damn the dengue

We visited my in-laws over the weekend, and when it was time for the updates on the relatives, we were informed that one distant cousin's child had died of dengue.

The boy had recurrent fever and was confined at the local doctor's clinic, but the relatives took him out of the clinic to bring him to an albularyo. By the time he was properly diagnosed, it was too late.

I don't know the child or his parents, but for a moment, I felt anger. It's not a very rural place, almost everyone has cable TV and therefore would have a passing knowledge of what dengue fever is, and how dangerous it could be.  They have access to medical professionals at the town proper, one jeepney ride away.  The family is not destitute either.

But how could you not know that there is something very wrong with a child whose fever keeps coming back, and who is so pale his limbs look bloodless?  How could you not understand it is serious when he passes blood in his stool? How could you think that he might still be afflicted by some engkanto or maligno?

They say the mother blames herself.  I am sorry.  I have no wish to find fault or add to the anguish. I guess it's the mother in me that reacts strongly to the story of how he died.  I would move heaven and earth to keep my children with me.  And my mother's heart breaks a little for the loss, for all that the child could have been, for the missed chance to have him well and laughing again.

And call me paranoid, but by the time we have rested, my husband and I scoured the neighborhood stores to look for insect repellent lotion. I lathered the kids, then we spent the night in his sister's house, which had screens on the door and windows.

That damned mosquito might still be flying around.

the misadventures of chloe, part 2

Day 2

Chloe watched Barney on DVD while getting dressed, so she would not remember that she did not want to go to school.

She came home without her pencils.

Day 4

Chloe came home with a very wet diary.  I asked her what happened, and she said, "It's rainin'."  It was not.  On my husband's suggestion I hung the diary behind the refrigerator to dry.  It did, so now she has a rather rumpled but very crispy diary.

Day 5

Chloe has not been eating her packed lunch.  Her class adviser and I had a written exchange, where she explained that the class has a supervised lunch break, but Chloe does not want to eat lunch, only the snacks.

Day 6

Chloe came home with a box of crayons-- not hers.

Day 7

Chloe came home with a box of crayons-- hers-- but with only half the crayons in the box.  The pencils are missing again.

Day 8

Chloe came home without her diary.  The reminders were pasted in her Science notebook.  She needed to bring 4 long folders with fasteners, which I have to buy from National Bookstore on my way home.

Day 9

The diary reappeared, wet again.  Back it went behind the refrigerator.  Now the pages are looking decidedly tattered.

Day 11

Chloe came home with another child's lunch box and a spoon.  Her own spoon and fork are missing.

I had to go to the department store to buy a new water bottle so we could hopefully avoid wet diaries and books.  Now she needed to bring 9 color-coded folders for her folio.  It's fortunate that I have to pass through Megamall on my way home, where the bookstore is just a short detour away.  It's unfortunate that the neighboring shoe stores have their end-of-season sale.  It's stressful, I tell you.  I also got the new water bottle, with a couple of microwaveable bowls thrown in.

Day 12

I am waiting for 4:00 pm so I could call home and find out what she has lost this time, whether the new water bottle is fine, and if I have to go to National Bookstore again.  I tell myself that she'll get used to the big school, that she will stop declaring she doesn't want to get dressed because her school is closed, that she'll enjoy it soon, that we'll settle into a routine of peaceful mornings getting ready for school.

But in the meantime, darn, it's tiring!

the misadventures of chloe, part 1

Alright, I mislabeled it.  It just doesn't sound humorous if I called it 'The Travails of a Mother Raising A Mightily Tiresome But Dearly Beloved Six-year-Old.'

Chloe entered first grade this school year.  It's a big school.  From her pre-school class of only 8 kids, they're now 33.  I shudder to think of the noise level they can generate.  And because I thought it was fashionable to display some separation anxiety, I took a leave from work on her first day of class.  Heck, I even took her picture at 6:00 am and posted it on Facebook.

I went with the school bus and delivered her to her classroom, counting the things she brought and counting the little kids who were already crying in the room.  I didn't see if she joined in the tearful getting-to-know-each-other session because the teacher made us parents leave.  I joined the other parents milling in the grade school lobby-- there must be about 3 dozen of us-- and took comfort in the fact that they all looked as worried as I was.

