infiniteperspective.net

It’s been more than a week now and the weather where I live hasn’t changed a bit. It’s still as stormy and windy as the time it started. It’s also very inconvenient- we can’t go out as much as we like, for instance, and it has made myself and my little girl prone to colds, cough and flu. But, we have to live with it, I suppose. And much more than that, the cold has brought with it unexpected surprises.

For instance, it has necessitated much more family bonding. Whenever the winds strike, our little girl comes to her father and myself to get cuddled and comforted. At night, since we don’t have a heater or a fireplace, it becomes necessary to hug each other to sleep for warmth. Staying inside the house most of the time has also led to it being more tidy than it has been, and old trash which hasn’t been thrown out, has finally been taken care of.

True, the cold can be harsh, but when managed with a lot of family love, it can turn into a very warm, loving experience.

Whenever I have to leave my two year old girl at home, she doesn’t force me to take her with me by crying or throwing tantrums. She just gives me that look and then would beseech: “Please don’t leave me, Mommy. Let me go with you… please.” She almost always ends up winning in the end. The way I see it, it seems that I’m the one experiencing separation anxiety- and not her.

Perhaps this is also due to the fact that having cancer makes me feel that I am living on precious borrowed minutes everyday of my life. I don’t want to stay out longer than is absolutely necessary, for fear that something might happen to my baby. The song “I Don’t Want to Miss A Thing” by Aerosmith seems to describe what I feel right now. If it is only possible to stay awake every minute of my life and not miss a single second of my daughter’s sweet innocence, it would be such a treat. But, as my grandmother (my late father’s mother) who is now 92 years old said, if she had stayed at home and took care of her 6 sons all the time instead of augmenting her late husband’s income by selling bibingka (rice cakes) , what would she have fed them with? I suppose this is the same dilemma faced by career mothers today. I’m luckier, I guess, in more ways than one.

The last two months of this year was a showcase of ill health for myself and my two year old baby girl. In November, she was admitted in the hospital for intestinal amoebiasis. It was a rough time for everyone in the family. Amazingly, though, Carmela braved two separate intravenous insertions on both her tiny hands since the IV line got dislodged and had to be reinserted. Doctors and nurses commended her for being a “good girl” everytime she would obediently lie still or sit still or drink her medicine dutifully. The only time she cried was when a nursing aide (who probably had good intentions but had little sense) performed “flushing” on her IV line to get the bubbles out but ended up creating more bubbles and a lengthy backflow of blood. It was a horrendous experience which we had to report to the chief nurse of the hospital.

I also had a severe bout of asthma and just when I was getting better, well what would you know, Carmela again had to contend with bacterial pnemonia (and I thought her pneumo immunization was enough protection). Thankfully, we were able to manage it at home, and now she’s all right.

These successive bouts of illnesses left us crippled financially and drained us emotionally. And yet, despite all these challenges, I am still thankful that now, we are healthy. Christmas is a time for good cheer, after all, and these trials in our lives only serve to remind us that God is constantly present in our lives.

Here’s a toast to good health for this year and the years to come!

An hour ago, I wrote about “My Toddler’s Education,” and while it’s true that crayons and songs and kisses are part and parcel of that, I realized that it was not only me giving my child and education- I am receiving one, too! So, before I go to sleep, I just have to post some of the valuable lessons I’ve learned from my daughter:

1. She taught me to crouch low and look at life from her vantage point. I thus learned patience.
2. She taught me to tackle our generation gap with lots of singing, dancing, play-acting, voice modulating and coloring. I thus learned creativity and resourcefulness.
3. She taught me that she screams and throws tantrums for a reason. I thus learned to anticipate and be ready.
4. She taught me that her tears have their purpose. I thus learned to comfort and to care.
5. She taught me that she hugs and seeks for my protection when she’s hurt or afraid. I thus learned to be brave.

But of all the lessons my baby Carmela has taught me, I believe that the greatest one is this: With her undying loyalty and confidence in me, I learned to be a mother.

