A babysitter
With the leader of the pack back in Manila, I could hear different footsteps. Less gallop-like strides on the hard floor from Pico, a boy of 90 pounds, as he trotted out to wake up my son-in-law sleeping in the basement. Then it was like rats scampering; we would hear pitter-pattering from a 55-pound three-year-old, along with eight- and six-year-old tykes scampering on the first floor, all three vying for supremacy. “Stop! Quiet! You’ll jolt baby Demi in Mai’s tummy!” So I lured the children by promising them a prize, not an ultimatum, if they agreed to tiptoe at midnight. And they did.
Midnight? You might ask, why so late? Yes, jet-lagging in San Francisco till 2 a.m. and wide awake now in Manila at midnight to early dawn.
Observing silence till 1 a.m. while cooking popcorn to opening shelves for nachos — I viewed it all with amusement and concluded God has a way of — how shall I say it? — manipulating the human race. I gave birth to five girls and He gave me five boys as grandchildren.
Today, while happily baby-sitting, I had the urge to rush to the bathroom. I decided I couldn’t babysit three boys running away from each other, playing hide-and-seek, hiding under beds and staircases by themselves. I was going to isolate this “troop” and contain them in one area. I enclosed them with me in a small room like a general in the tiniest battlefield. Let’s go, I told my troops (locally called tropa), and they followed, but decided to jump on the bed, lie down on their bellies like soldiers ready to stage a surprise attack! Then ballpoint pens surfaced to do their homework and Pentel pens emerged for drawing. “Uh-uh, not on my bed!” I decreed. “No worry, Wawa, we have pens for removing stains.” “Stop it, please. Only monkeys jump on beds,” I said. I repeated that phrase like a skipping CD player all last week. Rafael had already fallen after trying to balance on the footboard. During hide and seek, they crouched in a closet atop Ferragamo and Cole Haan shoes. I let it be; I had silence for a brief while. Mind you, I never mind the noise; I love the young laughter of children and their naughty antics. I was actually enjoying the rowdiness while lying on the rug with seven-month-old Renzo whom I grabbed from his bed. He played with everything except his proper toys… and chose Peping’s belt (which he bit on), my eyeglasses, bag handles and croissants.
Suddenly Pablo disappeared. Do I have to run up again and chase him? I thought. I shouted his name and a sweet answer came back. “Yes, Wawa?” he said, holding a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. I can’t believe this little boy reached up to the kitchen shelf. “I’m hungry, Wawa.”
To save the rug I spread a towel and commanded him to sit on it with his chicken when Rafael said, “I’m hungry, too.” So all three of us sat on the rug — me, picking up the crumbs of chicken skin. This wouldn’t be something their mothers would approve of. The dreaded announcement ensued: “I want rice. I want rice, please, Wawa.” Who can ignore the hunger and the pleases? We dashed up and Robbie and I set the table. I got the rice bowl ready but there was no rice. “Sorry, bread or nothing, boys.” And they ate rye bread. When push comes to shove and there isn’t a choice, anything is better than nothing and these boys knew it. I smiled, having won the afternoon meal skirmish.
Pity and a sense of humor are useful skills; grandmas must be patient and take things in stride considering age, character and desired training. It took me the shortest time to learn to cope. I called in a yaya to lessen the magnitude of my task. After all, large companies segregate and delegate different chores to different persons. I can do the same in a home. Time out for me.
Pin, the yaya, had a better solution than humor, homework and television. When the children ran up to us complaining about being shot by rubber arrow tips from plastic guns (one in the groin, eliciting from 8-year-old Robbie the comment, “You can’t have babies anymore”), I really had a hearty laugh. Wasn’t that a surprise? He had heard me saying that as a warning. We should always be aware of children tuning into adult conversations and jokes! That led Pin to proceed to Toys R Us. She bought a plastic gun of her own and announced, “Only I can do the shooting around here!” It reminded me of the challenge: if you know how to handle one person or three or four you could handle a hundred people with seemingly one personality and give them one and the same game plan. I believe, too, that if we treat everyone like our children we can get to our desired obedience goals.
Mothers — and Wawas — have to be wise to bring out the best in kids, and I don’t mean just shooting skills. To simply earn our children’s and other’s trust, to convince them we will support and nurture them, is like winning over an army, right? But there comes a point when we can’t impose all our values and rules upon our children. They will acquire their own along the way. We can’t become toxic. They’ll dislike us.
Courage is what we need. When our glasses and plates needed washing I literally close my eyes in fear of losing our kitchenware. (We lost one Correll plate from the heat of an oven.)
My strategic planning lasted just two hours. Thank goodness my children arrived on time; hats off to the American wife. She has the ability to dress the kids, drive them to school, teach them homework, cook their meals, wash, iron, etc. and be resilient, bouncing from here to there. Well, I can say that our Filipino immigrants who must adjust to the American lifestyle have paid their penance, too.
For me, it’s always been the tone of voice, courtesy and encouragement for elders to complete what she has started, from child rearing to guiding and molding values.
Pico’s back in school, Mai’s baby Demi is kicking more and I’m thinking there’s forever going to be a new baby in our family who’ll pass numerous stages and I’ll remember to remind them of what was, once upon a time, during those holidays of 2008.
