why mothers need girlfriends

Amy and I recently spent our lunch break shoe-hunting together, and in between admiring five-inch-heels, we exchanged notes on our lives.

I have two kids, two dogs, and a cat.  I have a job that lets me afford a tiny house, private schools for my children, car repairs, and cat food.  I love shoes, books, and cats, though not necessarily in that order.  I spend my weekends inside the house, battling clutter, making failed attempts at cooking, drawing cockroaches for my four-year-old.

Amy is a single mother.  Her son does not live with her.  She chose to be alone.  What I find refreshing about her, in the light of my own crowded family life, is the thought of running the show on her own.  I think it would be restful to sometimes not think too much about the man of the house, the obligations of the wife, the children's upbringing, the faces we show the public that say we are what society deems successful women should be.  I envy Amy for the guiltless weekend she could spend in the beach with her friends.  I bet Amy could put a dining table in her bedroom for crafts and little projects, something I wanted but couldn't do in the shared territory of our own master's bedroom.  Amy could buy shoes without equating them with cans of preschool milk powder.   


But I don't know Amy's journey, and the choices she made to be what she is now.  What I know is that we are both grown women, in different circumstances, working to raise children and have interesting lives at the same time.  And I know that sometimes it gets tiring.

When mothers get fed up, or just plain tired, they do strange things.  Some moms go out and get a horrible perm that makes them look like seaweed.  Some take weekend trips with just their friends.  Some raid bookstores.  Some go on shoe-hunting expeditions.  Each of us has her own way of feeling good about herself.  And we deserve it, because you never know how hard we try to be a good wife and mother, not to mention dishwasher, bathroom cleaner, nurse, errand girl, playground defender, and a host of other things we are forced to do, like hunt around inside the garbage bin for Barbie's missing f**king shoe.    

You see, mothers are forever holding their breaths for small crises, real or imagined, that may threaten their own little world.  We’re forever waiting for scraped knees to soothe, algebra equations to solve, missing socks to find, quarrels to pacify, gossip to spread, promotions that never come, magical sex, so that we can put on our costume and try to be Wonder Woman.

Most of the time, we succeed.  But we are human.  So when we get mad, or when we walk out, or when we break plates, that’s us, exhaling.  When we sing like crazy, when we get drunk, when we try something that you say isn’t age-appropriate like pole-dancing or blue mascara, that’s also us, exhaling.  And the best way to do it is with our own friends, other women with whom we can lay our souls bare and just be whatever we are at that particular time.  Not Wonder Woman; just a woman.

So this is for all my girlfriends out there: for Irene and Milette, for Sharon, Joy, and Trixie, for another Joy, for Carol, for Almira.  When they share in my joys, I am doubly happy.  When they cry with me, the load gets lighter.  Yes, we do discuss the impact of Victoria's Secret lingerie on our sex life, but we also discuss the merits of home-schooling, positive reinforcement, and helicopter parenting.  We giggle a lot, we pig out, we get outrageous.  And we come out of it fortified, reassured of our own worth, ready to be Wonder Woman for our family again.

Sometimes you laugh, sometimes you cry
Life never tells us, the whens or why
When you’ve got friends to wish you well
You’ll find your point when you will exhale

Exhale, by Whitney Houston   

channeling the inner geisha

Arthur Golden's Memoirs of a Geisha is once again on my bedside, for night reading.  There's a part where the young Chiyo watches the beautiful geisha Hatsumomo dress for the day.  Hatsumomo was one of the most extraordinary geisha in Gion.

Chiyo says:

Because, you see, when a geisha wakes up in the morning she is just like any other woman. Her face may be greasy from sleep, and her breath unpleasant. It may be true that she wears a startling hairstyle even as she struggles to open her eyes; but in every other respect she’s a woman like any other, and not a geisha at all. Only when she sits before her mirror to apply her makeup with care does she become a geisha. And I don’t mean that this is when she begins to look like one. This is when she begins to think like one too.

  And I was thinking, Ooh, how wonderful it must be to wake up an ordinary woman, and prepare yourself for the day like a geisha.  You have approximately two hours to be sad, grumpy, problematic, ugly, thoroughly human.  But by the time you step out of the house, you are a geisha: beautiful, powerful, and in control of her world.

