The Mini- Reveal

I only have a few minutes in front of the PC as our household is shorthanded these past few days. Two nannies are in the hospital right now; one is sick and the other serves as bantay (literal translation: watcher or guard). Since I am unable to leave Alphonse for long stretches of time, I call them regularly to check on their needs and visit daily to bring food and clothing.  With our household decimated and short of manpower, we’ve had to do a lot of double-casting and role reassignments. Alphonse senses something is amiss in our home, and as such, feels very unsettled and insecure, sometimes even acting out. So even as I worry about the nannies in the hospital, I have to be on my toes with Alphonse all the time.

With the flurry of events overwhelming the entire household, we all seem to have very little time to destress. I am taking my little window of Me time right now with a little cake (itty-bitty, Mommy, I promise!) and coffee. As you can see above, my sweet husband also gave me Kitty cake from BreadTalk. It was bee-yoo-ti-ful! We tried to hold off eating it till the last possible moment, but the kids insisted that cake is always their territory. I saved the ribbon for today and while I am waiting for the spaghetti sauce to simmer, I savor these few moments of relaxation.

I did finally get the boxes opened and boy, were they everything I wanted and more! Unfortunately, I haven’t had enough time to sort them out and take lots of pictures. Late last night, when everyone was asleep, I got some photos sorted out, resized, and labeled. I hope you all bear with me as I do a mini-reveal first. I’ll try to update as often as I can get pictures loaded.

My Sanrio friends are here!  These three furry Build-A-Bear creatures jumped right out of the box upon opening. I can’t believe they endured all that time in that stuffy brown box. They were squished and a little manhandled so they were not too friendly at first, but a little kiss for the booboos made them a lot more friendly.  Everyone, I introduce you to KerokeroP-Noy, Jejocat, and Mai (as in Mai Melody, haha, this play on My Melody’s name courtesy of Alex- thank you, baby).

 A didn’t get me Hello Kitty anymore because the new Kitty was virtually the same as the last one, but he did get me new clothing for her.  Aside from the leopard print PJs (rawr!), Kitty got the ruffle tee, the tropical tank top, an extra 35th anniversary shirt, and another 35th anniversary dress. You can also see the bag clips that he bought extra (BAB did not give the freebie clips and it was too late to complain about it, the box having traveled all the way to Manila by then).

I only have one more picture in this lot and these gifts did not come wrapped. These were just there the next day, the way they seem to magically appear before me, haha. It seems I only have to think a thought and voila! There they were!  

Seriously though, I love that my husband outdoes himself each time. Not only that, he gives them with such flair that I never really know what to expect. Some girls get petals on the bed and candles on the tub; I get magic boxes strewn around me. Best of all, I love that he loves me still, today, 19 years after, with warts and all (figurative warts, mind you), cellulite and thunder thighs included (literal fat, honestly), bossiness and mushiness not exempted.

Honey, if you are reading this, I want you to know that as seriously mushy, maudlin, mawkish, and schmaltzy as this sounds,  ikaw pa rin ang pangarap ko. Thank you for wanting to grow old with me.

The Night Before

Nineteen years ago, on the very night before my husband and I got married, I remember talking to him for a few minutes on the phone. Before we said goodbye, I asked him if he was sure, really, really sure, that this next step was what he wanted to take at that point in his life.  He said, ”I have never been more sure of anything in my life than this. I want a life with you.” I wept for joy. The next day, with my hand in his, we took a step forward into building a life with each other.

Fast forward to tonight, towards the end of our dinner date, I asked him this question: “What do you think are the two best things in our life from these past 19 years?”

Without batting an eyelash, he said, “Alex and Alphonse.”"

“I would not have thought to answer it that way, hon, ” I told him, thinking of my own answers and how different they were from his.

“You and I are a constant. That would have been the easy answer, hon.”

I looked at him from across the table and I was overwhelmed by my feelings for this man before me. My eyes welled in tears. Nineteen years into this marriage, we have only scratched the surface of forever. Thank you, A. I truly, deeply, madly love you.

For A

I haven’t been sleeping well these last three months. It’s a long story, something for another day. I am in physical pain most days and I know I can’t be an easy person to be with on days when the pain is toughest. But I’d like to thank A for his patience and encouragement, his thoughtfulness and constant concern. Throughout these long, trying days, you give me a glimmer of better days. I am forever grateful.