Although I’ve read about it in books, my two year old’s sudden explosion of knowledge through her words and ideas never ceases to amaze me. Experts in the field of childhood education have written about the amazing ability of toddlers and preschoolers to learn and perceive the world around them. Well, reading about it is one thing, actually experiencing it for myself through my little girl’s astounding development in the past year alone is entirely another matter. She can speak in sentences now, can comprehend simple instructions, and can even reason out when she needs to in that very innocent yet astoundingly logical manner only a two year old is capable of. What’s more, her memory of things is sharp and lucid, it’s just staggering.

And I have to keep up! I’ve done more research on child development than my college term papers, have read more books on the subject and downloaded more articles than my M.A. papers combined, and I’m still nowhere near comprehending this little miracle. But I’m getting there. She loves to draw, listen to stories and sing songs. And she absolutely adores dancing. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. There’s more that I can teach her, and I am sure she’s also eager to learn whatever she can from me.

So, what is my toddler’s education? To sum it all up at this point, it’s books, crayons, songs, dances, stories, lots of talk, numbers, counting, hugs and kisses, a stern voice here and there and lots and lots of love!

My two year old daughter can now dance, sing and play. It is fulfilling to see such develoment in my child, in any child for that matter. From a helpless little babe, my little tot is now an individual who asserts her independence in any way possible. True, when I ask her to wiggle or dance or pose, she complies willingly, but then it’s not always easy to ask her to put on her slippers when she walks around the house or to get her to eat her food on time.

Parenting is indeed a challenge and a blessing. A mother’s role in the life of her child cannot be overestimated, for when she wills it, a mother can give more than what is needed. The father, too, plays an integral role. Children always benefit with the right amounts of love and discipline, and as parents, it becomes our crucial role to give this to them. This is beautiful parenting, and it is our responsibility as well as our gift to the next generation.

I am now running my fourth year in my battle against cancer. Compared to how I felt in 2005 and 2006 while I was still undergoing my chemotherapy and radiotherapy treatments, I’m feeling much better, more energized, more alive. I can at least play with and run after my little girl, although I always tire out first; and do a little bit of grocery shopping by myself even if I have to wear a face mask whenever I go out of the house.

But see, the thing with surviving the Big C is that the feeling of “being better” and “being able to do things normally” doesn’t always last. It’s a fickle thing, really. And like cancer, the idea of recurrence becomes a stark reality- the proverbial sword of Damocles turned tangible, palpable, touchable.

I am blessed, I suppose. The tumor that sits on my heart has shown no signs of metastasizing. But it has shown no signs of getting smaller either. Despite my apparently healthy exterior, I can’t go back to teaching or get a regular job because I palpitate at the smallest hint of stress or even at the tiniest bit of bad air and dust that gets into my system. But at least, it’s (my tumor, that is) is on a status quo, and as long as it stays that way, I’m content.

Now, prayer is my armor, and the undying belief that I will get better everyday, my anchor. I have everything to live for, after all- a daughter who still needs me and a husband who loves me wonderfully.

It’s mind over matter, I suppose. As long as my mind tells the rest of my system to be well, then it will. Ever since I got the Big C, I’ve always held on to the idea that the mind is a very powerful tool for healing. It just has to stay on top of things, otherwise, if it succumbs to the disease, then there is little hope of getting better. Sure, it takes a lot of discipline and determination, but putting the mind over matter is well worth it in the end.

All of us moms know what it’s like to spend the night watching over our little angels especially at times when they’re not feeling well. It’s a time of worry and anxiety, leaving us bereft of sleep, and draining us of our energies. Yet surprisingly, at that moment when we are keeping watch for that slightest change in temperature, or tenderly massaging their frail bodies to soothe the aches and pains, we are alert and active in the midst of our sleeplessness.

On the physiological level, perhaps it’s the adrenalin that keeps us focused and on our toes. But I’d also like to believe that a maternal instinct borne out of a mother’s love plays a very significant role in such trying times. So great a power this love has that it keeps an otherwise tired pair of eyes open and spurns an otherwise worn-out body to action. Aside from chidlbirth, this too, is one of a mother’s many strengths.

