Reclaiming My Life

To say that I have been busy the past few weeks would be an understatement.

Busy attending to my career,

busy having dinner with friends,

busy partying,

busy shopping…

I have been busy doing stuffs that, to my utter wonderment, were not necessarily baby related and the least bit maternal.  But surprisingly just right.

I was busy “being me”.

 

Or at least reclaiming the “me” I thought I was and more.

Having a baby brings so many changes.  Everything is not the same as it used to be.  And however much one tries can never be the way it used to be.

Your sleeping pattern changes, you suffer in a time warp of eternal lack of sleep.

Your relationship with your husband changes, those sweet “alone times” seeming to dwindle in history.

Your friends begin planning for the next grand vacation, camping, scuba diving, you get all worked up in excitement until you realize you have a little one to be left at home.  

Everything changes. Geez, even your bra size changes!

And in the midst of this, I asked myself if I have allowed myself to get “lost” in the demands and changes of motherhood.  Have I already lost myself?

 

And in my quest for an answer, I found myself in the parlor.  Spending a fortune on a hair treatment that will turn back the clock and give me the appearance of youthful glow and optimism without busting my bank account.   And discovering, as my husband appreciately eyes me over, that it was all worth it! 

In the mall’s women’s department, purchasing a couple of what to date would be my biggest expense on lingerie, as it promises to push and lift my once youthful pride and glory.  I in turn tried to suspend my disbelief as I clutch on the word “perky” on the description tag.

I found myself in coffee shops and nice eating places, with friends.  Sitting, oh not so quietly, and listening to them share their latest exploits and escapades.  I was afraid to become one of those moms who, lounge in their baggie pants, do nothing but to incessantly talk about their young ones, forgetting that for some life is not only about having a baby.  But about exploring one’s boundaries, one’s world, doing more, achieving more.  And at each laughter and every guffaw, I found myself tingling all over, with warmth and joy.  With inspiration.  With deep appreciation for people who have loved me, who have shared in my passions, my dreams and my heartaches, and who will be there for me and with me in each of life’s many surprises and tribulations.

And I found myself at Mang Inasal’s, the newest “inasal” place to hit the metro, sitting in front of my husband and listening on how he has discovered this place and what makes it better than the other “inasal” places out there.  I was reminded on how much we loved food that we would hang out on the same eating joint for weeks on end until our craving gets spent and we literally throw up from the mere sniff of it.  I was reminded on how gallantly he had always treated me as he served me a stick of that chicken thigh and spicy chicken sauce.  And how we enjoyed our mundane talks at each and every bite.  I took a leave from the office that day and it was surely a leave well spent.  As we walked our  “fullness” out, his hand clasped in mine,  I thought how much I have missed my husband and moments such as these with him.  It was such a joyous and relaxing break from the busyness of our parental life.

 

I lay down with Nina last night, finally after almost three (3) whirlwind weeks of “reclaiming” myself.  

And it was a good, whole, contented sleep. 🙂

Revisiting the Year Past

The night air is cool.  It’s 3 a.m. and I’m once again up for my “date” with Nina.   As usual, mother and daughter revel in the quietness of the night (Nina full from her nighttime feeding) allowing me to have my thoughts do its own meandering. 

It’s another new year.  It looks promising.  I am hopeful.

I reflect upon the year past and, with the warm bundle in my arms, it is not difficult to see what it meant for me. 

I became a mother. 

And with that comes a year-long learning of how it is to nurture life within one’s self,

And the understanding of the sacrifice, selflessness and love that comes with raising one. 

To say that “the day one decides to have a child is the day one decides to wear her heart outside of her” is an understatement.  I am overwhelmed by the wealth and depth of emotion that wells up inside of me each time I look at Nina.  How I have produced such a beautiful child is a  wonder to me.  A true miracle.  To realize that she is mine, my own, brings aching joy in me. Renee Zellweger was wrong in saying  “you complete me” in reference to movie husband Tom Cruise.  No, my child completes me.  The love one has for one’s husband can never equal that which one has for one’s child.   She is simply a part of me.  And her small hands clutching mine, her bright wide eyes mirroring mine, will be a constant reminder of how she has become my heart. 

 

 I became a daughter.

I love my mom immensely.  We share a bond that, I must admit, only a few have.  But going through the throes of pregnancy and having a child have deepened our relationship even more.  She has always been my friend, my anchor, my confidante.  During my pregnancy, she was my eating buddy, my supplier of all those delectable cakes. 🙂  My mom brought me to the hospital when I was due to deliver.  She gave me a brave teary smile as they wheeled me to the delivery room.  She was the first one I saw when I gained consciousness, the first one to tell me I’m now a mom to a beautiful baby girl. 