That was when I realized that I had labeled all of Chloe's things: her pencils, bags, water bottle, notebooks, but I forgot to label her.  She would not lose her school things but she could lose herself.  I freaked out.  Chloe is trained not to speak to strangers, and so I was sure she would not say her name even if somebody asked, but little kids often display a tendency to trust grown-ups if they seemed kind or acted authoritatively.  I thought it was so easy for someone to get inside the grade school building, pretend to be a parent, and get a small child from the classroom.  Sure, there was a guard at the entrance to prevent unaccompanied kids from getting out, but would he stop an adult with a kid in tow?

I had to call my husband.  He suggested I calm down and go home, and just wait for the school bus to bring the kid after school.  I did.  I attacked the laundry, ironed clothes, rearranged my study, all the while wondering if Chloe ate her lunch, if she cried, if she'd made friends, if she'd agree to go to school the following day.  And yes, I wondered what I'd do if the school bus didn't come.  Then I waited for 4:00 pm, calling the school bus monitor twice to make sure they got my daughter from class (well, she had no ID yet, remember?).

Chloe arrived, disheveled and hair undone.  Her face was blotched from crying.  Her lunch bag looked like the victim of a bear attack.  Privately I wondered if it was too soon for her to go to a big school, but for now, she was home.

"Chloe," I asked, "did you cry in school?"
"Yes," she said.
"Did you sleep?"
"Yes."
"Are you going to school again tomorrow?"
"NONONO."

There is no tuition refund.  I'll just remember the name tag.

on sale!

Seen this?

Today is payday and tomorrow is Labor Day, a holiday.  I'm sure working moms all over Ortigas are contemplating their lists: school shoes and school bags, socks and underwear, school supplies, and while you're at it, check the trendy little boutiques and the home section.  And if you get exhausted, well, come back the following day.

I like checking out sales.  Nothing beats getting a pretty black blouse for P99 at Karimadon (well, except when you bought the white version for P750 a couple of months ago.)  Or finding picture frames usually sold at P100 apiece, now at P35, perfect for mounting my Japanese greeting cards.  Or bargain-hunting at Uniwide Coastal mall and finding a Chester the Cat mug-- selling at $38 in Amazon-- for an unbelievable P25.  

But when Megamall goes on sale, I avoid going there, even if it means taking a breathless detour to an overpass outside the mall to get to the other side of the same mall.  True, I would have saved up to 70% on their great selections, but the amount I would spend on a dozen little things that I do not need but could not resist buying would exceed the original price of the things I had actually planned to buy.  Such is the temptation, and we mortals often succumb to it.

There are people who would go there just because there's a sale, and they are 'looking for something to buy,' maybe some advance Christmas gifts.  Most working mothers can't do that.  They live on a budget and they'd probably go on a guilt trip if they buy a spur-of-the-moment pair of heels at 50% off, if they thought their kid needed new school shoes in June.

I'm not trying to sound righteous about my buying habits.  Who wouldn't love to go shopping?  Lucky you if you'd need a van to bring home your purchases on Friday night.  It's just that I've had a conversation with myself, and it went like this:

There would be very nice Celine dresses on sale.

Ok.  Do you need a new dress?

No, but I'd like one.

How many dresses do you have?

Shut up.  I'll go home.

ate jenny and my grandmother

Sometimes there are people who, through no fault of theirs and no desire of ours, become an influence in our lives.  They become part of the reason why you're fucked up, or why you're a star in your own right.  And they don't know it.

I had Ate Jenny.  She was a first cousin on my mother's side.  She was already sort of grown-up when I was a teenager.  She lived in Manila, I lived in the mountains.  Back in those years when you only saw your relatives when there was a wedding or a funeral, I didn't know if she was a knockout or a nerd, but boy, they said she was smart.

