Darn Kids

Kids. I love 'em!

Four kids, especially: Miguel, Martin, Gabby, and the latest addition - Papung. My favorite kids in the whole world.

Miguel is the eldest. He's turning eight this September. He's an achiever - always number 1 in class, and strives to be, every year (his personal goal when asked by his teachers: to be number 1 again this year. Ain't it wonderful? Oh, I can go on and on about this...). He's a wee bit silent, though - the not-talking-unless-talked-to type. He goes on about his own business (yeah, he's been reading the Harry Potter series alone, i.e., he doesn't need being read to). Up until now I still can't believe how responsible this Kuya is - always watching out for his sister and brother (and cousin, and pets, and sometimes, us elders). I don't know why, but whenever I'm around, he always makes it a point to give me a tip or two about the latest PS game he currently plays. Everything is just a learning experience for this boy.

Martin is a happy child. Every day with him is like being high on something. He's hyperactive - he greets you with a shout, attempts to hug you but then gives you a head-on (he still thinks he's a dinosaur), laughs a belly laugh (always). He hates girls, but he loves me (yeah, he told me so). He makes up stories, but in the end, admits that he just made them up. And we laugh and laugh, because he's just so funny. And, a plus to this funny man (yeah I call him that and he loves it so much it sends shivers down his spine) - he doesn't have front teeth. It's like the perfect thing! He's six.

Gabby is a combination of Miguel and Martin - except that she's a sweet little girl. She's intelligent, yet she can be a smart aleck at times. Gabby is four. She smiles like she's being photographed - she loves the idea. I suspect she dreams about it every time she smiles at someone. Gab has an unbelievable sense of style. She knows how to dress herself up - with the right colors, and accessories! She hates dolls - loves rough play instead. She's a marathon talker too, and she'll talk about anything and everything under the sun - until she lulls herself to sleep.

Papung - looks very much like Miguel. He loves cars, and already drives one (a really small one, of course - for his size). When he was younger he loved me, but he's at that stage where he picks whom he wants to be friends with. Nevertheless, I kiss and hug and talk to him endlessly (can't help it), until he cries in desperation for his dear yaya. He just turned one.

Aaaaahhh. That was great, thinking and writing about these kids. Therapeutic.

Which reminds me, I need to interact with them asap. The crunch on my forehead is getting ugly from all the grownup stress.

Darn kids! I love 'em.

On failure

"Don't fear failure so much that you refuse to try new things. The saddest summary of life contains three descriptions: could have, might have, and should have."

I don't know why, but of all the inspirational shit about failure, this struck me the most (whoever wrote this passage, congratulations and thanks!).

Ah, I remember now. It was that Saturday night (early Sunday morning actually) that I was packing my stuff for the 9th floor move. I was putting all my books, files, letters (lots of it - letters I received since the start of college), stationery, my old journals - in one small suitcase. As soon as I saw my college journal, I dropped everything - and started skimming through the brown pages.

And yes, I saw a few could have's...might have's...should have's.

And I swore...yes I swore - hurling expletives to my poor journal.

But then, I can't help to have could have's, must have's and should have's. After all, these are how I learned to do things.

=)

Moving

This is the fifth time I'm moving since I left home for college.

The first time, I had to - I was going away, 256 kms from home - for college. My mom put (yes, "put" is the appropriate word - don't ask) me in a boardinghouse run by this retired guidance counselor who charged an incredibly huge amount for what she claimed was the best boardinghouse on the block. We had a cook who prepared the strangest meals (chicken in creme de la salle was the *best*- which was chicken in green snot), a laundrywoman who kept on borrowing money from everyone (and would later run away with all the money), the landlady's son and his snotty live-in gf, the landlady's bitch of a daughter. We had a 9pm curfew - which I managed to get away from ("sleepovers", hanging out in Wendy's or BM). However which way Mom tried to make me comfortable in that hell of a boardinghouse, it was a far, far, far cry from home.

Ah, and how can I forget my roomie? She was a nice, silent girl - two years my senior, who hated my best friend for I don't know what reason. She just wouldn't speak to her.