Of course, this is not to say that fathers are a useless lot– because they’re not. We moms always appreciate it when dads help out. We are human after all, and though the gamut of superhuman strength afforded by motherhood is quite extensive,the women in us also derive our power from our dear husbands, too. Such is the beauty of love that’s shared. Such is the miracle of family.

It’s a challenge to make our kids eat healthy nowadays. With the proliferation of easy-to-get junk food in schools, malls and virtually everywhere, parents like us are hard-pressed to enjoin our adolescents to choose healthy snacks.

Thankfully, YoNaturals is the first company in the US to distribute YoZone vending machines that offer only natural, hence, nutritious products. Organic versions of low fat granola bars, 100% juice and smoothie beverages and yogurt, are just some of the few healthy snacks available in their menu. It is their way of giving kids, especially those in the the elementary and high school, and their parents the chance of choosing healthier snacking alternatives. Healthy vending is indeed a great help in the fight against childhood obesity.

Visit YoNaturals Vending to learn more about their products and healthy vending.

What happens now? This is the question I always ask myself now that my dad has already been laid to rest. People around me say that life doesn’t stop with death, that there are a still a lot of things that those of us left in this mortal world have to occupy ourselves with, that there are still people who need us. Relatives and friends remind me that I still have a daughter who is only two years old who is dependent on me for everything. And I know that.

Despite this, however, there are moments when I simply can’t move or do what needs to be done. Grief can be very crippling and though I try so hard to let go, part of me seems to want to hold on to the memory of a father who lived so bravely and loved ever so deeply. This might sound too emotional but I know that nothing will ever be the same, that a part of me has died too.

Writing seems the only release for me now. But this I can’t even do without shedding a tear, and I feel so tired and drained at this constant sorrow that hangs over me everyday. How does one cope with such loss? What happens now? Will I ever heal? These are just some of the questions that I ask myself during these trying times. I only pray that God and Mama Mary will give me the strength to go on living. I need that very much.

Every parent waits for the time when their little one utters that first word. The day they say Mama or  Dada is a cause for celebration, and to the more sentimental of us (me included), the date, time and place gets recorded in the our sacred baby books. We make a big deal of every mimicked word, every comprehensible utterance, every understandable expression. And when our children don’t start mumbling those precious words by the time the guide books say they should, we start to fret and redouble our efforts to read, talk and teach them every word we feel they ought to know. Truly, a child’s journey into the word of speech is both an exhilarating and gripping experience for any parent.

Since my daughter was born premature under the most unsuitable of conditions (she did have to contend with radiotherapy, chemotherapy and large doses of antibiotics in the first trimester of pregnancy), I am perhaps, more anxious than most mothers regarding her growth and development. When her first set of teeth didn’t come out until she was nearly two years old, I panicked and began seriously wondering if modern science had already invented dentures for toddlers. Only when her precious whites miraculously popped up one after the other just a couple of months before her second birthday did I start to relax. Naturally, when she didn’t start to mumble intelligibly (for her age, that is) when she was about one year, I panicked and began giving her lessons which went something like this:
“Baby, look at Mommy.” (This would necessitate cupping her face to make her look at me.) I would then point to a picture in her book and say: “This is a cake. Say ‘cake’.” To which my pupil would simply reply with a defiant nod of her pretty little head and a surprisingly strong push away from me, and to whatever it is that got her attention. I got so exasperated that I would carry her back to bed, determined to sit her down until she said “cake.” My husband, perhaps alarmed at my seemingly irrational behavior, had to tell me quit it. Of course, she wouldn’t say cake or cat or apple or whatever it is that I was teaching her because she wasn’t ready.

I realized that learning can’t take place if the child isn’t prepared—mentally, physically, emotionally. Comparing the progress of one child to another does not do good to the child and to the parents. It merely pressures the child, takes the fun out of learning, limits their exploration of their environment, and gives us parents undue stress when we should be enjoying every little facet of every tiny bit of information our children absorb as they grow.   