 

I woke up this morning with this on my mind and I wanted to write it down before I forget:

Your hand on my bosom
Your breath on my shoulders
We sleep together
Like fingers entwined
Serene, comfortable
Our bodies meld
Into one

A,
I’ve loved you since the first day I met you, 27 years ago.
I didn’t even know it then. Yes, it may have started out as a different kind of love, but I also know that because of you, it was always made of stronger stuff.  And as we grew, it grew with us, shaping our lives and who and what we are.

I woke up today with the quiet knowledge that I have never loved anyone before you,
that you are my life, before and today,
that my best dream is still growing old with you,
your hand on my bosom, as we sleep, together.

The One Who Got Away

I wrote this a few weeks before Valentine’s Day, with the intention of posting it as soon as it was finished. Somehow, the days slipped through my fingers and I forgot.

This is for you, A -  the one who stayed – for all the Valentines you and I have been together. Even through our sometimes difficult life, I have never hand a single moment of regret with you.

We often wax poetic over “the one who got away.” Memories are tricky that way. Like light that passes through a prism and breaks into a rainbow of colors, memories often pass through a sieve that breaks our remembrances and filters the past of its unpleasantness. And through these tinted lenses, we remember things a little differently, a little wistfully, perhaps, with a tinge of nostalgia and a bit of longing. 

We remember the good times we lost. We romanticize the hours of pining and sweet aching. We idealize the nights of wondering about an imagined future. “The one who got away” becomes our life’s ultimate unanswered “what-if?” We think about where he (or she) could be now, what he (or she) is doing at this exact moment. Is he  thinking of you too? Do you even cross his mind? We wonder if the life we lead now is where we were meant to be. We second-guess our decisions. We live in the past.

Yet, in that rose-colored haze, we often forget that “the one who got away” is usually the one who broke your heart. The one who dumped you once, even twice. The one who cheated. The one who couldn’t commit. The one who lied.

He wasn’t perfect, that much is obvious. And so what if the timing was a little bit off?  For true hearts in love, time and space are ephemeral. You would have hocked the universe just to make your relationship work; why couldn’t he have done the same?  Timing, or the lack of it, not being emotionally prepared, not being committed —  these are all cop-outs, excuses people make up to rationalize their wanton disregard of another human being’s feelings. If he was not ready to commit, why bother to go through the whole thing? The truth is, and take it from an old hand in love, it does matter who you’re with, whether he (or she) is a jerk, a coward, or just a complete fraud. Timing’s the least of your worries. 

I can’t totally promise this, but one day, “the person who will not go away” will come. This is the person who will not lie to you. Who will not make you cry. Who will not break your heart.

You and he may not be both ready but it will not matter one bit. When love comes, and I mean true love, nothing else will matter. Not your fears. Not your doubts. Not the inconsequential little things that people seem to worry so much about.

I know too that when that day comes the “what-ifs” will no longer be important. You will realize that reality is so much cooler than imagined expectations. Chuck those clouded eyeglasses for a reality check and just heave a welcome sigh of relief. Thank God, that one got away, for indeed, you are lucky.

You got away too. ♥

(How I Found) The Ultimate Love Connection

September 20, 2008

This is for A, love of my life, who has given me 17 great years of The Ultimate Love Connection. Thank you for loving me even when I am mental, for bearing with me even when I am exasperating, and for sharing with me the best 27 years of my life. We made this happen, you and I.

Happy Anniversary, love.

 

Sometimes, I wish that I had fallen in love with A much earlier. I think of our five years of friendship before we became a couple, and I regret that we were too blind to see each other as anything else other than friends. A likes to tell me, however, that it is the sum of our experiences that makes us who we are, and  we were led to each other only at the particular moment when we were ready.  Perhaps, changing the past will change the future, and if that is so, I can live with the follies of my youth.

Surviving Mr. Wrong*

Over a gallon of ice cream, my friend and I once pondered about ever meeting the perfect man. We were both embroiled in serious relationships then, two young women in our early twenties, prime examples of independent, strong-willed, tenacious creatures of the nineties. We wanted to be sure that we had what a swank yuppies’ magazine dubbed as “the ultimate love connection.”

It was late December, and we were on night duty at the intensive care ward of a government hospital. We were still too low in the totem pole of hospital hierarchy to warrant our own lounge, and so we made do in a cramped little corner of the nurses’ station, wearily scooping spoonful after spoonful of ice cream.