I moved to Yakal Residence Hall during my second year in college. The thing I was most excited about was - the curfew. I could not believe that I could stay out until 2am!!! Woohooo! ;p It was there that I learned to eat instant noodles morning, noon, and night...sleep at 3 am and wake up at 6 to line up for a bath...cram...lounge around...take quick naps between classes...ah, the perfect college life!

My roomie was a sociable person who didn't mind "borrowing" stuff from me. She hung out with this girl who didn't mind AND didn't care if she was eating my food or drinking my water or getting my clothes or using my PC without permission - you know, the extra roomie from hell.

After grad, I moved to a place of my own (finally!). Renting, of course. It was a blast!!! Sleepovers (where five persons can fit in my small room), parties (where the landlady gets up from her bed at 3am to tell us to just please shut up - with a threat to evict one of us), experimental dinners (good thing I ate my own disasters - well, Neil sometimes did too), Sundays at the laundromat (reading a good book while waiting for my laundry)...ah, the life! But my six months of bliss ended - somehow abruptly - with another move.

My cousin asked me to share a condo unit with her. Fine with me, it was going to be convenient anyway. So we lived in this 46 sq m unit with no windows - well there were two windows, but they were blocked. So it was always dark...and damp...and we had no idea if it was morning or night. Two years of living in the dark.

Which is why we're moving to another unit tomorrow. One with windows (at last!), and a separate kitchen (yey our clothes don't have to smell of Spam).

Next year I'm moving again. Our contract with the new place expires June next year...the same time my life with Neil starts.

The same time I will be home, at last...I hope. =)

Beauty Above All

It's one of those days again, when you feel that the world is just not right...like something's askew, or something seems to be missing - a piece of puzzle perhaps? I can't figure it out.

I woke up this morning with that feeling. I stayed in bed longer than usual, thinking about things. Finally I got up, and decided I wouldn't let anything ruin my day. I remembered the mantra of one of my university professors. At the end of each class, she would stand up, fix the extraordinarily large but beautiful pewter that hung around her neck, adjust the bracelets that jingled on her thin arms, flip her hair, and say: "Beauty Above All" - pausing after every word for more drama.

So I got out of bed, took a deep breath, and repeated to myself three times: "Beauty Above All".

I then sat down for breakfast. I particularly chose to sit in the big black leather chair that I use when in front of the PC table. Not on the chairs that accompanied the breakfast table, but on the big, comfortable chair. I don't know, it's just that every time I sit on that chair I transform into my pensive mode.

I didn't realize I'd been sitting there for almost an hour, until my cell beeped. A friend I was supposed to wake up was already awake. Hmm, I thought. Something out of the ordinary! The world is indeed askew. Hehehe.

I regretted standing from the breakfast table. It was a rare, "myself" moment.

As I drag myself through the day, I just have one thing in mind: beauty above all. If I can't figure out the world, I will recite this wonderful mantra...and get a face lift from the secret stupid smile that will be pasted on my fez.

Wasted

Aaarrrrggggghhhhh. Can't wait for Friday. Not that am doing something that's worth looking forward to on Friday (or the weekend). The week just didn't start right for me. I wish I can just stare off space and not think about anything...with a glazed look and a cigarette stub between my fingers, lying on the floor wishing I were dead.

But wait - that's not me.

Sometimes I think about it - what's it like to be in his shoes. Has it really been thirty wasted years?

I see him only at most twice or thrice a year. The longest times I have spent with him are during Christmas parties...where I see him dart in and out of his room, hardly nodding, hardly making eye contact with anyone...stopping once in a while to frighten the kids.

My cousin the druggie.

Perhaps he's tired of seeing everyone shake their heads in disappointment at the sight of him. Perhaps he had some hope left, but had given it up simply because he was not given the chance. And he turned to something he found more satisfying...fulfilling perhaps.

I wonder what happens next, now that he's been found.

His eyes terrify me. There's so much sadness in them, even beneath the glazed look.

I yearn to reach out to him, understand him.