My tyrannical grandmother brought me up.  She had high esteem for smartness.  She had respect for noble professions in medicine, law, accountancy, architecture, all those fields of study that could give you additional abbreviations before or after your given name.  Needless to say, she had the opinion that writers, designers, and poets die of hunger. She was a teacher (and so are both of my parents), so she thought teaching was nobler than all those professions combined, but she didn't want me to become one.  Lesson plans gave you prematurely white hair.

All my teenage years I heard about Ate Jenny.  She studied in Far Eastern University back then, and her grades were always wonderful.  She could write really well, even her sisters said so, and they would recall with misty-eyed fondness how her writing could touch their hearts.  My grandmother was usually quick to find fault in my mother's family, but she had a grudging admiration for Ate Jenny and how she was raised.

My grandmother said I was also smart.  Suspiciously, I was sent to Far Eastern University to study high school, and I was encouraged to write.  So I wrote letters to my grandmother every week, in English.  I wrote poetry.  I wrote short stories.  I wrote in my diaries.  I hid what I wrote.

Ate Jenny was in medical school then.  I would accompany her when she did her reviews.  I was impressed by the fact that you reviewed for the medical board exam by going to Parks and Wildlife, sitting on the grass, reading those thick books.  And then she passed the board.  Ninth place, I think.  Back home, my grandmother waxed ecstatic, as though she paid for the review sessions.  And when I went to college, she declared that I would take Psychology, which could lead-- in a roundabout way-- to Medicine.  Then she declared that I would take advance summer classes to hasten the college process, after which I was supposed to become a doctor.  Of course.  Like Ate Jenny.  I didn't know if I hated her, but she has unofficially become THE idol whose accomplishments I could unquestionably surpass, with a grandmother like mine.

Life interfered.  I didn't become a doctor.  I grew up, got married, had kids.  I still write.  Once upon a time Reader's Digest Asia published a story I wrote about my grandmother, and I know she would have been proud.  But every now and then I would start thinking, would my grandmother have been prouder if I had become like Ate Jenny?

Maybe.  But this is who I am now.  Ate Jenny is in the US, a heck of a doctor, and she praises what I write when she finds the time to read my blog.  I met her husband a couple of weeks ago, and he said that their daughter writes well too.  He said he told Jenelle to write me.  How about that?  It gives me a warm feeling.

If my grandmother was still alive now, and if she would mention that one could still study to become a doctor at 37 years old (and that she would pay for medical school)--- AND if Ate Jenny would second that, maybe I would.

the perfect job

What is the definition of a perfect job?

They say it's when you do what you love for a living, and it no longer seems like work, but all fun.

Nice answer when you're being interviewed for a job, when you're twenty-two, fresh from college, and the goals in life include getting a studio-type condominium unit and summer vacations in Boracay to improve your lovelife.

But when you're in your mid-thirties, with children in school, a mortgage on the house and a car loan, a perfect job is the one that gives you payday-to-payday assurance that the bills will be paid, that the cat has cat food and the dog has dog food, the twelve-year-old goes to her field trip and gets new eyeglasses, and that there's always toothpaste in the bathroom.  You don't say that the perfect job is the one that allows you to fight poverty in the Asian region.

I used to say that I loved working in the university because it gave me a chance to make a difference.  Every day, I helped solve little problems, and what I did made an impact on the well-being of the student and the people around me.  The sense of accomplishment is immediate, and I felt good about what I was doing.  I see Jabez on Facebook these days and remember that eight, ten years ago he was doing Approj in a blue uniform, and now he's a college instructor, and I'm still proud of him.

It's a different thing when you're in the corporate world.  My official position title now is Senior Treasury Assistant.  Most days I am simply a highly-paid secretary.  It's not exactly what I wrote in the slam books when I was younger, in the blank for 'What's your ambition?' I dreamt of writing for a living.

Don't get me wrong, I am proud of what I am doing.  My job is the reason why we have the house, the car, the children in private schools, the tablet, the five-inch-heels.  There are times when it feels like logging 87 documents in a single day is a thankless task, but you learn to look at it as increasing your typing speed to 80 wpm, and not as the beginning of carpal tunnel syndrome.

