The joys of being Mom
April 29, 2007 | 12:00am
Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom. Marcel Proust
I just had one fine day, slower than most, but bursting at the seams with a kind of happiness that sits squarely in the heart. I went on a "date" with my six-year-old Juliana, just the two of us, no yaya. She was boss and we had the whole day to ourselves. Like a little grown-up, she stuffed her Strawberry Shortcake bag with her essentials: a change of clothes, baby wipes, cologne, hairbrush, a jacket, two servings of full cream milk. She then checked what I was wearing and dressed in the exact same way, only in a different color and print. But she was my mini-me: cropped pants, a breezy top, metallic sandals. Then off we went. For a change, I did not have to rush off to go somewhere  a luxury that is very rare for me nowadays.
People often say that the best times are those ushered in by spontaneity, and today was a quiet rustle of one uncharted activity after the other, like leaves that fall to the ground and are blown gently into the pathway of the day by the wind.
Oddly enough, it started with a throat that Juliana said was "oweeee" and "painful to swallow, mommy." Her Lolo Manoling’s trained eye and trusty flashlight confirmed the culprit: swollen tonsils. Her doctor was not available until 8 p.m. and so we went to her dentist first. She was really scheduled to go anyway.
What a treat it is to visit a child’s dentist in this day and age. I am no longer a child but I marvel like a child at how a place that is always the stuff of nightmares can look so… not scary. The space is tranquil and pleasant, the pretty dentist is charming and seems more like a pre-school teacher than a scary, impersonal doctor out to drill and saw and pound teeth, and the otherwise imposing dental tools and procedures are veiled under a blanket of light and play. There are the funky colored shades (to block the bright beam of the swivel lamp), the candy-colored handheld mirror, the overhead TV playing Barbie or Walt Disney videos, and the de rigueur toy reward at the end of it all. No child would leave the premises not feeling that she is the bravest princess of them all. Sometimes it actually feels like a walk in the park.
She was apparently hungry after the visit at the dentist because she thought of her favorite: fettuccine carbonara at Gourdo’s. And so we went and sat at a table by the window. It was late afternoon, a typically odd hour between merienda and dinner, and we were the only ones in the cozy place. She read from the menu what she wanted, and picked out the exact same dishes she orders each time we go there: pumpkin soup, creamed mushrooms bruschette, fettuccine carbonara, all split into two servings. With that, we each ordered cantaloupe shake. She is her mother’s daughter, very much like me, a creature of habit.
While waiting for our food, we wandered into the adjoining space at Gourdo’s that sells everything from Mogu pillows to kitchenware and baking supplies. She picked out a heart-shaped pan, cake release spray, rose-colored tint for frosting, stainless rosette-shaped tips to pipe icing, plus a flexible funnel for when we make the mango-flavored ice candy that she so loves. All signs said we were going to make cake.
As we leisurely enjoyed our food beside each other we talked, and laughed, and talked some more. She asked me about the illustration on the walls around us, why the cow had red lipstick and whether or not animals also drank Coke and Sprite and Royal Tru-Orange. She told me about how she wants to jazz up a locker like the ones she sees on the Disney Channel and she asked me if it was God’s will that sometimes boys dress up and act like girls and vice versa. Now where did that come from? I did not quite know how to address that.
After Gourdo’s we went over to Cold Rock, still at The Fort, and she got a big cup of vanilla ice cream with white chocolate chips. I never realized she could be very definite about what she did or did not want. I kept on asking her to throw in some Oreos, or marshmallows, or Reese’s candies  but no, she just wanted white chocolate chips. That’s all. The guy behind the counter asked her if she wanted to add some cookie dough, this milk chocolate or that, but the answer was always a soft but definite "no." She was happy with her vanilla and white chocolate, thank you. In the car, she remembered how much her daddy also loves ice cream and told me to remind her to bring him to Cold Rock the next time around.
From Cold Rock we went over to Greenbelt 4 and she watched me as I tried on one pair of pants after the other. I could not decide; they looked okay, but not so okay, like it was there but not quite there. Parang oo na hindi. I was not in "shopping mode," I guess, and as we both stared at the mirror in the dressing room, my daughter said decisively, "You look like a policeman, Mommy." That was my cue. We left the shop hurriedly, laughing all the way to the car.
By then she was running a slight fever and after we picked up her lola from the salon she fell asleep in the car, on my lap, her red jacket wrapped around her, with one hand touching my ear. But by the time we finally left her throat doctor’s clinic after our 8 p.m. appointment, she was feeling much better.
At home she announced she wanted to make blueberry cheesecake. What about the heart-shaped pan we bought at Gourdo’s, the buttercream frosting and the rose-colored tint for the butter cake? For another day, she said. What she really wants, she says, is blueberry cheesecake in a heart-shaped pan. But it’s never done that way, I tell her. It’s always round and we need to use the pan that will free the sides, etc, etc. "But why can’t it be heart-shaped, Mommy?" That made me think. Of course, why ever not? Who says it cannot be done that way?
And so tomorrow we are making a heart-shaped blueberry cheesecake. I will let you know how that goes.
Being a mommy often feels like having little hands finding their way into my heart, wrapping it with a pink warmth that is as comforting as warm milk with honey. There is a quietness about motherhood that is soothing; a kind of purposeful peace that makes you respect the rhythms of your life and days. John Stuart Mill once said, "You will inhale happiness with the air you breathe, without dwelling on it or thinking about it." The same could be easily said of the blessing that is a child.
