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.

Mom.

She was my housekeeper. My chauffeur. My nurse. My personal cheerleader. My 24.7 hotline.

Now, with a child of my own, I have even more admiration and respect for all the wonderful things she has done and sacrificed to make me who I am today.

The truth is, I don't think we ever outgrow our mothers. No matter how old we are, or what we've accomplished in our lives...we never stop wanting our mom.

Happy Birthday, Moms! Thank you for being an amazing mother.

Elevator Etiquette

If I had to list down my top 10 peeves in living in an apartment building in Metro Manila, elevator etiquette (or to be more precise, the lack of) would top my list.

Complaint #1. Why do people always insist on pushing their way inside an elevator the moment the doors open, even if they can clearly see a number of its passengers wanting to get off? This always causes a jam and a tangle of bodies as people simultaneously push their way in, and out, of the lift.

This phenomenon, I've noted, isn't limited to apartment buildings. People in malls and hotels do it as well. For goodness sake, WHY? Everyone always acts like they are in some big rush. Considering how the locals are hardly ever on time for anything (hence, "Filipino-time"), I've always wondered why getting in and out of lifts seems to be such a big deal. Maybe the entire nation is secretly afflicted with claustrophobia and just want to get the whole elevator riding ordeal over with?

Complaint #2. When someone gets off their floor and comes from behind, the people in front seem clueless and don't move out of the way, even after several pokes and "excuse me's" from the people who want to get off.

It still amazes me how clueless and out of touch people can be to their surroundings. It's almost as if they close themselves off so no one exists outside their own needs. What really appalls me is how some people even have the nerve to look disgusted or extremely put off when someone who is standing behind them in the lift needs to get off before they do and they have to move a few inches out of the way.

Complaint #3. Related to complaint #2, in my case, Charly and I always voluntarily step out of the lift when someone behind us is getting out. Despite this, RARELY have I ever heard a "Thank You" coming out from Pinoys (no matter how well-dressed and educated looking). The people who consistently say thanks are the foreigners. I kid you not. The rare times a Pinoy has said "Thank You", I've made it a point to strike up a conversation the next time I've ran into them, and lo and behold, they are either well-travelled or have grown up abroad.

And because I strongly believe that children learn from watching the actions of adults, I am quick to point out to Charly how we should behave politely in these situations. I am also quick to point out to her how it is impolite and in poor form for people not to say thanks after someone has stepped out of their way. Or how people should politely say "Excuse me" instead of shoving and poking their way out.

Most of all, I've loved how this has earned me a number of glares from the offenders. One particularly bitchy woman actually stopped and asked me "Nagpaparining ka ba" ("are you trying to tell me something"). I smiled and said "why, no, I'm sorry you thought so. I was merely pointing out to my child how to act properly in certain situations and how one should always say thank you."

Fortunately the door closed on her snide reply. If it hadn't, I would have told her that how she behaved was certainly not something I want my child emulating in the future. Or in a nutshell, how she is a bad example to an impressionable child.

See, this is one of the things that saddens me living in this country. Social etiquette is not as properly evolved as it is in first world countries. Not that I am saying that I won't be encountering the same rudeness from an apartment building in the Upper West Side of Manhattan. But I have lived in both types of buildings and despite our apartment building in Manila being considered high-end, it is still disappointing to see that money can't buy proper social graces and basic politeness.

I mean, for God's sake, elevators have been around Manila for decades and some people still act like they don't know how to use or behave inside one.

So for now, I have to make sure that I am mindful of how people around Charly behave, lest she begins to model such behavior.

I guess I have more glares in store for me in the future!

The American President

We recently got Charly a children's book on famous American Presidents.

I realize that at three years of age, she is a tad too young to fully understand what it means to be a president, much less the American President. But as I watch this historic Inauguration live, it hits me that when it does, Charly will come into that knowledge with President Obama in office.

And while our generation can appreciate what a big step it is to have the first African-American U.S. president, Charly's generation will wake up with one already in office.

And for them, it won't be such a big deal because the Obama years will be all they'll know when they are old enough to be discussing the American President in school.

I think about it and realize that that's a really, really good thing.

And I'm so glad that though Charly was born during the Bush years, the Obama administration is the first one that she will truly experience.

Charly's "25".

As originally posted in Facebook's ubiquitous '25'...here is Charly's version, for all her godparents, aunts, uncles and close friends of mom and dad as she turns 3 today:

1. I like music and always check to make sure mom has Hi-Five or Disney's Fresh in the car's CD player or Ipod.

2. I sleep with the scent of aromatherapy oils from Body Shop (preferably peppermint or grapefruit) and background music of Vivaldi, Bach, Tschaikowsky. Sometimes I request for Benny Goodman and Miles Davis. I also like John Mayer, the Beatles, Billy Joel, and old school rap music. I also love when dad puts on Elton John (Bennie & the Jets) during bathtime. My dad is the coolest, he downloads all sorts of music for me.