They always tell me that I’m my mom’s favorite.  They speculate that it must be because I’m the sweetest among four girls, it must be because we have the same likes and dislikes.  Now, I know.  I’m her favorite because she can’t help it.  As each and every one of my siblings is also her favorite.  With each child is formed a bond fashioned not only by birth but by love, concern and selfless sacrifice.  Being a mother made me understand all that my mom did for me.  All the sacrifice she made for me.  All the dreams she dreamt for me.  And I love her more than ever.

 

And I became a friend.

Funny thing about being pregnant – it makes one available to others.  In my case, I was locked and shackled to the bed most of my first and third trimester, I was always available for a chat.  I became a friend, a confidante, a confessor and, in some days, a psychiatrist too.  “A” for “angst” would have been my baby’s first word. 🙂  

“F” for fun and foodtrip would be part of her vocabulary too.  I was “kaladkarin” as ever, available for coffee perks, dinner discussions and even morning breathers.  I gave love and was the recipient of love…tons of it.  The baby shower Blue Sneakers threw for me, acting in concert with mega events coordinator Ibyang, will always be one of my cherished moments.  Not because of all the gifts and merrymaking that went into it, but because it evoked “friendship” in its truest and deepest sense. Simply put, I felt loved.  I have always been blessed.  But to be blessed with such good friends is truly one absolute fulfillment.  

2008 was truly “the Bomb”! 

It celebrated life, love and friendship. 

I cannot help but be hopeful for 2009. 🙂

Lucky Pick 36!

It’s Sunday. 

And for my husband, aside from the family and religious obligations, that means its lotto day.

As usual, he asks me for my numbers.  And as usual, I gave him the same numbers I always do – 18, 22, 26, 29, and 34, numbers that refer to the ages when milestones occured in my life.   

At 18 – I was welcomed into womanhood

At 22 – I became a woman

    26 – I became a lawyer

    29 – I met my soulmate

At 34 – I married him.

But the lotto requires six numbers, I have never been able to complete it…

Until today.

I am 36 years old.

I am trying to decipher and entangle my emotions and have come to the conclusion that I have yet again reached a milestone.

My friend Ibyang sums it well on her birthday greeting –

“Good a.m. b-day mom! You are super blessed – a loving and supportive husband, a beautiful and healthy daughter, close family, loyal friends, good job where you make a difference, a nice and comfy home, plus a wealth of memories of travel, yummy eats and fine living.  Happy 36 years of the good life!”

I truly have had a good life.  My heart is overflowing with love received and given, my spirit strong with challenges faced and hurdled, lessons learned along the way, and my stomach is full too.  I look at my daughter, her smile reflecting that of her father’s, and realize how at 36 I have truly been blessed.  

Yes, apart from winning the lotto, I cannot ask for anything more.  🙂

“Breastmilk is Best for Babies”

Breastmilk is best for babies.

It’s easy to digest, it boosts their metabolism, increases the child’s IQ and lowers risk of leukemia. 

This said, the next question is – Is it the best for mommies?

But nobody asked.

I have come to discover that, apart from the positive advertising by-lines, no one ever bothered to discuss the truth about breastfeeding.  Or even just to matter-of-factly outline the ABC’s of it. 

A – Anxiety

B – Breastmilk; Bruises

C- Colostrum; Chills

D- Dehydration

E – Engorgement; Expressed Milk

F – Fever

down to

L- Latch on; Let-down; Lactation etc.

Perhaps as not to discourage the expecting mother. But I personally would have appreciated more honest information.

It is one of those days that I have to discover things for myself.  My breast, after a day of hardly a drop, is hard rock engorged.  I woke up with a tingling sensation signalling that we are ready for a let-down.  I tried to dutifully express some milk and store some for the next feeding but I was too exhausted.  Next thing I know I was down with a fever and was shivering madly.  Coupled with migraine, dysmenorrhea and bleeding, I honestly thought this is is it – my body has finally given in. 

Three lifelines flashed through my thoughts – the Bottle, the Formula, the Yaya. 

I would have readily grabbed at these if not for, yes, the advertising by-line: “Breastmilk is best for babies”.  And thoughts of my baby getting sick suddenly nagged at me.