I just had one fine day, slower than most, but bursting at the seams with a kind of happiness that sits squarely in the heart. I went on a "date" with my six-year-old Juliana, just the two of us, no yaya. She was boss and we had the whole day to ourselves. Like a little grown-up, she stuffed her Strawberry Shortcake bag with her essentials: a change of clothes, baby wipes, cologne, hairbrush, a jacket, two servings of full cream milk. She then checked what I was wearing and dressed in the exact same way, only in a different color and print. But she was my mini-me: cropped pants, a breezy top, metallic sandals. Then off we went. For a change, I did not have to rush off to go somewhere  a luxury that is very rare for me nowadays.
People often say that the best times are those ushered in by spontaneity, and today was a quiet rustle of one uncharted activity after the other, like leaves that fall to the ground and are blown gently into the pathway of the day by the wind.
Oddly enough, it started with a throat that Juliana said was "oweeee" and "painful to swallow, mommy." Her Lolo Manoling’s trained eye and trusty flashlight confirmed the culprit: swollen tonsils. Her doctor was not available until 8 p.m. and so we went to her dentist first. She was really scheduled to go anyway.
What a treat it is to visit a child’s dentist in this day and age. I am no longer a child but I marvel like a child at how a place that is always the stuff of nightmares can look so… not scary. The space is tranquil and pleasant, the pretty dentist is charming and seems more like a pre-school teacher than a scary, impersonal doctor out to drill and saw and pound teeth, and the otherwise imposing dental tools and procedures are veiled under a blanket of light and play. There are the funky colored shades (to block the bright beam of the swivel lamp), the candy-colored handheld mirror, the overhead TV playing Barbie or Walt Disney videos, and the de rigueur toy reward at the end of it all. No child would leave the premises not feeling that she is the bravest princess of them all. Sometimes it actually feels like a walk in the park.
She was apparently hungry after the visit at the dentist because she thought of her favorite: fettuccine carbonara at Gourdo’s. And so we went and sat at a table by the window. It was late afternoon, a typically odd hour between merienda and dinner, and we were the only ones in the cozy place. She read from the menu what she wanted, and picked out the exact same dishes she orders each time we go there: pumpkin soup, creamed mushrooms bruschette, fettuccine carbonara, all split into two servings. With that, we each ordered cantaloupe shake. She is her mother’s daughter, very much like me, a creature of habit.
While waiting for our food, we wandered into the adjoining space at Gourdo’s that sells everything from Mogu pillows to kitchenware and baking supplies. She picked out a heart-shaped pan, cake release spray, rose-colored tint for frosting, stainless rosette-shaped tips to pipe icing, plus a flexible funnel for when we make the mango-flavored ice candy that she so loves. All signs said we were going to make cake.
As we leisurely enjoyed our food beside each other we talked, and laughed, and talked some more. She asked me about the illustration on the walls around us, why the cow had red lipstick and whether or not animals also drank Coke and Sprite and Royal Tru-Orange. She told me about how she wants to jazz up a locker like the ones she sees on the Disney Channel and she asked me if it was God’s will that sometimes boys dress up and act like girls and vice versa. Now where did that come from? I did not quite know how to address that.
After Gourdo’s we went over to Cold Rock, still at The Fort, and she got a big cup of vanilla ice cream with white chocolate chips. I never realized she could be very definite about what she did or did not want. I kept on asking her to throw in some Oreos, or marshmallows, or Reese’s candies  but no, she just wanted white chocolate chips. That’s all. The guy behind the counter asked her if she wanted to add some cookie dough, this milk chocolate or that, but the answer was always a soft but definite "no." She was happy with her vanilla and white chocolate, thank you. In the car, she remembered how much her daddy also loves ice cream and told me to remind her to bring him to Cold Rock the next time around.
From Cold Rock we went over to Greenbelt 4 and she watched me as I tried on one pair of pants after the other. I could not decide; they looked okay, but not so okay, like it was there but not quite there. Parang oo na hindi. I was not in "shopping mode," I guess, and as we both stared at the mirror in the dressing room, my daughter said decisively, "You look like a policeman, Mommy." That was my cue. We left the shop hurriedly, laughing all the way to the car.
By then she was running a slight fever and after we picked up her lola from the salon she fell asleep in the car, on my lap, her red jacket wrapped around her, with one hand touching my ear. But by the time we finally left her throat doctor’s clinic after our 8 p.m. appointment, she was feeling much better.
At home she announced she wanted to make blueberry cheesecake. What about the heart-shaped pan we bought at Gourdo’s, the buttercream frosting and the rose-colored tint for the butter cake? For another day, she said. What she really wants, she says, is blueberry cheesecake in a heart-shaped pan. But it’s never done that way, I tell her. It’s always round and we need to use the pan that will free the sides, etc, etc. "But why can’t it be heart-shaped, Mommy?" That made me think. Of course, why ever not? Who says it cannot be done that way?
And so tomorrow we are making a heart-shaped blueberry cheesecake. I will let you know how that goes.
Being a mommy often feels like having little hands finding their way into my heart, wrapping it with a pink warmth that is as comforting as warm milk with honey. There is a quietness about motherhood that is soothing; a kind of purposeful peace that makes you respect the rhythms of your life and days. John Stuart Mill once said, "You will inhale happiness with the air you breathe, without dwelling on it or thinking about it." The same could be easily said of the blessing that is a child.
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