So, to test this theory, I set the alarm early and got up half an hour later.  I was already grumpy.  I dawdled over coffee and worried about the things that mothers usually worry about: bills, kids, running out of potatoes, and oh, let's not forget the mushroom that grew out of the kitchen wall as a result of the two-week monsoon rains.  Problematic, check.

It has slipped my mind that it's a holiday for the rest of the country, while I have work.  Which means I have to commute.  And in the jeep ride from Bacoor to Baclaran, my hair went crazy.  Ugly?  You bet.  I am not used to commuting.  I got to the MRT station and promptly queued at the wrong window; it was for senior citizens.  Shit.  By this time my inner geisha is rolling on the floor, laughing.

The train ride to the office took 15 minutes, and I congratulated myself with another cup of coffee.  Since it was still early, I peeked in Facebook for updates.  Secretary Robredo, who disappeared in a plane crash off the sea in Masbate last Saturday, has been found.  He was still in the plane, 180 feet down.  Now I'm grieving for a good politician now dead.  Then I started attacking the 55 emails in my inbox.  There is a panel interview at eleven, and a meeting at three.  I have to call Nissan to find out if the van, brought in for repairs a week ago, is ready for release.  I have to set a reminder on my phone to check if my daughter's Scouting uniform is ready.  I have to buy breakfast cereal and milk on my lunch break.  I have to dampen my curls with a little water to see if they will behave.  I am already worrying about the jeep ride home at the end of the day.  Good thing I'm wearing three-inch heels, not five.  Human.  Thoroughly human.  The geisha is choking on laughter and I'd like to wring her neck.

Then the geisha sits up, smoothens her hair, and raises her perfect eyebrows.  Listen, she says, you've got it wrong.  Even with hair like a bird's nest, you are lovely.  Of course it matters if you look good, but it's more important to feel good about who you are.  And all those things that make you human?  To quote One Direction: that's what makes you beautiful.  At the end of the day, everything on your to-do list will be done, delegated to the husband, put off for another day, settled.  A woman is powerful that way.

Relax.  Take a deep breath.  You are in control of your own little world.  Put on some bright red lipstick and face your day with a smile and your claws out.

Wait.  When did the geisha become a cat?!

the seaman's wife

This is for a guy named Alex.  A long, long time ago, he idly wondered if I could have been a seaman's wife.  I was flattered, and I laughed, and we went our separate ways.

Now that I'm older (and perhaps none the wiser), the question crossed my mind, in the manner that strange questions cross women's minds from time to time: What if I had become an equestrienne?  What if I had become a (heaven forbid) stripteaser?  What if I had married a seaman?

I think I would have been happy.  I wouldn't mind being alone so much, as I'm happier on my own.  My house would be big and pretty, with souvenirs from my husband' travels.  I would have the requisite 40-inch LED tv and a fierce speaker system in the living room.  I think I'll also insist on Waterford crystal in my dining table.

I would have all the Apple gadgets-- iPod and iPad and iPhone.  My children would have PSPs and collector's edition Barbie dolls.

I would be living in the province near my in-laws, so that my various brothers- and sisters-in-law could comment on my spending and report them to my husband.  I would be wearing gold jewelry when I go to the market.  The Avon, Natasha and Boardwalk ladies would love me.  Once a month, I'll go to the nearest SM mall to see the latest trends that my children could wear.

I would be working, but if I wanted P5,000-peso shoes I would ask my husband to send me money.  I would go to beauty parlors every week for a pedicure if I wanted, and take my children to Jollibee for breakfast Saturdays and Sundays because I can afford it.  And of course I'd have maids so I wouldn't have to do the laundry.

Once a year, I would meet my husband at the airport with a van-full of relatives.  We would troop to Duty-Free and buy a mountain of chocolates, cigarettes, perfume and Jack Daniels, for the relatives.  There would be visitors in the house for at least a week, and we'd do videoke and beer parties until they have all gotten tired of welcoming my husband back.

