I Got So Stressed, My Boobs Hurt...

Yeah, you read that right.

Stress has affected my boobs. After all these years, I never knew I could actually stress my girls out.

I was having one of those weeks (ok, actually it was almost a month). Charly's schedule was out of whack (meaning no sleep for David and myself), we were always running late for Gymboree classes (sometimes because of my schedule, sometimes because it was a tug of war with Charly to get bathed and dressed before class), my work projects demanded more of my time and energy than usual, and - as icing on top of the cake - I was planning a surprise party for my mom's 75th.

In hindsight, the latter was probably the straw that broke this camel's back. You see, I am a firm believer in limiting parties to people I actually LIKE or at least socialize with by choice (outside the usual holiday gathering, wedding, wake, or baptism that most relatives feel duty-bound to attend). So understandably my stress levels escalated as aunts quizzed me why I was not inviting so and so. Most times, I gave in and did invite the people in question, even though I knew from experience that these were people who were always difficult to invite. My stress levels peaked when said people turned down the invite with lame excuses or worse, never even got back to me. All these proved once more that I was wise in keeping them out of the guest list in the first place. After all, we don't have to like all our relatives, and they in turn don't need to like us back.

And herein lies the paradox of big family affairs. Despite all concerned acknowledging a mutual lack of affinity for one another, everyone still feels obligated to ensure that no one is left out of the guest list.

Nevertheless, I have never been one to subscribe to that school of thought. I have a strong suspicion that if I am not feeling their company, they are probably not feeling mine either. So I say, spare both parties the pain of inviting and having to reject the invitation.

If I ever wondered why I never had a big, elaborate wedding, this was answer enough for me. But in the interest of family peace, I meekly gave in and by the end of a week's worth of phone calls to people I would rather not be in touch with, I was hyperventilating - literally with a nebulizer attached to my face. Looking back, it was needless stress because frankly, I don't think my mom missed them as she didn't look for said relatives in the first place and we still had a smashing good time anyway.

And as if an asthma attack wasn't enough, I soon started feeling a soreness and constant discomfort, almost akin to mastitis, in my breasts.

God, was I pregnant?! Yes, we want more kids. But not now. So I went out and bought a pregnancy kit. To be safe, I got two.

I exhaled a HUMONGOUS sigh of relief as both kits registered negative.

Then, another worry hit me as we googled breast pains and soreness. The big C was a horrible possibility, which thankfully, David's google hits registered that pain is not associated with it in the first few stages. Early menopause (ack!) was another possibility.

Being the hypochondriac that I am, I went to see my OB-Gyn.

The prognosis? Apparently stress had raised my prolactin levels up and caused the pain in my boobs.

And I thought I'd heard it all.

At the end of the day, it wasn't work, a nightmare boss, or the stress of dealing with a newborn and adjusting to new mommyhood that pissed my girls off. It was the nightmare of dealing with extended family and the drama that can go with family reunions.

I've learned my lesson. Next time, whenever there is an event where I have to invite certain members of extended family, I will make sure my boobs stay stress-free and make it a point to run as fast as my ageing, injured knees will take me.

Far away.

The Missing Leaf

I recently discovered the Market Manila site and I seriously recommend this to anyone who has lamented over the lack of ingredients available in our local supermarkets. In this site, I've discovered fellow foodies in search for the missing ingredient to make their home cooked dishes taste oh so much better. 

Take, for example, the kaffir lime. I cannot say the words without a smile flitting across my face. For David and me, it is like the holy grail of Thai cuisine.

A few years ago, we loaded 6 lbs. (yes SIX POUNDS) of assorted curry pastes and dried kaffir lime leaves onto our carry on bags coming home from Thailand. We were very fortunate that no one took an interest in our stash and confiscated them. I would have put up a fight, let me tell you.

But despite the dried kaffir lime leaves, our Thai dishes were still missing that oomph that we longed for. Dried just wasn't enough.

Then one day, sometime in June, we chanced upon a lone kaffir lime plant in Tiendesitas. We looked at it in hushed reverence. As David rubbed the leaf to take a whiff, we almost could not believe our good fortune. We rushed home with the plant, rustled up some Thai red curry and closed our eyes in delight as the missing pieces of the puzzle (or in this case, missing ingredient) fell into place.