No one told me either that I would be so concerned with social approval. “Konting hirap lang yan, tiis lang, ganyan talaga ang maging ina.”  I personally am not of the view that any one is less of a mother if she doesn’t breastfeed.  There are valid reasons for a mother to waive this I believe (best to discuss in another entry).  But without agreeeing to it in principle or the mixed signals it sends,  I thought of my mom’s disapproving face, clenched my teeth and waited for that excruciating latch on.  

Elisabeth Hasselbeck of “The View” once said, “Nothing changes your breast the way breastfeeding does.”  Apart from the difficulties of breastfeeding, she was of course talking about the aesthetic effect of breastfeeding, which essentially is none. 

Brooke Shields I think said it best when she recounted her daughter’s reaction upon seeing her breasts – “Mommy, why are they uneven?”

Cute. From a girl of five.  But horribly depressing for a mother of two or even one. 

I would have gone on with my tirade over the injustice of it all.  Hoping that at the end of it, a solution would have been reached, one I hope my conscience will easily accept and live with. 

But a cry from the cot was like a cry from the wilderness.  

Baby Nina hungrily latches on and closes her eyes.  For a brief moment, she smiles…a contented smile.

And man, I thought, what have I been thinking?!? 🙂

Baby Blues

Post partum Depression or “baby blues” is exactly what the name says – its depression that hits women after giving birth or usually during the first natal week. 

 

Its a condition that hits about 60 % of women who have just given birth but rarely talked about and at times, for the ignorant, even condemned.  (Remember that Tom Cruise and Brooke Shields fiasco?).  Severe episodes have been characterized with irritability, lack of sleep and appetite and extreme and continued sadness.    

 

Curious if I belong to the 60 % of the pregnant women population, I was careful to watch for signs. 

 

And then on my 2nd natal week, it hit me.   

 

I cried three (3) times all in one evening.  First, a whimper.  Second, a tear.  Then, next thing I know, I was bawling like crazy! 

 

I was tired.

 

In pain.

 

Hungry.

 

And Ugly.

 

Comprehension finally dawned.

 

No wonder there is such a thing as post partum depression–there is the pain of giving birth and, just when your wound has yet to heal, you have to nurse  and feed your child which, someone neglected to tell you, would have to be by the hour.  As in, E-V-E-R-Y HOUR.  Exhaustion hits you like an anvil, but hey, the baby’s crying so you will have to get up again! 

 

After a week or two, you look at yourself in the mirror and wonder who’s this cow staring in front of you. 

 

Personally, it depends on my moods.  Some times, I feel like a cow especially just after I have pumped my umpteenth ounce of breastmilk and my breasts are all sore and hanging loose.  At other times, I feel like a pig.   I have yet to get anytime for myself and my husband is about to come home with me smelling like crazy for lack of a shower.  I haven’t had time to shampoo my hair let alone brush my teeth.  Worse, there’s a pouch which has remained around my waist making me wonder if my baby has a twin left inside!  You choose. 

 

After the news of having given birth has worn off, loneliness then hits you.  You are left to your devices.  No more visitors, no well-wishers (not that you would want any coz you do smell afterall!).  It’s just you and the baby.  And although the sight of her will always make you smile, the reality of it is you do smell, you haven’t been able to brush you hair, your back aches like hell and you haven’t slept for what seemed like an eternity.

 

Depressing nga naman yun sister!

 

But, as with every ailment, there is always a cure. 

 

For Brooke Shields, its a bottle of anti-depressants.  For Tom Cruise,  its “a better way of life.”

 

In my case,  a slice of pizza, a plate of spaghetti and a good back rub courtesy of Mr. P were enough to do the trick.  🙂

 

The Many Faces of an Angel

 

Nothing can prepare you for the first sight of your child.

 

You wonder for nine months how she will look like.  Will she take after her dad or will she take after you?  You devise ways in which to somehow manage and control her DNA, be it through food (eat lots of oranges and apples) or through “kasabihan” or “pamahiin” (stay away from dinuguan, do not watch horror films etc.), and pray to God that she will come out like the Philippines’ next supermodel.

 

But, as I have discovered, whatever your child looks like, an immense sort of awe, wonder and amazement will always engulf you.  Did this child come from me?  How did this happen? 

 

Immeasurable love for this little vulnerable package will consume you. 

 

You look at her sleepy peaceful face and think that an angel has literally descended from heaven. 

 

 

 

 

Her every smile becomes a smile for you.