My children would be spoiled, and my husband and I would argue about discipline issues every time he comes home.  He would not know my children growing up, but he would shower them with gifts and toys that would be the envy of the neighborhood kids.

I wouldn't try so hard to bring in money, because my husband would get a fat salary.  I wouldn't dream big dreams for my children because they'd grow up comfortable.  I wouldn't plan on becoming a lawyer, because I could afford one.  I wouldn't want to travel to other places, because my husband will do the traveling for me and I will live through his stories of port calls and stormy seas and beer in different countries.

I'd be with my husband about two months a year, every year, until he either becomes captain or he retires.  Before he leaves I'd probably be at my wits' end, half hoping he'd leave so I could go back to my normal life, half hoping he didn't have to go so I could have a proper married life and have sex every night if I wanted.

I have nothing against seamen and seamen's wives.  I am surrounded by them all my life, and some of them are the finest men and women I've ever known.  This is just about me.  Maybe now, I'm exactly where I'm meant to be.  I have a job, I have kids, I have a husband who hopefully loves me back the same way I love him.  I have a Siamese cat, I have books, I have nice shoes.  I have just enough to be comfortable but not enough to keep me from wanting more. 


So Alex, if we ever meet again, there's your answer.  I would have been a happy wife, but you would hate me. :-)

the help

Wikipedia says Kathryn Stockett's book, The Help, is her first novel, took her 5 years to finish, and was rejected by 60 literary agents before someone took a chance. It has sold 5 million copies and has stayed in the New York Times Bestseller List for more than 100 weeks.

The story is set in the 1960s, but it has made me ask the same question: how does the household help feel? If my own nanny got a chance to write her story, would I be ashamed of what I would read about me?

I saw myself in Elizabeth Leefolt, who loved her children but was so distracted by things like her social standing, her friends' opinions, her activities in the League, and her sewing, that she does not know how to love her children. It's not so different from your usual working mom these days, only they're so exhausted they don't have the energy to patiently love their children. Try drawing eighteen pigs for a 4-year-old at 11pm.

I have my own Aibileen. She's the great Ate Malou, who deserves a dozen blogs for her exploits. She came to us when my older daughter was two years old; my daughter is now eleven, and I have another daughter, The Impossible 4-Year-Old.

Ate Malou is so efficient, I have let her take over the household. She's the one who says my Christmas decor is tacky, and instructs me to buy two dozen additional gold balls for the Christmas tree. She buys my daughters new underwear because she says I'd remember to do it only when they're too small to wear or they're so frayed they're falling down the girls' knees. On that note, she also gets to remind me when my husband needs new boxers, because she does the laundry and knows all these things. She's a great cook, and we don't need an occasion to have rellenong bangus for breakfast.

She's the one my daughters run to when they suffer some hurt, whether real or imagined. When my father died, we left the children with her so we could attend to the funeral arrangements. She called us just before the procession got to the cemetery. My younger daughter, then seven months old, had started vomiting. We were six hours away. She had brought the baby to the hospital, bought oral rehydration salts, brought the baby home and gave her medicines, BEFORE she panicked and called us.

I don't remember ever asking her how she feels, and I don't remember ever telling her how much I appreciate her. I'm lucky to have her; hell, she's the one who bought a brand-new sala set with her money when we moved to a new house, because my mother-in-law was visiting and the house was so bare we looked poor. We were poor, but damned if she'd let anyone say so. She scolds me when I let the 4-year-old run around in the garage with her hair down, barefoot, saying the child looks like a pulubi. I suspect she doesn't want the child's appearance reflect on her. With her, the little girl always goes out in a dress, with slippers in a matching color, and perfectly tied hair ribbons, even if it's just to the neighborhood sari-sari store to buy a chicken cube.


These days having household help is not a privilege but a necessity, if you're a working parent.  We've had all those sad stories of nannies hurting kids, maids who steal, and maids who burn down the kitchen trying to boil water.  But there are those rare women who could cook up a feast and love your kids as much as you do.  You pay them, but you never tell them they are loved too.  Maybe sometimes you should.  Because sometimes, the little people in your life are the ones who make the biggest impact.

slam book

Remember when you were in grade school, and just before graduation, your girlfriends would ask you to fill up their slam book?  You’d write in three pages full of things they knew about you anyway, and at the end you’d leave a message professing undying friendship, complete with little smiling hearts, stars and XOXOs.

