Maiden Flight

Manila trip - Day 1

Woog knows his dinosaurs. His particular favorites are brachiosaurs, diplodocuses, and brontosaurs - those huge lumbering long-necked lizards that lived millions of years before his own father ever thought of depositing the sperm cell that eventually formed half of him.

Woog emulates these favorite dinosaurs even as the plane taxies off into the runway. He and Yaya Rose crane their necks out the window as the whole world tilts at an uneven angle. If human necks could get any longer, theirs does the day of their first plane ride: June 4. Woog's 7th birthday. What better present can a boy and his nanny get?

Trying to believe his eyes

As the houses and trees depreciate into miniature structures down below and the clouds rush pass their faces, Woog trumpets his glee, the sing-song whoop spiraling up from his elongated throat to emerge shrilly out his mouth, only to reverberate in a pressurized cabin where a couple of hundred other people share limited air space. As one, his fellow passengers stretch their necks like a herd of grazing dinosaurs searching for the source of the sound.

The absurdity of imagining dinosaurs on a plane thousands of feet up in the air strikes Woog's mother as funny, and she takes a dozen shots of the first-time flyers who are straining against their seatbelts in excitement.

Yaya, are you going to be sick?

Eventually, one other starts to protest the papparazo invasion before attempting to escape his own restraints.

Fortunately, a stick of spearmint gum placates him, and his mother doesn't even scold when he swallows the whole wad after chewing. The window is beyond his line of sight, you see, and he is enjoying his maiden flight as only a two-year-old can.



Nine people land an hour after their scheduled time of arrival, having dipped and shimmied in the overcast sky, waiting for air traffic to clear before touching terra firma. The kids battle their midday hunger pangs at the airport by ganging up on each other until their irritable parents pull them away by their ears, or separate them with firm taps to their bottoms.

Finally, after the confusion of looking for and finding the car and driver sent by a cousin, six hungry adults and three hungry kids pile into a pick-up that seats four people (Atch spends the drizzling journey out in the truck bed, bedecked in a raincoat and umbrella). After the typical speed -crawl that one can only find on Manila streets, everyone finally settles down to a lovely meal that is summarily devoured without much fanfare, expense notwithstanding.

Chomping our way through The Aristocrat, Roxas Boulevard

Happy Birthday, Woogie! Welcome to Manila!

Speeding Through Time, Heels Digging In

It is June. Woog's 7th birthday. Where did my baby go? Where did the summer go? The rain is pelting down on the roof, and the sun is making its requisite weak effort. Mano a mano, neither the one giving in.

We wake up early today, the darkness permeating our tiny room. Even Woog, for whom sleep is infinitely preferable to food. The boys are excited to be getting on a plane for the first time. We are heading for Manila today, with cheap promo tickets bought online the month before. Our birthday presents for Woog, who is 7 toady, and Eli, who will turn 3 in July. And for Yaya Rose, who turned 19 last month.

It is June. In a week, my gapped-tooth older boy will be in first grade. The years are speeding by (oh be still, my racing heart), and I haven't the foggiest idea of how to slow them down.

I console myself by thinking of the month that has passed, and the many highlights that seem like mere flashes in my consciousness. Events that have made me, in equal parts, laugh and fume:

My Tatay, after gurgling half a case of beer with his brother, Ninoy Toto and my Atch, then attempting to turn off the overhead lights with the tv remote control.

Samantha, the Indian neighbor kid, slamming in and out of our apartment with impunity , and raiding the refrigerator while complaining of hunger. The things people need to teach their kids. I ought to have a few words with her mother.

Yaya Rose, coming home tearfully after a vacation. Her father refuses to let us send her to school. He prefers to pay for her tuition himself in their small pastoral community school in the hinterlands. When he can't even manage to put enough food on his family's table. When he is possessed of such small-minded maliciousness that makes us want to chew him up and spit him out.

The kids, building a castle out of Debbie-Does-Dallas and other Playboy Playmate video tapes that my uncle has sent over from the States. My uncle emails my father: you can watch these now you're a retiree. Tatay doesn't mention that VHS machines have become obsolete.

It is June. Woog is 7. That magic age, the beginning of the end of his wonder years. I look forward to the future with mixed emotions.....

Woog's Tooth

A little boy with grin so wide
Ran down the stairs all full of pride
“I pulled it out, so there,” said he
“It did not hurt a bit, you see.”

He showed me chompers shining white
And bottom center was the sight:
A gap so dark I barely saw
the yawning chasm of his maw.

“Another one is coming loose,”
He tiptoed up and showed me thus
While pinched between his fingers two
The milky peg, that calcium'ed clue.

For weeks he'd worried with his tongue
The wobbling stalk, a stubborn one
I'd oft pull grimy hands from tooth
As absently, he'd pull the root.

So now that clinging tooth is gone
And in its place, a sunken gum.
A teasing glimpse of winking bright:
A rising tooth behind the site.

He prances up and down, this boy
My gapped-tooth son, my pride and joy
He hides the tooth ever carefully
Away from the greedy tooth fairy.

Say Baby

He sidles up to me while I work, quiet-like, a sparkle in his slitty eyes.

“Say 'baby'!” He squeals, hugging my arm to his face and giggling. I look down at him and smile despite the interruption.

Eli and I have a running argument. I am trying to get him to give up the bottle. He is digging his heels in, attempting to delay the inevitable.

“You're not a baby anymore, you're a big boy,” I tell him. But he laughs up at me, both with his eyes and his triangular smile, while he squashes his nose into the soft part of my arm, breathing. With big snuffling noises and little growling sounds, he continues to look up at me sideways, wriggling like a frisky puppy, “say 'baby',” he urges.

It is times like these I am hard pressed at denying the very baby-hood of him: the chubby cheeks, the soft plump limbs, the remaining infant scent, and the special sweetness he employs to get his way.

“Mommy! Mommy!” He chirrups.

“Pet-a-poo! Pet-a-poo!” I reply.

But at night, just before bed, when he asks, “Peas...gimme...miiik...”

I tell him: “'Pet, you're a big boy. Big boys don't drink from the bottle.”

He runs to his cupboard and hands me one of his empties, “Miiiiik!” He yells mutinously, “MIIIIIIK!”

And after he drinks his fill, he crawls over to where I am frowning at him in disapproval. “Miss-you, Mommy!” he sing-songs placatingly, “say 'baby'!”

I am tempted to keep the status quo, just to have more of his hugs and squeals and sweet clingy softness, but there is his mouthful of teeth to consider, and I am sorely torn.

In the morning, he reaches over from his bed to feel for my arm, “'morning, Mommy....miss-you! Say 'baby'...”

I look down at him, and he is still half-asleep, but there is a quarter of a smile on his face where the morning sun is beaming, and his fat sausage fingers clutch at my arm as if never wanting to let go.

And neither can I.