3. I'm a leftie.

4. I LOVE books and literally grew up in the kids section of Fully Booked. It's cool that the staff know me by name so my mommy knows where to find me if I run off on my own. Recent book favorites include all things Eric Carle, Dr Seuss books, Maisy (I love that the alligator's name is Charley), Madeleine (I can memorize "In an old house in Paris, covered in vines..."), and Billy Crystal's I Already Know I Love You.

5. My favorite shoes are my baby blue Crocs with Dora, Blue, and Mickey Mouse jibitz on them. Sometimes I'll wear my red Mary Jane Crocs or black Converse hi-tops but only if mom and dad ask really really nicely :)

6. Mom and Dad say I take pretty decent photos (hey, I'm three!) with my kids VTech digicam and our Olympus point and shoot.

7. I wear my baseball caps with their backside to the front.

8. I love pumpkin soup. Especially from Cibo, Press Cafe and Claw Daddy's.

9. I love munching on breadsticks. I like eating Nestle Strawberry yogurt and FIC Butterscotch ice cream!

10. I like bathing with Johnson's Baby Top to Toe Body Wash but prefer Nivea Baby Body Lotion after a bath.

11. My mommy is Filipina. My dad is South American. Although I'm a Philippine-born American citizen, I've got a smattering of Spanish, Portuguese, Indian, Japanese and Chinese blood running in me. Just like mom, dad, and Pepe - I'm a mongrel :) Riggs is the only one with a pure pedigree in our household!

12. I love going to the arcade after Gymboree art classes. I always ask teacher to give me a stamp because my mommy says it's what gets us into the arcade.

13. Pepe and Riggs are my brothers in arms.

14. I don't mind going to the dentist. I always ask Dr. Eric if he has free toys to give me at the end of check ups.

15. I love online shopping with mom, especially for books that we can browse through. The best thing about online shopping is that it all arrives in a balikbayan box with lots of other goodies from Gramma Resa that smells like the USA :)

16. I love watching Word World, Bunnytown, Strawberry Shortcake, Hi-Five, My Friends Tigger and Pooh, and of course Dora. I still can't relate to Barbie and the Disney Princesses and my dad thinks that's a good thing.

17. I'm slow to warm up to people, but talk a mile a minute once I do. I'll even share my cookies with you once we're cool.

18. I love love love my ninang Bev :) I think Ninong Mark has more tech stuff than Inspector Gadget. I think ninong Mario is tall as a giraffe. Tito Manolo is cool for liking Elton John and knowing sorts of music trivia. Ninong Raymond rocks for flying that paper airplane smack on that woman's lunch plate at Fely J's. I know one of these days Ninong Louie will change my nappies. I love when my godparents spend time to get to know me...I know I've got lots of others in the States that I haven't met...

19. I can't decide whether I want to be like Michael Phelps (without the drug suspension) or Dr Cheng when I grow up. Hmm. Sports star or doctor?

20. I get my hair trimmed at Kids Hair in Rustan's. Only Gio or Rustom will do.

21. I'm cheap with my kisses and hugs and only give them to people I really do know.

22. I like cupcakes!

23. I love the impressionists. I know Monet from Van Gogh and Matisse and Picasso. My mommy likes Cafe Terrace at Night, I like the Starry Night more. I want to go to the Musee D'Orsay for my 7th birthday.

24. I dearly love a bearwich (that's a group hug with mom and dad and me in the middle).

25. I love seeing babes and gramma resa shake their booty and dance! One day, I'll teach them to do the pretzel twist just like Jojo :)

Happy Birthday, Charly Bear! We love you for all these and so much more...

Happy Birthday, Riggs.

Riggs.

Named for Mel Gibson's character (Martin Riggs) in the Lethal Weapon series. The guy with the crazy, manic eyes. Incredibly high strung. Totally wired. A guy with a death wish who was loud, yet totally charming. Any movie buff familiar with the character will think oh yes after spending a few minutes in our boy Riggs' presence.

It took us some time to finally hit upon the name for our mini pomeranian. David and I are firm believers that a dog's name comes to you. It's not something you pull out of a hat or randomly assign, just because it sounds cool.

And so, as we welcomed the tiny (yes, less than a pound and fitting comfortably into my two cupped hands) adorable fellow into our lives exactly 3 years and 11 months ago, we watched him keenly for signs as to what we would name him.

When we first saw him, tiny thing that he was, we thought it would be fun to call him Samson (the name we officially had printed on his pedigree papers). But it didn't seem to fit. Neither did other numerous names that we tried out.

