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.