But now, oh how she speaks! Just a year later, she can say not only cake or cat or apple, but cow and duck and fish and bird. She can command me to “dwo pish” (draw fish, that is), her dad to “dance,” and us both to tell her an impromptu (those extemporaneous speaking contests we participated in college were useful, after all) bedtime story—in which she decides who the characters are—whether it is Mr. Cow or Mrs. Duck or Mr. Fish. She tells us if she doesn’t like a movie being played, whether she wants to see the MariMar or Michael V’s dance videos, and when she wants to wash her hands or take a “showel” (shower, that is). And when it rains, she expects us to let the poor chickens inside the house when she says, “’icken showel luoy” which basically means, “poor chicken-she’s wet”. To make caring for her more convenient, she can tell us when she wants to potty and if anything hurts.

It is wonderful, this gift of toddler gab, truly what every parent awaits in the progress of their young. And it never ceases to amaze me as I listen to my little girl how someone so little could speak so much.

My daughter is already ten months old. She babbles in simple monosyllables, smiles a lot, crawls with lightning speed and maneuvers her walker confidently. But as a mother, I find that nothing compares to my baby’s ability to recognize faces. When she wakes up in the morning, for example, she always looks for me or her daddy before she breaks into that wonderful smile that always puts the “good” in “Good Morning!” Nothing makes me happier than to see her hold up her arms, eyes beseeching her grandma, her daddy or me: “Please carry me.” Or the way she squeals with delight whenever I tickle and kiss her tummy. The power of an infant to mesmerize and hold one captive is something short of amazing, isn’t it? Because this power is pure and uncorrupted, it has the effect of drawing people easily to them. Think about it: Have you ever looked at a baby before and found yourself repulsed? I don’t think so. Even those born with congenital diseases do not evoke in us a feeling of revulsion. Rather, we are so much more drawn to their plight. Out of pity? Perhaps. Or is it because in a world so tainted with all things vile, we fear the loss of that one beautiful, innocent life? I would like to believe that this is so.

A child born into the world brings with him or her limitless potential. Your little bundle of joy could bring happiness in the hearts of many with her gift of laughter. Your neighbor’s month old boy could serve the cause of justice with his gift of wisdom. My darling child could find the cure for cancer, AIDS or any other debilitating disease with her gift of healing. Our little ones hold these aspirations with them. What little they can show for physical strength and energy, they make up for boundless potential, holding our minds and hearts in rapt attention as we wait and see what they would ultimately become.

With such wonderful prospects wrapped in the evocative innocence of babyhood, how could we go wrong? But we did go wide of the mark. Humanity knows of power, but one that boasts of dominance and submission. Civilization knows of stirring talent, but one that is used for malice and destruction. The world knows of life-saving devices and medicines, but also realizes that the maladies we face now are fast making these obsolete. Countries aspire for peace, but are willing to go to war over borders. Politicians rant of public service, but are ready to milk dry the public they serve. We speak of religion, but sorely lack the basic human notion of respect for those who are also sons and daughters of God. We know of love, but are eager preys to the call of pride, prejudice and hate.

How could that once innocent infant turn out to be one power-hungry maniac? How could that tiny tot turn out to be a merciless killer? How could that gurgling baby you once knew turn to dealing and peddling in the underbellies of sin?

Can someone or something be blamed for tainting such innocence? Oh, biologists will say it is one’s genetic predisposition that eventually molds an individual’s personality. Psychologists will point out that the environment is the main culprit. Adults blame their bosses or spouses, whoever they find more despicable. And teenagers blame their parents. Maybe everyone and everything else is the cause. Maybe no one and nothing.

As an afterthought, I hope my baby ultimately finds the purpose for which she was born and I dream even more, with much anticipation and optimism that she goes on to fulfill it. Yet more than this, I pray fervently that while she sets about accomplishing whatever it is that God set her to perfect, she does not lose that innocence that makes her such a power to be reckoned with.