It's not exactly 'writing for a living.'  A couple of months ago, the only significant writing I got done was panel minutes.  These days, it's minutes of meetings. But when you can't do what you like, it's time to start liking what you do.  There is something good in every little thing, no matter how insignificant it may seem at the moment.  There is something to learn in the mindless little tasks, no matter how small you may seem in the scheme of things.

I don't see myself sitting in front of a 17-inch HP monitor for the next 23 years.  I have not decided what I want to be when I grow up.  But you see, when you're older (and hopefully wiser), you learn that whatever you do for a living, it becomes a perfect job when you give it your best, every day.

And well, if I want to write, I can always blog.  :-)

letter for camille

Camille, if you’re reading this, then something bad has happened, and I need help.  Please come as fast as you can. 

Please see if they’ll tell you where Garnet is.  I think they took her away.  She’s your goddaughter after all, and she’s only one year old, but if you get the chance, tell her I love her.

I don’t know how it could have gone so wrong.  Remember when we were in high school?  We thought we were gilded in gold.  We were bright and beautiful, and everything was ours for the taking. 

We were also young and very stupid.  Peter was going to university; I was going to be an actress.  Then I got pregnant.  I thought his mother would kill me, but I guess she thought I’d give her beautiful grandchildren, so I was forgiven.  They also had fat bank accounts, so it didn’t really matter.

You came to the wedding, but you never got to visit us in the new house.  I loved it.  You opened the door to space that reached up to the ceiling, and you looked up and there was this lovely crystal chandelier.  Swarovski, I’m told.  His grandmother’s gift.  The floor was marble.  On the left side the staircase curved up, sort of framing the space around the chandelier.  It ended at the hallway that led to the bedrooms.  When you opened your bedroom door in the morning, the first sight to greet you was the chandelier, with the sunlight from the tall windows striking the crystals.  The banisters at the top were waist-high, and it was easily twenty feet to the ground.  I liked imagining my daughter coming down the stairs when she’s eighteen, in a velvet evening gown.  I must have sent you the pictures that Peter took of me on the stairs.  Did I?  He said I sparkled so, the chandelier paled in comparison.  He said things like that, and they took my breath away.

And then Garnet came.  She was the love of Peter’s life.  It seems strange to resent my daughter for the smile that she put in Peter’s face, but I felt like I’d been replaced.

I was also no longer beautiful.  I was prom queen and had been in the cover of teen magazines, but now I sagged and bulged in all the wrong places.  I cried easily, and I got angry easily.

Did you know Peter got a bit successful with his camera?  He called himself a professional photographer, and he got projects that took him away from home for days at a time.  I guess that’s where the trouble started.  I found pictures of a woman hidden in Peter’s backpack.  Peter’s photography made me look like a sugar princess, but the woman in the pictures looked like a goddess.  I don’t believe they were commissioned photographs.  I wondered what honeyed words he used to get that smoking look in her eyes.  She was hot, and I hated her.

Of course he denied it.  He denied everything, until I caught them together.  Then we fought a lot, every night, it seemed, and he accused me of using post-partum depression to justify being a bitch.  He called me ugly.  Then he started hitting me when we fought.

But you see, I loved him.  I loved him then and I love him now.  I tried so hard to make it all better, said sorry, and could we start over?  I went to a shrink, got a makeover, started on a diet, but it didn’t get any better.  He came home to smile at Garnet, then he went out again.

Last week, he came home very late.  I waited up for him because I thought he might want some dinner, and I was in the baby’s room when he arrived.  He looked in, saw the baby was awake, and picked her up for a quick kiss.  Then he looked at me and said, I’m leaving you.  I’m taking Garnet.

I was stunned.  I was also very angry, and I didn’t understand what had gone wrong.  I thought we were good together.  I asked if it was the woman. 

I think maybe I started yelling, or throwing things around, because he backed out of the baby’s room in a hurry.  Garnet had started to cry, so I picked her up and followed him.

He was going down the stairs.  I was in the hallway, holding on to the banisters, looking at the fucking chandelier, when I realized he meant it, he would really leave me, and I called out, Peter, I love you. 