I saw one among my daughter’s things recently, and aside from the realization that I was really growing old, it tickled me that aside from loving Justin Bieber and the iPad as “the favorite thing in the whole wide world,” the things these almost-teenagers wrote weren’t very different from what we wrote back then.  Favorite motto: Time is gold.

And I thought, what if I answered those blanks now that I’m thirty-something instead of thirteen?

Here goes.

Favorite color: Anything except pink.

Favorite food: Italian.  I also love coffee.

Favorite pet: Shoes with 5-inch heels

Favorite movie: I watched Avengers, and I liked it.  But then I also liked Forrest Gump.  And that’s about it.  I don’t watch TV either.

Favorite song: Somebody by Depeche Mode.  But now I listen to my daughter’s music, and I make sure I read the lyrics before I download them for her.  In the last week it’s Jessica Sanchez, and I have LSS for “Dance With My Father.”

Favorite book: I love all of them.  My lunch-break book is 50 Shades of Grey.  My book in the bathroom is Stephen King’s Lisey’s Story.  My bedtime book is Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ Love in the Time of Cholera.

Hobby: Shoe-hunting, reading books, writing stories, doing little DIY projects that never end.

What you want to be when you grow up: I haven’t figured it out yet.

Love is: Staying up all night with a sick child – or a healthy adult.  I read that somewhere.

Your best friend: Myself.  If you think about it, it’s true.

Favorite motto: Life is short.  When you’ve gone through all of that, finishing school, raising a family, fighting for a career, getting your heart broken, losing a friend, dancing in the rain, blogging during office hours, you can sit back and realize that there is still so much more to do.  But you are mortal.  So do it all; life is short.

south of broad

South of Broad by Pat Conroy

You've got to love Leo King. He's this ugly boy who started life haunted by his older brother's suicide and becomes an unlikely hero in the lives of his high school friends, even as they become adults.

There's Sheba Poe, the celebrated actress, who was told by Leo's mother in high school that she would be the greatest whore who ever lived, and proved it.

There's Ike, black and proud, who became fast friends with Leo at a time when a black man would be lynched by looking the wrong way at a white man.

There's Molly, who could have been happier, but had to marry into Charleston high class because it was the life she had been born to lead.

The novel is set in Charleston, South Carolina. My friend Irene and I have agreed that we would visit South Carolina one day, solely because of our love for Pat Conroy. We've come to know The Citadel because of The Lords of Discipline. You roam the streets of Charleston and Beaufort in Beach Music. When you read one of his novels, the next one becomes a familiar place. You could close your eyes and imagine the moon rising on the river, you could almost feel how it is to ride a boat and go shrimping, and you could grit your teeth and wish you could stab men like Worth Rutledge in South of Broad, who was born with a silver spoon up his ass, same as his son.

My hands-down Pat Conroy favorite is still The Prince of Tides, but South of Broad resonates with strong characters, Charleston aristocracy, religious ardor, murder, and surprisingly, love in all its convolutions. Not bad for a six-hour session with a Kindle. :-)

for cheska

I am amused. I cannot resist sharing an opinion.

I have almost forgotten how it is to be fresh out of high school, and contemplating college. I was one of those students who went to universities on their own and took the entrance exams without truly understanding that it's their adult lives at stake.

I grew up with a Tyrannosaurus rex for a grandmother (read: tyrant), and she decided that I should either be a doctor or a lawyer, because those professions would bring enormous prestige to her family. Partly because she thought it up, and partly because I was a Tyrannosaurus-rex-in-training, I refused to be one.

My mother was a wise woman. She researched data from the Department of Labor and Employment, listened to a few wiser women like Cheska's grandmother, and came up with a list of courses that I have never seen in my girlfriends' slumbook. She included in her list the careers that each course would lead to.

My grandmother and both my parents were teachers. None of them told me to be one. It must be maddening to keep up with all those lesson plans.