And now, thanks to Market Manila, I've hooked up with some fellow kaffir lime enthusiasts who can sell us both the plants and the fruit. It's still not easy, but there are plants to be had. And since the leaves sell for about P10-15 each, having a plant is a smart move.

For those of you who have not heard about kaffir lime, it is the ingredient that adds an unmistakable refreshing taste that is characteristic of many Thai soups and curries.  The leaves have a strong, fragrant flavor that cannot be replicated easily. Without the kaffir lime leaves, your tom yum soup or red or green thai curry will not be the same.

So, if you're into spicy food, let me know. I've just about perfected my Thai curry.

This One Falls Under My List of Things I Wish I'd Taken A Picture of But Didn't...

This seen on a black sleeveless t-shirt worn by an older male guest at a wedding I attended recently:

"If you think sex is a pain in the ass, you're doing it wrong."

I so wanted to take a picture of that man. Preferably beside the newly wedded couple because that has got to be advice for the honeymoon night if I ever saw one.

But propriety won and my camera stayed politely shut. 

You just have to take my word for it.

The Nanny

By now, most of you know that our nanny hunt has introduced us to a cast of colorful characters.

My mom, out of desperation, called the Parish Office at San Antonio Church in Forbes Park, asking to be referred to the agency that most expats use.

Her call yielded 3 biodatas of nanny wannabes with "experience as caregiver" listed as accomplishments.

One had barely a year experience in caring for children.

The other was an X-ray technician (the last time I looked we didn't have any equipment in the house, I wonder how this would contribute to caring for Charly).

The last one was the winner of the lot.

Proudly attached to her caregiving certificates was a document from the Philippine Overseas Employment Agency (POEA) and a Japanese Employment agency listing her previous salary at USD $1,500 / month.

Past work experience: Dancer / Entertainer. Read: Japayuki.

Perhaps they thought her dancing skills would help rock Charly to sleep?

Excuse me while I put a garbage bin over my head and start banging against a wall.

Shutterbuggin'

After almost 2 years in hibernation (a sign that corporate stress had surely taken over parts of my life), I finally dug out my Canon EOS 400D and got to know her better outside of (gasp!) auto mode.

Going around Greenbelt Park, I zoomed in on interesting things that never caught my attention sans camera.

Do I now literally have time to stop and smell the flowers? Most definitely.

Wedding Crashers

With most of my friends either eloping, getting married abroad, or opting for civil weddings and springing their newly married status on us with wedding announcements or souvenirs like condoms and Jiffy Lube, it was a refreshing change for me when our good friends, Jackie and Brian, went the more conventional route with a pamamanhikan and traditional Chinese engagement party (ting hun).

We were happy to receive the invitations, but needless to say, I did not know what to expect. 

Apparently neither did Barbie, with whom I hitched a ride to Jackie and Brian's ting hun. 

So there we were, literally Dumb and Dumber, standing outside Gloria Maris in Greenhills not knowing where to go.

We saw a couple of well-dressed women going in and Barbie decided that they must be heading for Jackie and Brian's. 

"Aren't we underdressed for this thing?" I hissed. After all, the women were all wearing evening gowns. My misgivings grew as we entered a big hall where everyone it seemed, except us, was wearing fairly formal attire. 

Costume crisis notwithstanding, I marched up to the reception table and gave the woman our names so we could find out which table we were seated. To our surprise, our names were not on the list.

"Liselle and Barbie? Sorry, I can't find your names," the woman told us. "Bride or groom?"

"Uh, bride I guess," I said, finding it strange that Jackie would already be called a bride and the engagement party had not even begun. 

So the woman scans down the list and looks at us disapprovingly (or maybe it was because I was wearing pants and everyone else seemed to be dressed formally). "No, I can't find your names".

"We're former co-workers of hers," Barbie snaps (she was never one for patience). "Look under S.C.Johnson (the name of the company where Barbie, Jackie and I were all co-workers)."

"Sy Johnson?" the woman scans her list "Ah, here it is. Johnson Sy?"

Barbie was about to look at the list, when I grasped what had happened. 

We weren't at Jackie and Brian's ting hun. We were at some other couple's wedding reception where there was a guest named Johnson Sy. 

And we were about to meet him, it seemed, as the woman was leading us to his table.

I quickly mumbled something about a mistake and pulled Barbie along with me. 