“What do you think, P?” she suddenly blurted in between mouthfuls of cookies and cream.

“You and he-who-must-not-be-named?” I swallowed the last bit of Oreo cookie stuck between my front teeth. “What of him?”

“You think we’ll last? I mean, we’ve gone through the answers at the back of this magazine and it says we’re doing just well. Not perfect, but it says we’re okay.” She looked at me doubtfully.
 
“Not perfect, huh? Then again, who has one? A perfect love connection, I mean?”

“Well, looks like you got it all right …” she replied unhappily.

“Uhm … I’m fessing up … I looked at the answers right after I bought that magazine.”

“You did not! Did you? Hey, be serious, okay?”

“Okay, I think you and he-who-must-not be-named are perfect for each other. How long have you been together, five years? Don’t sweat it, girl. You’ll stay together for a long time. You’ve finally met Mr. Right.” And with that, I scraped the last spoon clean.

I was wrong. Dead wrong. Sometime in the “long time” that I predicted, they broke up.

I think of this episode in my life and wonder how I ever thought of myself as an expert in “love connections.” Throughout my adult life, I have spent a considerable amount of time listening to stories of broken hearts, as I have also spent an equal amount of time dishing out well-worn advice for the lovelorn. All these, coming from a woman tutored in the art of romantic love by a guru whose claim to fame is having had the most number of boyfriends by age 25 (I lost count after 49).

My friend and I spent hours on the phone after this most unfortunate breakup. We were each other’s therapists as she poured her heartbreak to me. One day, after months of the most grueling and intensive phone therapy, she asked me how I could be so resilient in the face of adversity.

“Simple, friend. Meet the only woman dumped by the same man twice and lived to tell the tale.”

She gasped.

There We Are

Dearest A,

Today, I woke up with a sense of sadness hanging over me. This is the first Valentine’s Day in years that you will not be home with me. I can’t remember a time when the day didn’t mean a day off from work for you, and as mushy as it sounded, everyone understood. Valentine’s Day is our day.

On Valentine’s Day every year, we would indulge ourselves in the comforting rituals of married life. There was the occasional movie or the romantic dinner date with flowers and candlelight, but more often than not, we simply enjoyed each other at home, our feet touching gently as we recline in a pile of pillows, Alphonse often snuggled between us. We would talk and joke and sing out loud. We would read, look at pictures, play a game, or watch a movie or two together (Titanic, again?). This used to be our day. Yet, today, I am alone at home.

I’m not ungrateful, honey, just a tad wistful. Sometimes, I wish it were so that I could go for hours of a day without thinking of you, but my resolve always weakens. In the middle of a busy day, filled with the hectic hours of everyday life, I would find myself thinking of the last time we kissed or even the last time we talked beyond the superficial, mundane events of our lives. Too often these days, as we work hard to make a home and a life for our children and ourselves, there have been little, precious time to be just husband and wife, just lovers, or just best friends. We wear the constant hats of Father and Mother, and these roles, while beloved, can be all-consuming.

Today, however, while you are steep in work and I busy myself with a million and one chores at home, I will choose to live in the space of thankfulness. That today, as far apart as we are, I feel your love resonate louder and stronger, echoing through the walls of our home, and exploding through the hugs and kisses of a little boy. I will choose to remember that despite our imperfect lives, I have you to lean on, my soft spot to fall on.

And so I wait for you to come home again, on Valentine’s Day. The movie will be on when you come home. Dinner will be cooking. The bed will be warm and comfy.

And I will wait for you.
As I wait for Love.
As I wait for forever.
 

The clock ticks to forever

I wrote this eight years ago for my best friend, a few days before the end of the last century. Many years later, this still says everything I feel for this person, so allow me to share with you our friendship’s journey to forever.

At The Turn Of The Century

I remember the day I started on my life’s journey. I was nervous, yet determined. There was no logic, no order, no preconceived plans for what was to come after, but the absolute rightness of the decision overshadowed any qualms or indecision there might have been.

I stood there, in front of a judge, holding on to my best friend’s hand. With a few chosen words here and there, a wave of a hand, a beckoning gesture, it was over in minutes. I was so woozy I almost fainted twice. To this day, all I remember is the continuous reassurance of my best friend’s hand in mine. Nothing else.