Now I grew up in a household full of things to read and no TV. My grandmother banned comics. I had Life Magazines and Readers Digests in grade school. I read Gabriel Garcia Marquez' One Hundred Years of Solitude when I was thirteen, and I became a nerd and decided that my one great ambition in life is to become a Nobel Prize winner in Literature.

I also did art. I used charcoal, oil pastels, and crayons. I loved pointilism. When I was a kid I had a nice, wide, polished custom-made wood case for my art supplies and paper, and it was meant as a lap desk for drawing. It had carvings on the sides, and it was heavy! I once joined a provincial painting contest, and I swear I was the only contestant with a grandmother in tow, for carrying the Godforsaken art case. My grandmother paid for painting lessons, but I was forbidden to draw on my school notebooks. How's that for T-rex mode?

Those were my two passions: the written word and colors. I took entrance exams for AB English and Fine Arts, passed them, and my grandmother threw a tantrum. Writers and artists go hungry, she said. I was persuaded to take Psychology, which could, in my grandmother's mind, later evolve into Law or Medicine.

Now I'm grown up, I'm in Human Resources, I have published a couple of stories, and I sometimes design clothes. I still do pointilism. I'll probably go to law school in a couple of years, so I figure I would end up where my grandmother wanted me to be.

But I ask myself this: had I insisted on becoming a writer, or a painter, where would I be now? Would I have become hungry, or would I have made sure I was successful, since I was good at it, and my heart was in it?

When I was working in the university, we had to figure out the retention data. I had to ask students why they were dropping out or why they wanted to shift courses. Half of the time, it was because their parents decided the courses they had to take, and they discover they hate it. Then you'd have students who work part-time at McDonald's, because their parents are deep in debt and they really wanted to become engineers.

Sometimes you have to grow a little older to understand that you can only give your best to the things you take to heart. You can't be a good cook if you don't love food. You can't claim to be the best mother you could be if you didn't love your kids. When I write, I love the way the letters become words and words become stories, and then I know I'll have a good tale.

It's the same for college courses. When it's time for you to decide, see what's in your heart. What is it that you'd love to do when you finally get out of school? That's what would sustain you through four years of studying. Unless your mother has provided you with a huge trust fund, you can't start a course and change your mind every now and then. I have an uncle who was in college for about 14 years, changing his mind... I guess his parents decimated banana plantations to see him graduate.

One last thing. Children shouldn't live their parents' dreams. It would not be right for me to insist that my daughter should become a doctor just because I had always wanted to be one, but I happened to be scared of syringes.

We, as parents, only want the best for our kids, and of course we will pay the tuition, but sometimes we forget to listen. Sometimes we forget that once upon a time we were fresh high school graduates, unsure of the future, hating it when we couldn't make up our minds, and probably asking the Lord what course He wanted us to take.

anansi boys

Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman

While living in London, Fat Charlie learns that his father had died. He travels back to Florida for the funeral, and he learns that his father is a god, he has a brother who has inherited all the god-like magic, and he could call on this brother by telling a spider. Right. Impossible.

Except that Fat Charlie, while a little bit drunk, does tell a spider that he wishes to see his brother. And he arrives, a witty, charming man who called himself Spider.

Spider proceeds to wreck Fat Charlie's life. He installed himself in a spare room in Fat Charlie's house, a room that was just a closet, but when you opened the door you'd see that he has a waterfall right outside his window, a jacuzzi, and a fierce sound system. He got Fat Charlie into some trouble at work, and the police were involved. Worst of all, he made Fat Charlie's fiancee believe that he was Fat Charlie, and succeeded in sleeping with her.

Of course Fat Charlie was angry. He went back to Florida and got help in getting rid of Spider, which means he had to deal with the gods himself. He had to mess with a little magic himself.

Tangled in it all was Fat Charlie's former employer, who was a crook and a murderer. He fled to St. Andrews, an island famous for having no extradition treaties and lots of ways to hide money. That is where they would all resolve the problems. And let's not forget the little love stories. You'll have Rosie, Fat Charlie's fiancee, and Daisy, the policewoman, and it's nice to see who ended up with whom.