 

 

 

Her every twist and cringe grips your heart.  

 

 

 

 

Her simple whimper becomes a loud cry for comfort. 

 

 

Your whole world has somehow evolved to solely focus on nothing but this little bundle of joy. Damn your career and that whirlwind of a social life you had. You would only want to protect her and at the same time wish for her everything that’s good in the world to see and experience. 

 

Motherhood indeed brings you full circle.  It suddenly explained all the times that your parents were strict with you.  It explained why, despite the coming-of-age argument, parents will still insist on being informed of your whereabouts. 

 

I look at this bundle in my arms and I am clutched with fear.  Will I be able to protect her from the evils of the world?  And in those times that I or her dad won’t be there, will she be able to handle the challenges of life on her own?  

 

I can only raise her with love, nurture her and leave the rest to God. 

 

Faith suddenly had more meaning.

 

 

 

An Introduction

And so it has come to pass.

Nina Samantha was born on Thursday, 28 August 2008, at 2:48 pm, by emergency ceasarian section.  She was 6 lbs. and 48 cm. long.

I saw three (3) pairs of hands literally dig in to my uterus to fetch her. 

She kissed me for a second before these same hands again snatched her away to clean her. 

Next time I saw her, she was clothed in pink, eyes closed, dreaming of a world still unknown to her…

and fair, very fair.  🙂

I held her in my arms and for a while I couldn’t make anything of my emotions…

Until she opened her eyes… 

And took my heart away.

She is mine.  🙂

Call me Chicken!

Found myself excitedly making plans for November.  It will be mom’s 67th birthday and wouldn’t it be nice to bring her to Hongkong or to Bangkok to go shopping? 

Till dad popped the question, “Where will you leave the baby?  Who will take care of her?”

IT TOTALLY SKIPPED MY MIND!

And as I tried to chide myself on how I could have ever forgotten such an important detail, question after question began to tumble after each other, challenging, at this belated hour, the state I currently find myself in – “Am I prepared to become a mother?” “Did I ever want to become a mother?” “Did I ever want a child?”

Liz Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love opines that people reproduce for all manner of reasons – sometimes out of a pure desire to nurture and witness life, sometimes out of an absence of choice, sometimes in order to hold on to a partner or create an heir, sometimes without thinking about it in any particular way. 

In my case, it seemed to be the normal and natural consequence of getting married.  My husband and I never consciously thought to have a child.  Our every sexual act was not motivated by this desire.  Though our hearts sank to learn that I do not have the fertility chance of an 18 year old, it never compelled us to determinedly push to have a baby.  Hubby, for his part, was content with having Ricky.  While I…well, I was Mrs. What Will be, Will be.  Though, there were times that I sought for the comfort of having a child of my own blood and loins.

Until 2 pink lines finally confirmed its coming.  I remember looking at it in disbelief. Only to instantly let go of it like it burned.  I must have turned a full 360 degrees before I finally left the bathroom to tell my husband the good news.  Awe, disbelief and elation only a few of the emotions that mixed and mingled within me.

Despite its difficulty, I embraced pregnancy with a passion (careful only that I will not be branded “overreacting” or a fashion faux pas).

…Until the thought of having no November vacation finally hit me.  Or having no vacation at all for the next three years.

My sister, a mother of 2 beautiful daughters, texted me that I should soon brace myself for those colic and crying nights.  A 2-hour sleep considered a grace from God.  Evie, my friend, in turn suggested tips on how to properly breastfeed a child. And not in my slightest imagination did I think that I will be leaking constantly and will have to pump my breast regularly, sometimes in public! 

To say that it filled me with absolute dread would be an understatement.  I cringed and totally grew cold!  Somehow, my thoughts centered on the baptism party (what’s a nice motiff?), 1st birthday party (mascots anyone?) and girly moments (shopping!) with my daughter, it totally skipped the taking-care-of-baby part!

Now, I suddenly find myself asking, “Man, what did I get myself into!?!”

It likewise skipped the what-will-happen-to-my-work part as it seems to be a no-brainer that my career will need to take a backseat from now on. Or the cute declaration that the two-some will now be a threesome (or a foursome for that matter) being in reality a goodbye to couplehood and late friday night dates with my husband.

Never did the word “CHOICE” resound with much meaning as it did now.  The fact that it has mushroomed into a worldwide movement is not significantly lost on me either.

But don’t get me wrong.  I am excited and impatient to see my baby.  I’m merely having cold feet and being chicken!   

 

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.