We finally found our way to Jackie and Brian's, laughing at our mistake. It was one for the books.

When Jackie and Brian finally get married in December, I may just look up Johnson Sy.

You know, for old times' sake.

(Note: Jackie, this one's for you!)

Christmas in September

It's true what they say about the 'BER' months (you know, months that end in 'ber', that is September, October, November, December).

Once you hit September, it's only a matter of moments before the holidays come around. Especially in a country where Christmas is a big quarter-long production.

This weekend, as I walked into Shangri-la Mall, the site of faux christmas trees and other ornaments greeted me. Some shops were already putting them out on display for sale.

So, boys and girls, you'd better watch out. It seems Santa is on his way.

And Manila is his first stop.

Desperately Seeking Nanny

This goes out to all our dear friends who read this blog.

As most of you know, we've been yaya-less for almost a year now. (Note to my non-Pinoy friends, 'yaya' is what we call nannies in the Philippines.)While this deserves at least a couple of high fives, especially in a country where having 2 or 3 yayas trailing after a family and hefting shopping bags of different sizes are the norm, it can be quite nerve wracking at times. Especially when you're a work-at-home mommy.

We've tried out / auditioned 3 yayas or so but have had to let them go after the initial 2 week trial period for several reasons that read like a cross between Stephen King and a script out of Comedy Central:

1. They can't understand a word of English - not a good thing as David cannot speak Tagalog.

2. They don't care much for kids. One yaya preferred stick to housework (something unnecessary as David and I do this on our own), and more or less ignored Charly. You had to see this to believe it, but when Charly tried to be friendly or play with her, she would mostly just stare back. I know this sounds scary, but it's true. I always wondered if this particular yaya was quite right in the head.

3. They are tied to their cellphones. One would-be yaya accompanied us shopping in the houseware section and I barely turned my back for 5 minutes as I paid for some items and the next time I turned around, Charly was doing a pretty good imitation of Norman Bates and Jason, running around with a huge kitchen knife she had pulled out of the display. And where was the yaya? Why, she was standing around oblivious and texting away! Scary, but true. It would have served the yaya right if Charly had dropped the knife on her foot.

4. Another one did not use toilet paper (Now that's just wrong - if she can't clean her own butt properly, how will she clean Charly's? The word 'rotavirus' comes to mind).

5. Yet another one was afraid of heights. Not good, we live on the 18th floor. She also did not like airconditioning (Charly sweats a lot, more often than not she needs airconditioning, especially during the summer).

6. Our latest candidate went into Essences with us this weekend and instead of making sure Charly was entertained, David ended up carrying her and when we looked around for the yaya, she was at the Murad counter asking for a demo and catalogue of their skin care products. So much for keeping an eye on the baby. By the way, this yaya also asked us for an advance on her salary and took a day off within a week of joining us. Supposedly the advance was for her to be able to send money back to her parents. I'm not sure exactly how much of that advance she sent, but she did come back with a cellphone nicer than the one I am currently using.

The thing is, David and I are pretty hands-on parents. Definitely more hands-on than the average Pinoy family. Being yaya-less doesn't really faze us, nor does the fact that we don't have any maids. In fact, most of the problem probably is that these yayas and helpers are used to their employers being quite dependent on them. We have our own way of doing things and operate like a fairly well-oiled tag team when it comes to the baby. So we never just let the yaya 'do her thing'. After all, Charly is our one and only baby. Letting someone raise her in their own way is not an option. We are looking for someone proactive, who will take instructions well and work with us as a team in taking care of Charly. After all is said and done, we also want a bit of time to ourselves.

So. If any of you know of any yaya who fits that description, understands English, likes kids (and of course can take reasonably good care of them), is not glued to her cellphone, with fairly good hygiene (read: use toilet paper and take showers everyday) and are ok to live on the 18th floor, and likes dogs and is over 35 years of age (the ones younger tend to be attached to their cellphones or boyfriends or girl friends) or isn't a shopaholic who will ditch the kid the minute she enters the mall...please, please let us know!

We're not looking for Mary Poppins or Nanny McPhee. Just their distant cousins.

'Pasalubong'

The ubiquitous Baguio Walis.

Can anyone tell me why they remain to be the most hardy and effective of all? Do the Baguio folk put some secret material in them? Anyone? Because to this day whenever I go up to Baguio, without fail, someone asks for these brooms as 'pasalubong'.