Anansi is one of the most important characters of West African and Caribbean folklore. He is witty, and funny, and a trickster. He is a spider. All the stories belonged to him. There was mention of him in another Neil Gaiman novel, American Gods. And this story about his sons is slightly whimsical, slightly scary (there's a part where hundreds of birds come out of a woman's mouth), and totally enchanting.

moving up!

My daughter Chloe is three years old. She attends the toddler class in a little school near our place. Back in June last year, we opted for the monthly tuition option because we were not sure if she would last. After a tear-drenched couple of months, she started liking it, stuck to it for the remainder of the year, and last week was her moving-up ceremony. We were proud.

The outfit for the event was ready by January, courtesy of a beautiful godmother. We prayed it would still fit her by March. The practice for the song and dance numbers took a couple of weeks, and although the nanny announced that the kid was cooperating, we were not reassured. Chloe has a history of throwing tantrums in supermarket parking lots just because she was not able to watch Tekken being played in Tom's World.

I bought the correct tights and leotards on my lunch break. I hunted high and low for the correct hair ribbons, which, according to the nanny, should be black-and-white, preferably polka dots, to match her dress. They were expensive, but they were correct.

The event was on Sunday afternoon. In the morning Chloe decided she did not like her white shoes; would not, in fact, be convinced she should wear them. So two hours before the event, the whole family headed out to a nearby department store, where we found new shoes that she wanted to wear.

We got her dressed in the pretty dress. It was also decided that she would not wear the black-and-white hair ribbons after all, and would have her hair up in a bun, with a little hat accessory pinned to it.

We got to the venue in time, where she clung to me. I was wearing five-inch-heels. She weighed twenty kilos. We got through the processional, and she would not sit with the other toddlers by herself. I ended up sitting with the toddlers, the largest person in the front row, with her on my lap.

And there our adventure began.

She went up to receive her certificate of completion, but only in her stockings. She had kicked off her brand-new shoes. She did not want to receive her medal for being picture-smart. I missed the definition for 'picture-smart' because I was chasing her all over the stage. We came down with the medal draped on my arm.

The song number came. She did not want to sing, so she was carried to the stage by the teacher. She then proceeded to wail, while the other toddlers waited for the music to start. When the song started, though, she started to do the actions... while standing in the teacher's embrace. We clapped long and hard when that was over.

After a while, the Chicken Dance came. The mothers rushed about, changing the kids into their tights and leotards and red skirts. Chloe had to be held down by her father, while we struggled to fit her into the costume. We tied red ribbons on her arms, and she went up to the stage. She was in front.

We held our breath.

Chloe ripped off the ribbons, and when the music started, she started to pick her nose. As all the toddlers started gyrating and flapping their arms, she just stood there, picking her nose. She picked her nose until the music ended.

The audience was hysterical. There were about twelve kids on the stage and about sixty assorted relatives cheering, most of them with cameras. My husband was red in the face. By the following day the pictures were all over Facebook.

But we clapped, and cheered, and were proud. That was her moment. If she decided to celebrate it by mining for boogers, so be it.

The school administrator ended the two-hour ceremony by congratulating the parents, and thanking the teachers, and praising the children for a year well done.

We had planned to celebrate by going to Jollibee, but we headed home. We were exhausted.

We got inside the front door, and Chloe started strutting the Chicken Dance.

american gods

American Gods by Neil Gaiman

It's a fascinating book. You get stories within stories. And Shadow is such an interesting character – a not-quite-crook fresh out of jail, getting out to find his beloved wife dead, getting involved with mysterious beings. Then his dead wife starts going around rescuing him from trouble, and she wants to be alive again.

Somewhere in the middle of the story, Shadow’s employer, the powerful Mr. Wednesday, takes him to this very obscure small town, Lakeside, where he was supposed to keep his head down and stay out of trouble. And Lakeside is a very pretty town, with a library and a general store, a raffle based on the time an old wreck of a car will sink when the lake thaws, and a police chief who does not issue tickets but scares the daylights out of speeding drivers. It’s a town that protects its own, welcomes a stranger and helps him get settled, and continues being its pretty self as it has done for a hundred years. You’d love to stay in Lakeside, whether your ancestors were there when the town was built, or you just arrived last weekend.