Then one day, he tried to jump off the kitchen sink. For a pup less than a pound, and barely 6 weeks old, such a fall could be dangerous. Nevertheless, the little guy did it again. And again.

And his yapping was incessant. The sound of the softest footsteps in the hallway could trigger a bout of barking. Clearly, this was one high strung puppy.

He also became very attached to David (to this day, he thinks David is his mommy). Separation anxiety translated into high pitched barks.

One day, I came home to the sight of David and Pepe looking shell shocked from too much barking. No amount of shouting could shut the little guy up. He was wired and manic.

But did he ever love being cuddled. He was very well behaved in public and was a natural people magnet. A total charmer.

Thus the name, Riggs.

Not much has changed in four years. I can't be sure if his barking has lessened or we've just become more immune. We try to keep him as calm as possible. Some doggie training aids have helped us calm him down a bit. We've learned to adjust our movements so as not to trigger an anxiety attack.

And the charm thing is still going strong. When we have him groomed, it never fails that people stop by to pet him. Numerous times, random people have even asked to have their picture taken with him. He now has 2 print ads under his belt.

And is he ever a ham in front of the cameras. In some ways, it's like living with a movie star. A diva.

Happy Birthday, Riggsy.

Crazy dog that you are, all of us - especially Charly - loves you to pieces.

Studio Shot.

This shot was a little too Brokeback Mountain for us.

And I thought by limiting Riggs to gender-specific outfits (no pink tutus, no ribbons), that dressing him up wouldn't make him look gay.

Hmm.

Dreaming of a White Christmas

"Chestnuts roasting on an open fire..." so "The Christmas Song" goes.

Now here's a random thought. "The Christmas Song" was written by Mel Torme in the middle of a heat wave, in an attempt to stay cool, by thinking cool.

Wishful thinking, really.

Here's our version - AKA the door to our kitchen.

Wishful thinking for a family in Asia whose favorite season is winter.

Although it's been said, many times, many ways - MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU!!!

Favorite Body Parts

No, it's not what you think.

Charly's latest comfort thing, after having outgrown her beloved 'wubbie', is drinking her bedtime milk and either running her hand along my arm or David's beard (well, he doesn't really have one, but she seems to like his stubble or five o'clock shadow).

In her words, it's either "Mom's arm" or "Dad's beard". She looked indignant one time when she rubbed a hand against David's chin only to discover it smooth and stubble-free.

Last night, she actually said "Good night, Dad's beard. Good night, Mom's arm".

It's a good excuse for David and I to snuggle up next to her. She drinks her milk, while scooting up close and rubbing a hand on my arm or David's cheek.

I hope she doesn't outgrow her favorite body parts too soon.

Metal Lunch Boxes

...whatever happened to them?

As Charly begins to go to a more structured nursery school where the kids are required to pack their own snacks and juices, David and I feel a little frisson of excitement over the thought of....lunch box shopping!

One of the coolest things about being a parent is that we can unapologetically get excited over going shopping for things that we had left behind in our childhood. Muppet Show characters, Paddington Bear books, Legos, Mr. Potatohead, Tonka trucks, Playdough...

But I digress. Back to the lunch boxes at hand.

As we headed for the houseware section of Rustan's and SM, we were disappointed to find lame looking lunch boxes for kids. There were utilitarian looking Rubbermaids, the solid - but old looking - Thermos bags and bottles that I have opted to pack my lunch to work in, and some flimsy looking plastic lunch pails featuring today's more popular cartoon characters. And let's not forget the expensive Japanese lunch bags whose insides are so stuffed with little microwaveable food containers that they would need a Tetris expert to fit them all in.

None were deemed cool enough to merit the honor of being Charly's first lunch box.

David and I reminisced about our own metal lunch boxes during our grammar school days. Most Gen-X'ers probably don't have an affinity for metal lunchboxes. You would have to be old enough to be carrying a lunch box to school in the 70's to feel nostalgic about these metal lunch carriers. Needless to say, we were.

I had a dome-shaped Peanuts tin lunch box with an Alladin water bottle inside. When the Bionic Woman became popular, I went off to school with Lindsay Wagner on my lunch box. The year after that, I had Jill, Kelly and Sabrina - Charlie's Angels! As a kid, I seriously looked forward to the lunch box of the year. I would even dent it a bit towards the year's end, just to make sure my mom would buy me a new one for the next school year.

Like an old song, thinking about our old metal lunch boxes took us back in time, bringing to mind school days, a favorite food, or an old friend.

So when I think about picking the lunch box that will eventually find its way to Charly's memory box, I hesitate to pick just any old generic lunch container. After all, I have such vivid memories of mine.

And so the search goes on...