Always a Great Idea

Art work by Sophie

"Look at my drawing!" Sophie said as she proudly presented the above to me a few days ago. When I asked her to talk about her work, she said "I had a great idea, then I took your hand and Papa's hand. I put them together. Then you got married!" She smiled up at me, mighty pleased with herself, as if saying to me, I was the genius behind you and Papa getting married!

I admit that there is much truth to her thinking. While Pipo and I did not want to get married immediately “just because” we had her, she had so much –and everything - to do with our eventual choice. I remember looking at her and thinking to myself, What a wondrous, amazing, beautiful creature she is.  If I had somehow managed to make such a wondrous, amazing, beautiful creature with Pipo, who knows what else would be possible for us to build together through our love? In my mind's eye, I saw a family with more incredible (and hopelessly energetic and kulit) babies, our very own "castles in the sky," and a life full of dreams that do come true, to bring joy to us and to all those we love.

I loved him, and because of him, I had Sophie. And with him and Sophie and our love, we could have so much more. The possibilities were – and are limitless.

The Great Idea. Photo by Sandra Dans

I will keep her drawing close by and look at it often. It will serve as a reminder that no matter what I’m feeling, no matter how difficult the challenge we are facing, no matter how annoying he can get, and no matter how annoying I know I can certainly get, our marriage always has been and always will be a good idea.

The lovely little genius thinks so, and I will never for a second doubt her wisdom.

Thank you, Sophie.

Sophie's Art Workshop

"Come on kids, let's do art!" Sophie shouted. She was playing with her neighborhood friends inside our compound.

Art work by Sophie and friends :-)

In the house, I groaned. My little girl was a ringleader who enjoyed rounding up willing kids and bringing them into the house to play with her toys, decorate masks, make stick puppets, or whatever inspired her at that particular moment. The kids in the neighborhood were well acquainted with our "art cabinet," a small cabinet with paper, scissors, glue, sequins, feathers, embellishments, and other art materials, and welcomed any chance to come into the house to participate in our little arts and crafts activities.

I was looking forward to a relaxed, quiet Saturday morning. Much of my work happens on weekends, thus a free Saturday was a rare gift, and highly treasured and appreciated. I had planned on sleeping in, or curling up in the sofa with a cup of coffee and a good book. That's not going to happen now, an inner voice whispered. Oh well.

Empty Nest?

Sophie joined my mother in law for an out of town trip early this morning. She was so excited, she started composing a song as I walked her to her grandma's house:

Oh I'm so excited

I don't know what to say

But the birds are singing

Just for you today

"Bye mom!" She sang in closing. I laughed and kissed her goodbye. I then turned and walked back to our house, and felt my heart sink slowly. I opened the door and as I entered, our little house immediately felt different. It felt so quiet, so solemn, and so much bigger than what it really was. It felt strange not to hear her foot steps as she moved about her room, her spontaneous little songs, her inevitable, insistent cries of "Mamaaaaaaaaaaaa! I need you," to which I, oftentimes in the middle of some chore, would find myself thinking "What is it now?"

I oftentimes sigh and complain that she is quite a handful for a little girl, but the truth is, we feel lost whenever she's gone. It's as if all the sunshine, laughter, and noise - oh the blessed, blessed noise - are swept into a vortex of a little girl and all that is left is Breath. Silence. Stillness. Waiting. Longing for the beautiful, powerful, joyful tempest to come back and wreak all her wonderful havoc on us and our home.

It's just been a few hours and already we miss her terribly.

The Gift of Faith (A Tribute to My Dad)

I will now make an attempt to reconstruct an essay I wrote more than a decade ago for my college English class under the amazing and inspiring Doreen Fernandez. It was about my father, and it was one her favorites out of all the pieces I had written for her class. (She had us write an essay a week for an entire year, as she believed that practice, practice, and even more practice was key for all budding writers.) So here goes:

Nights at the dinner table are always filled with my father's stories, his witty remarks, and his boisterous laughter. He would preside over the table (as heads of families are wont to do), and regale us with anecdotes of his adventures and misadventures as a young boy, his outwitting of would-be muggers he would encounter in Central Park or on the subway on his way home from work, his close brush with death when my brother and I were mere babies. I listened to him in rapt attention, oftentimes with my mouth gaping open in amazement, oftentimes giggling till my sides hurt, and always, always thinking that my dad was the coolest, funniest, most awesome guy on the planet.

But that night was different. The atmosphere at the dinner table was solemn and quiet. And as my dad began to speak, his entire demeanor changed. His face was aglow with a serene light. His eyes were bright, clear, and deep. He had transformed into a sage, wise and philosophical.

On Tocino Smells and Gratitude

A few days ago I had a bad bout with the flu. While I am usually a morning person who gets up first in our household, there was one particular morning where I could not move nor open my eyes, I felt so drained and weak. I distantly discerned my husband speaking to me, but all I heard were slurred, unintelligible sounds uttered in painful slow motion and robotic intonation.

I drifted off into a feverish sleep. Soon after, I was woken up by a little girl who shook my shoulders and said quite urgently, “Mom, wake up.”

I squinted. Between slits, I saw an earnest, set little face. Sophie usually is quite chirpy and bubbly in the morning, so something must have been up. I struggled to get up. I forced my eyelids open and looked at her. Her eyes were as wide as saucers.

“Yes, Soph?” I asked.

“Mom, we have a big problem. Huge.” She said dramatically.

I fought the urge to laugh. She really was a drama queen. (I wonder whom she gets it from?)  “What is it this time, Soph? Mom’s sick.” I said sternly.

“Mom, you have to get up now. Our whole house stinks.” She pulled my hand as she said this.

Missing My Old Cave (An Ode to Merville)

My husband Pipo and I went apartment hunting today. As our lease in our humble yet lovely start-up home ends in November, we are now exploring our options. We both agree that we'd prefer for our money to go towards the monthly amortization of a home not borrowed but owned, and thus we are looking for a convenient, cozy, and reasonable space for our little party of three.

He is reasonably excited about one place we've been to. I, on the other hand, feel a little bit lost, a little bit blue, and a tad bit heartbroken.