David, being American, had to be educated on the concept of 'pasalubong' - the sweet, but mostly bothersome, Pinoy tradition of bringing a little something for everyone in the home or office when coming back from an out of country or out of town trip. He is still trying to come to terms (or should I say, grips) with it. I see his point though. Especially in the case of the aforementioned brooms. I'm pretty sure in most Western cultures, the idea of someone bringing back a broom as a present from a relative coming in from out of town would be considered odd. I mean, snowglobes, yes. Mugs and t-shirts too. And those stickers that clutter up your fridge.

But brooms?

Only in the Philippines.

That "Stateside" Scent

I used to work in fragrancing so I know my top notes from my bottom notes. I also know that the most loved scents are the ones you can't capture in a can or a bottle.

The smell of new books. A newborn baby. A new car. That indescribable mix of sun, seaspray, sand and suntan oil that screams "beach".

And one of my personal favorites, the smell when you open your luggage after a trip from the States. Yes, it even comes from 'balikbayan' boxes.

David is American so I had some trouble explaining this to him in the beginning. Now that he has been in Manila for over 4 years, his nose has gotten acclimated to Manila pollution and is better able to discern that fresh air from the USA that manages to sneak in enclosed luggage spaces and 'balikbayan' boxes.

Now, when his mom sends 'balikbayan' boxes filled with goodies for Charly, we all gather around for the 'grand opening' and collectively get a whiff of that 'stateside' scent.

Ahh. Now if only we could bottle that scent and sell it.

"Why don't you..."

I was lucky enough to be one of those rare women who didn't start 'showing' their pregnancies until practically the 8th month.

Meaning I had less than 4 weeks of unwanted attention. People patting your stomach (anyone ever heard of the word ' personal space'?), asking whether I was having a boy or a girl, and numerous unsolicited horror stories about childbirth that would have made Stephen King proud.

All this, however, did not prepare me for the barrage of well-meaning, but mostly ill-timed, advice that came in all forms from the mildly-irritating to the downright-lunatic.

If I'd been given $1 for every single time I heard "Why don't you...", I would be a rich woman now.

When David and I decided that Pepe and Riggs would sleep in the room with Charly, there were more raised eyebrows directed at me than I would have gotten wearing last season's Manolos at an art gallery opening in Chelsea. The dogs would bite her, she would bite the dogs (germs!), she would get all sorts of diseases, it was irresponsible....etc, etc, etc. The ones who stayed politely mum had such a huge thought bubble over their heads that I wanted to tell them to just come out and say it.

This was just the beginning of the barrage of comments and yes, even criticism, that I've discovered gets directed at you with all the subtlety of Typhoon Frank the moment you become a parent.

Why is it that the moment you have a child everyone thinks they know better than you? During the first quarter of Charly's life, I was told that the baby was too fat (where was her neck? wasn't she becoming a little too tubby?), her male-sounding name would give her a complex and cause gender-confusion, did we want a boy - was that why she was not in pink 24/7?, she needed socks the minute the temperature dropped below room temperature (try this on a baby who hated wearing socks and mittens)...and on and on it went. In my recovering-from-a-c-section haze, along with the pressure of planning the baptismal party in less than 3 weeks to the day we brought the baby home, I soon developed a way of zoning out (think of your favorite peaceful place and transport yourself there) which soon became a hardened mask to protect me from buckling under the weight of all the advice.

Two years later, I am still getting hit with it, but I've now developed a sense of humor (and this blog) to keep my wits about me.

I've learned that parenting is something which everyone will always have an opinion on. Best of all, I've learned to keep my mouth shut and not argue back and defend my parenting style. After all, Charly is healthy, happy, knows her Matisse from Van Gogh, her Gucci from Hermes, hiphop from jazz, and most of all, loves, loves, loves to read. Pepe and Riggs are her best friends and they have not bitten each other. Despite her guy-sounding name, she is a girly girl who says 'yuck' when handling wet clay. Yet she is also rugged enough to put on her favorite baseball cap backside forward.

The bottom line: we all know our children best. And because no two children are alike, you can only take what you think will work and screen out the rest. And pray, pray, pray.

Yes, I do give mommy advice, but only when asked or when comparing notes.

And yes, I do resist the urge to pat pregnant women's tummies and ask if it's a girl or boy.