I think some of us have our own Lakeside. It’s the place where you dream of returning to when you’re done being the high-profile career woman. It’s the place you wish you could have raised your children, so that they could experience playing in the rain the way you did when you were a child. It’s the place where the stores don’t have signboards, but all the old women know where you could get the best pancit, the most intricate carving for your sideboard, the man who could do silkscreen printing. It's the place where children walk to school, and you're not afraid of child molesters. It’s the place where the marketplace comes alive only every Wednesday.

Lakeside would be the little town you left fifteen, twenty years ago because life was so slow there, and nothing really happened except the dances on Halloween and New Year’s Eve, and the town mayor came from a long line of men with the same surnames. You left it because the city held so much promise, and so much light and glitter, and when you came home for a visit you were treated like a minor celebrity because you dressed so fine, you spoke with a different accent, and you ‘had it made out there.’ In the small town everyone went around on foot, chatting, and you could walk all the streets of the whole town in about two hours. In the city you took your car to pick up some bread.

If you visited your Lakeside, you’d believe as you did when you were a child. You were careful about the unseen beings, the dwarfs and the tikbalang and the kapre that were so real when dusk came. You’d see some of the folks offering some rice and boiled egg in the morning. The sick children would be brought to the local doctor, but the local healer would be consulted too, to know which being got offended when the father cut down the mango tree. And when you left Lakeside, you’d leave the beings behind. The city has no place for them.

What if they came with you? What if they wanted to carve an existence in the city?

strong women

Kaye is upset today. She has been in an argument with her husband, and he has accused her of having had an affair with another man.

What's worse is that the affair was supposed to have happened two years ago. That particular argument has been going on for quite some time, and Kaye never knows when her husband would bring it up.

What hurts is that Kaye had never been unfaithful and had no idea that her husband was doubting her. Her supposed lover is still in their circle of friends, in the same place where her husband works.

Now, after two years of defending herself, Kaye is getting angry. (Side comment: She must be some kind of a saint.) She is thinking of walking out on him. And she made the unfortunate decision of asking me what I think.

You can only insult a person for so long. Anyone who gets hurt often enough gets mad enough to either walk out or lash back. Even a dog knows that. No matter how much it loves you, if you kick it around for years, it's going to bite you one day.

No, wait. I have a better example: the cat. It can get mad if you step on its tail every day, but do it one day too many and it will come biting and scratching. A dog can say sorry with the way it rolls its eyes, but a cat never, ever shows remorse on its face when it decides to fight back. Ooh, I can feel my claws coming out now.

Being angry with your husband doesn't mean you have to break some plates or run to his mother to tell her what a bastard he's been. You can scheme. (Side comment: You knew I was mean.) It gives you time to calm down and consider all sides of the story. If you sit back awhile, you can ask yourself if he's worth it. But more importantly, you can ask yourself if YOU are worth it.

You have the option to stay and keep trying (for another twenty years?), but not at the cost of your self-respect. I stand by what I say: you alone are responsible for your own happiness. If you allow your husband to damage your self-esteem every day, who would you blame for your misery? If he has succeeded in making you feel worthless, it's because you chose to believe it. And if he calls you a whore? You don't have to prove anything if you think your honor is immaculate.

Remember running away? I think Kaye has gotten to the point of paying all the bills and her kid's tuition for the year. And every time you come close to doing it, it gets easier and easier to actually do it.

When strong women walk away, I'd like to believe that it's not because they admitted weakness or defeat. It's because they liked having that option, and they had all the bases covered before they walked out the door.

I wish I could tell all men never to make the mistake of marrying-- and offending-- a strong woman. But then, most men underestimate what a woman is capable of doing until their asses get whipped.

One last word, Kaye. Walking away will not stop the hurting. If you walk away, you'll find the most difficult thing is saying goodbye to your child. My running away list does not include goodbyes, but your heart will definitely break, even while you're sneaking underwear out of your own house, one piece at a time.

My heart goes out to you, Kaye, but if you do decide to go, I also applaud.

(Thanks to Win for the picture. My MBA9 pals would understand.)