The first time I met my best friend, I had no inkling we were destined for anything extraordinary. It was an innocuous day, one just like many others before it. We were high school students in a debate team. He was an excellent speaker, fluent and quick of thought. A thin, wiry snip of a boy, he held himself in a manner that seemed almost haughty. Yet, when he spoke, his voice loomed large over our heads, obliterating any formed idea in our opponents’ midst. He was a devastating adversary in any debate team, and that first day, I counted myself fortunate to be on his side. In the years that followed, we would end up on opposing sides, and our scorecards would almost always be even. Still, win or lose, the best debater’s award almost always went to him.

We didn’t start out as friends, I suppose. He was too small to be noticed easily then. At fourteen, I thought myself a woman of the world, a veritable poster girl for the eighties. I thought myself too old for friendships with little children and sought the company of more mature friends. Through some twist of circumstance, I found myself alone with him. We started talking. The longer I listened, the more I found out how amazing this intelligent, opinionated, assertive young man was. I found myself drifting towards him more and more often, until I would hold off a part of my day just to spend a few minutes in conversation with him. In no time at all, we became best friends.

(an old and faded photograph of the first years of friendship)

The friendship didn’t come too easily at times. In junior year, he and I had a severe falling out that left me hurting for a long time. We spent a few months apart, in silence, each tending to our wounds. One day he held out his hand to me and on that day of reconciliation, it was as if all those months of icy silence melted away and we were still all that was of the friendship.

We nursed each other through broken relationships. We wrote long letters to each other. We would hand them over in between classes as we passed long corridors. We read books together, some parts aloud, and savored the words as they fleeted between us. We shared our amateurish attempts at poetry with each other – all that was precious to us bound in two thick spiral notebooks. We would meet often and spend hours gabbing away, talking about our futures.

In college, he would trek all the way to Manila from the cozy enclave of the Jesuits in Quezon City just to spend a few hours with me in school, a sacrifice not even my boyfriend back then was willing to make. Of course, I should mention that his ex-girlfriend was my classmate in the university, and so, while he visited me, he also kept an eye in a reunion with her. This, however, became an exercise in futility as neither one was willing to budge from their stances. A year after they broke up, both gave up for good. At around the same time, I parted ways with my boyfriend. Once more, as in the past, we nursed our broken hearts and consoled each other with our friendship. “You are too good for him anyway” became his chosen mantra for me. Somehow his words seemed to ease the pain I felt.

My best friend left for the United States shortly thereafter. I had known that there were plans for his family to move abroad, but I hadn’t really thought it would be that soon. For the second time in our friendship, he and I parted ways. His stay in a foreign land left me disoriented, as if I had lost the other half of myself, but I was too proud to let him know that I missed him. I kept silent for a long time, afraid to reach out to him. And he, in his temporary life, kept his distance too, hurt as he was by my silence and seeming nonchalance.  

Almost a year passed before he returned. I found out from a mutual friend that he had been asking about me. That day, I knocked at his door and welcomed him with a warm embrace and a chocolate cake. It was really like coming home for me.

From then on, letters flew between us and the lines of friendship started to blur. We burned the phone lines with late-night talks, each one trying to make up for past mistakes. One day, we learned that we needed each other more that we should have. Rational beings that we were, we discussed our feelings objectively and tried to create new rules for ourselves. We realized that we could not be merely friends, though we were still afraid to move on to a different level. And so, for half a year, we referred to each other as “more-than-friends,” as if this absurd appellation would somehow cure us of our dreaded feelings.

Four years to that day, I started my life’s journey. With my best friend.

My life with this man, my best friend, is a life of blessings and joys. Yes, I admit we have gone through some bad times, times when I thought we would break from the strain, but we went through them hand in hand, together. Eight years to the day I started my journey, I can speak with pride and happiness of the life we built. Two young boys, the love of our lives, remain our testaments to friendship and love.

To this day, my best friend nurses the wounds of my heart and calms the discontent of my soul. He still whips my life in a frenzy. In his hands, I have found all that I have sought for in my lifetime. In his hands, I have found the courage to soar and to fly. In his hands, I have found love.

And so here I am, at the turn on the century, still holding his hand.

This is real life.

~0~

My best friend, my love, my husband, turns 40 today. More than just a numerical milestone of the passing of time, his birthday is a gift, a special reminder of the past, present, and future days of our lives together…as the clock ticks to forever.

Happy birthday, my love.