Woog and Teacher Ina's Boobies

It seemed like such a good idea at the time. After all, he was at the right age to start his education. One never knew, it might just help double his appetite, not to mention get rid of his asthma.

So we enrolled him in swim class.

Just so he wouldn't be all by his lonesome amid other unfamiliar children, we convinced his older cousin, Kylot to take the class too. Kylot is 9, a tall lanky and quiet kid who has no fear of the water whatsoever. Unlike Woog.

And so it began. The hour and a half morning class started out at 8AM. The noise level was impressive as almost a dozen five to nine-year-olds squealed, splashed, and generally created watery chaos in this corner of the quiet nature resort. The 5 twenty-something swim instructors, probably college kids hoping to earn some moolah over the summer, were hard pressed trying to keep them all under control.

“Woogie, come into the water,” they cajoled. And Woogie wouldn't until they assured him he could stay in the shallows. It soon became pretty obvious that he wouldn't let anyone else see to his hands-on instruction except Teacher Ina, a huge dark hulking mountain of a girl wth an earth-mother sort of allure.

She got him to put his head under the water to blow bubbles, play “sharky-shark”, and flutter kick his way from one shallow end of the pool to the other while holding on to a styrofoam “noodle”. All this while patiently listening to his endless jabber about the latest Pokemon monster and Battle B-daman. Finally, assured that Woog had found the perfect mentor, we left the kids with my father (a retiree who volunteered for the chauffer and nanny job) and went back to work.

Tatay provided a day-to-day progress report each time we picked Woog up in the evenings. He wouldn't go into the water unless prodded by Teacher Ina. He would go into the water, but hold on tight to Teacher Ina. He wouldn't use the noodle to cross the pool unless he had Teacher Ina supporting his middle. He talked and talked and talked, making Teacher Ina resort to allowing him to talk only if he performed his lessons as directed. He talked so much, at one point Teacher Ina had to cup her hand over his mouth. At least he ate two breakfasts each morning.

“Woog,” we teased, “you really need to make an effort at swim class or we'll tell Teacher Ina you have a crush on her.” And Woog would protest long and loudly at this mock threat.

Two days before the 10-day program was to end, Woog made his move. As narrated by my father, Woog made his way up to the girls' shower room after that morning's lesson. Sneaking under the wooden batwing doors, he poked his head into the sanctum sanctuorum, and beheld....

“Well, did you see Teacher Ina's boobies?” Kylot was reported to have said. “No,” Woogie complained, “she was wearing a bra.”

Tatay related this with a mix of amusement and puzzlement. Being relatively new to the world of nothing-to-do and no-place-to-go, finally immersing himself in the lives of kids, albeit two generations removed, was a source of shock and wonderment to his system.

Atch and I exchanged worried glances. Five. Woog is five. How early is that to go off into explorations of his own? Even assuming Kylot put him up to it, and Kylot wouldn't say “boo” to a fly.

How can it be curiosity (“yes, it is”, my mother asserts) when we've had baths together since he was a baby, and he knows what breasts and a vagina look like? Woog has seen my mucus plugs, for crying out loud. But all the times in the recent past when he'd tweaked my own boobies (“your nipples are so soft and fluffy, Mom”) and which I'd dismissed and convenient forgotten made me cringe now.

“Woog, why did you want to see Teacher Ina's boobies?” We ask him. “But I didn't,” he protests, “she was wearing a bra.”

Atch and I are at a loss about this sudden display of precociousness. Given both our histories, it wouldn't be surprising that our spawn would follow suit. But at age five?

Incorruptible forever?

Swim class ended uneventfully and Woog conquered his fear of water. Teacher Ina's boobies thankfully receded into the background, and our son settled into his daily summer routine of Teen Titans, Power Rangers, Power Puff Girls and Ben 10, miniclip.com pc games, and only one breakfast.

But Atch and I are poised at an uneasy precipice before the sudden plunge into real life. The life of our boy. It seems we are going to have to scramble to keep up after all.

Kalbooch * Boys

...and so, in the middle of one of the hottest days of summer, Atch took the boys to the barbershop to have their heads shaved. Woog, not a stranger to the revolving brown leather chairs, yakked his way through the procedure, his barber complaining that he was plumb running out of replies to the non-stop chatter.

Eli, on the other hand....well, let's just say it took three of us to hold him down. He single-handedly raised his barber's blood pressure with his piercing multi-decibels, we had to give the guy a big tip.

Tsk.

*Kalbooch - from the root word kalbo ; Atch's favorite way to describe his sons' heads

My Suds Story

There is something so utterly satisfying about doing the laundry.

I am normally not a lover of housework, and I only do the cleaning because it needs to get done. And because if there's something I hate more than housework, its dust. And dust bunnies. Ask Woogie, he has had the honor of clearing the room of dust bunnies during some of my cleaning sprees.

But talk to me about doing the laundry, and I can go on for hours.

Step One: Sort.

Sorting the whites from the medium-coloreds, and the medium-coloreds from the darks is a science in itself. Does the white shirt with the broad blue and red stripes count as a medium-colored item? Do Woog's mustard pair of shorts generously splattered with muddy chocolate milk stains count as a dark? What about Eli's collection of white cotton-weave snot cloths which on any given day collect a Jackon Pollock gallery of food stains and various body fluids? Much of the organizational skills I have are inspired from the sorting floor of our “backyard” laundry area.

