our spirits were nevertheless buoyed up from leaving the crowded malls of Manila for a change.

After three hours (traffic had to be re-routed due to a fiesta), we finally arrived at Leslie’s.  There we ordered to our heart’s delight – sizzling bulalo, crispy pata, fried kangkong and chopsuey, willingly blind to the havoc it would create on our cholesterol and blood pressure levels.

It rained hard while we were having our meal.  Dark clouds hid the magnificence of Taal Volcano.  Rain thundered through the thatched roofs of the restaurant. But we still managed to laze around, bantered through our thoughts,  and, yeah, took that customary picture with Taal Volcano in the background. 

It was still raining when we left Tagaytay. Traffic was heavy but not enough to wipe the smile off our faces.

It is during times like this that I stand grateful for the love and friendship we have as a couple.

And I rest in the confident assurance of forever.

Boracay or no Boracay. 🙂