He yelled back, Fuck it, I don’t love you!

I held the baby up.  I thought I meant to shield myself from the words so they won’t hit me and break me, but the words must have hit anyway because something in me snapped.  After that I don’t remember.

I next remember looking down when I heard the sound.  It was a wet and horrible sound.  Peter was bending over something on the floor, he was screaming, and I started to go down to ask him if he had hurt himself when he got up and ran to me and slapped me and his eyes were wild and his hands were red.

That sound.  Like dropping a watermelon.  I wake up in the middle of the night hearing it.  I am talking to people and I suddenly hear it in my head and it hurts.

Peter said I held the baby up by one arm over the banister and the baby was giggling.  Peter said I was smiling, but how could that be, when my heart was broken?  He said he screamed at me to put Garnet down and I… he… I don’t remember.

Peter said he didn’t love me and that sounded so final.  He didn’t love me.

Please come, Camille.

brand (un)conscious

Last week, Harper's Bazaar posted an article on 'How to Pronounce Moschino, Miu Miu and More Designer Names.'  And admit it or not, I bet a lot of us spent a few minutes whispering air-vay lay-jah to ourselves, congratulating ourselves on the one piece of information that we will not mispronounce when we visit the newly-opened SM Megamall Fashion Hall with our more knowledgeable fashionable friends.

I grew up being happily ignorant of brands and what they meant.  I was already working in my third job, married and with children before I met people who wore labels with such gleeful abandon.  And although I was not easily impressed, I didn't mind learning either.

I had friends who taught me to wear Aldo and Nine West, Pedro and Charles and Keith.  I bought a lot of clothes from Celine before it got extra publicity from the TV series Ina, Kapatid, Anak and then I bought some more :-)  I like Forever 21 with its overwhelming selection of clothes.  I bought gifts at Marks & Spencer and Beauty Bar.  I bought Guess and Levi's from Amazon.com and contemplated Kate Spade.

That's a meager and unimpressive list, and some of my friends would raise eyebrows at how little I know.  I've seen Ferragamo and Jimmy Choo on the feet of officemates, and didn't know it.  I cannot distinguish Murano or Charriol jewelry, although  I have a couple of pieces.  I didn't know enough to get ecstatic over the opening of the H&M Store.  Aside from the fact that it comes from the same country that produced IKEA furniture, I didn't see what was so special about it.  I walk past it every night on my way to the transport terminal, and I am not tempted to look.

I can easily wear ukay-ukay finds as well as Zara, and nobody can tell the difference.  I've never met a person who would praise what I was wearing, then demand to know the price tag.  Designer labels to me are just proper nouns with capital-letter status that are, for the most part, beyond my means.  I have no dark desire deep inside to decapitate people who wear them.  But I also acknowledge that recognizing the labels, and sometimes owning an item or two, horribly expensive they might be, adds a certain distinction-- if not value-- to a person.

How many people would recognize a Montblanc pen, or know that a Limited Edition Agatha Christie Fountain Pen sells for $4,500?  Not many, perhaps, but in a meeting where you're merely the minute-taker, someone is bound to do a double-take when you start taking notes.  Right, Claire?

When I'm wearing something expensive, something special, I feel good about myself.  I like it when I meet old friends who look at my feet and smile with easy familiarity, because they recognize the shoes from where we bought them together.  We live in a society that places value on material things-- on brands-- and there are occasions when ignorance places you at a disadvantage, such as a gathering where someone asks you if you've ever heard of Christian Louboutin.  I'm sure it would give you savage pleasure to be able to say, oh yes, I'm wearing them.

More importantly, people may not always know that what you're carrying is an imitation Louis Vuitton, but you will always know.  I once bought one, and I carried it once to a party, to see if someone would take note.  Nobody did, and like the bag, I felt like a fake.  The thing is, I could have bought a real one.  I could have saved for it.  But it didn't make sense to own a 2,000-dollar handbag.  That's the amount of tuition for my two kids for one school year.  To me, there's a big difference between being able to afford one and deserving to own one.

A friend once told me that I should not sanitize my writing, but I have to remember that what I write may one day haunt me.  One day, when I become an Hermes-toting, globe-trotting socialite, I'll remember this blog and how I mouthed the syllables of the labels properly.  And I'll laugh, and I'll put it down to naivete, or inexperience.  Or honesty.  That's always forgivable than having too many social pretensions.

one hundred bags

A couple of weeks ago I went to my regular salon to get my hair fixed.  I was transferring to a new department and I figured I needed a new look.  Besides, it was the New Year.

My regular stylist wasn't around, so they asked me if it was okay if another stylist did my hair.  It was, and so Erika was called over.  She (he) was very thin, tall and tottering in her high heels, talked nonstop, and looked like she had a quarrel with her eye shadow palette.  She decided I needed to look glamorous, and she said she'd make me look like this antagonist Amor in this long-defunct TV show that I didn't even recall.  The trick with these stylists was to agree and make encouraging noises while they talk, lest they get carried away and I'd end up looking like a chicken that had a close encounter with a hawk.

And so, as she dyed and chopped my hair, I listened to her New Year's resolutions.  She said this year she'd start a collection, and she wanted 100 bags.  Not expensive ones, mind, because what can one afford on a hairstylist's salary these days?  And she doesn't mean buying all of them; she asks for bags as gifts, or takes hand-me-downs from friends.  

I was flabbergasted.  What would one do with a hundred bags?  We often hear about celebrities and their expensive bags in glass-fronted cabinets, but these people make a living out of showing off.  An ordinary working girl would carry a bag for about 240 days in a year, a few days more if she went out on weekends.  If you had 100 bags, you'd use each bag 2.4 times in a year.  I would consider it a great waste.  

I asked Erika what she'd do with her hundred bags at the end of the year.  She said she'd do a garage sale, then she'd think about her collection for the next year.

It brought to mind an officemate of mine, Sheila, who said she only had three bags: an office bag, a casual bag, and a dress-up bag for more formal occasions.  I was equally amazed at that.  Sheila said she'd use a bag till it falls apart, which may take years, considering that she bought Longchamp bags.  I admire the no-nonsense reasoning in that.  Three bags.  

For me, a bag was a receptacle for an umbrella, a small makeup kit that also contained Dolfenal tablets and mechanical pencils, a wallet, a hankie and my keys.  My bag should be spacious, sturdy, and doesn't easily get dirty.  I liked them to match my outfits, or better, my shoes.  I have about a dozen bags, but I regularly use only three or four, since I dress in neutral colors.  If I could have only three bags, like Sheila, I guess I'd get myself Hermes bags, so I'd feel like Jinkee Pacquiao, but then maybe I'd wrap them in plastic bags if it rained on my way to work.  Such bags are not meant for commuting working mothers.  Now if I were Erika, and I had some closet space, I'd get some Kate Spade, and some from Charles & Keith, and some from SM Department Store, only I'd probably sigh over them every day, because it would be such a shame to own so many things and not use them well, and I would be saving up for each piece that I add to my collection.  Remember me equating Promil pre-school milk for a pair of shoes a couple of years back?

Two hours' worth of chitchat later, I left the parlor with copper-red hair, and I was quite sure Erika did not succeed in making me look remotely like Amor-whoever-she-was.  I also had a few arguments with myself over the issue of bags.  

It's always nice to get a new bag, only I cannot justify buying one on a whim since I still have quite a few serviceable ones.  Now, for the sake of argument, let's say I could get rid of a couple of Nine Wests in their dust bags, the ones I very rarely use.  That would bring me closer to Shiela's bag count and I'd probably feel very efficient.  Now, arguing further, I could give the bags to Erika, bringing her closer to her dream of a hundred bags.  I admire her for the sheer fun-ness of that goal, and I would maybe see her at the end of the year to ask if she succeeded.  

But I am not Erika nor Sheila.  Getting rid of a few bags would leave quite some space in my closet.  So taking the argument further, one could say that a new bag would fit there quite nicely.  Well... the pretty bag in the picture is Anne Klein's It Takes Two handbag, $89.  

I could give it some thought, until my next haircut.