Apart from unzipping the zippers and unbuttoning the bottons, turning out pockets are my particular favorite. I have a motley collection of coins, hair clips, candy wrappers, wads of tissue and various receipts. Once, even a dead spider. Unearthing this treasure trove twice a week brings out the pirate in me. Sometimes I am even secretively possessive of what I find, like the five hundred peso bill Atch left in the front pocket of one of his pants. Who knows one day I just might tell him. Maybe.

Step Two: Soak.

I prepare three huge soak tubs with water, throw in scoops of baking soda and half a packet of laundry powder. Here, my precious loads of laundry marinate, loosening the hold of dirt and grime, sweat and stains, while I am at the office, in a frenzy of anticipation to get home.

Step Three: First Wash.

While the first round of the wash churns in the disinfectant laundry bleach, I stare at the whirling vortex of the whirlpool, hypnotized. I am relaxed and unlimbered by the very swish and swirl of clothing, confident in my choice of laundry bleach (“guranteed to remove 99% of germs”), and at home in the acrid fumes of chlorine. In the whirr of the washing machine, I drift in daydreams, and the inklings of ideas are born.

My workshop

Step Four: Soap.

An end to the first wash comes and I lift the heavy water-logged pieces of clothing to change the water. This time around, the garments circle and brush against each other in a rink of soap bubbles (“whiter whites, brighter coloreds”). It is at this stage when I lift Atch's white t-shirts and sprinkle oxalic acid on the yellow deodorant stains at the armholes. I attack them with an old toothbrush, scrub against them with my water-wrinkled hands. “Why do your armpits get that way, 'Atch?” I asked him once. He only shrugged and reminded me to rub harder on the right-hand side, “I get darker stains there, “ he said. He is fortunate I am such a stickler for immaculate laundry.

Step Five: Rinse.

I unload the whites and manually rinse them through three tubs of water while the next load rolls around in the soapy wash. I could do the rinse cycle in the washing machine, of course, because denims are heavy and sheets even more so. But the sheer brute labor of manual rinsing is heaven-sent to flabby office-bound biceps and pecs (inhale while lifting one end of a blanket, exhale while slamming it down into the water. Repeat.). You can do squats while rinsing pants and bedsheets, too (stand while lifting clothing, squat down to bring item back into the tub. Repeat.). Great for glutes and quads. For best results, do manual rinsing when you're pissed at your husband. Beats taebo-ing a punching bag at the gym any time.

Step Six: Condition.

Finally, when all the suds have run out, a final rinse with fabric conditioner fills the air with sunshine fresh. Often, at this stage, one or another of the kids will stop by for a chat, a hug or a kiss. Sometimes the husband will drop by with a mug of coffee, or to grope and squeeze. Funny how fabric conditioner is right up there with the top comfort scents that always remind one of home. Or sex.

Step Seven. Hang Up To Dry.

The air is redolent with the scent of Downy, and the tropical sun beats heavily down on the clotheslines, sending smoky mists of evaporation up into the atmosphere. I take a step back and sigh in tired achy satisfaction: one line of whites, one line of coloreds, one of darks, and the rest decked out in sheets. All neatly waving in the wind.

I could hire my sister-in-law's laundrywoman, of course. Save me some time and the inevitable rough hands. But I get off on doing the laundry, just as 'Atch gets his kicks from washing the car spotless. And also because I am such a cheapskate. Let’s not forget that.

But most importantly, no one does this better than I do. No one.

In the afternoon, when the fresh clean and fragrant results are taken down, they are folded neatly into a hamper, ready for pressing.

But that is another story.

Running Late

Delays are a thing of my life. I remember being part of a team of fellow tardy students who scrubbed, swept and dusted the faculty room at my old high school. Our punishment for being perenially late for the 7 a.m. bell. I learned a thing or two about housework, though. Something no one taught me at home.

In college, I was housed in an in-campus dorm, about a couple of minutes away from most of the classrooms. I was late everyday, too. My thesis was late, and as a consequence, so was my graduation. It was the same for every job I held down, and I got by on the skin of my teeth. Must have very pretty teeth. Most people seemed disarmed by my smile (except Atch, he has bigger teeth than I do).

Life started to change after marriage, what with a seargent-at-arms of a husband harrying me through the day. Thanks to him, I cut a bathroom record for 3 minutes per bath. Shampooing and moisturizing included. I can sweep and wax the upstairs floors in 30 minutes flat, with him hollering nonstop for me to come down to breakfast. I am now an hour early for work each day, with enough time for me to put on my make-up, de-hair my armpits and legs, and get way way ahead of my workday schedule. He's been able to teach me some things in my old age, this man of mine.

But delays are making their intrusive way into the fabric of my existence once more, like an addiction worming its way back into my skin. Only it's not my skin I'm bothered about, its Eli's. I worry about the state of his development. That is, his lack of it.

Not that there's anything the matter with his physical growth, he's as sturdy as an ox and has a belly pushing out in front of him like Friar Tuck after downing a barrel of mead. His meaty arms often choke the breath from my stringy neck, and if the ceiling thunders overhead, one can be sure he is trotting on the floorboards upstairs on a quest for something or other.

Catching rain from the downspout

But still I worry. Eli is pushing two and has yet to conquer the language barrier. He says “up”, and “go”, and “car”, “piss” (please) and “ta-ta” (thank you), “kich” (kiss) and “ugg” (hug) and “ba-ba” (bye-bye), but that's about all there is to it. To get something he wants, he'll point to the object of desire and go “Mmmm?!”.

Parenting websites tell me that all babies develop at their own pace. But Woog's mouth was running on lispy sentence fragments at this stage. I know I shouldn't compare (Bad mommy! Bad mommy!) .... but still.

Also, for no reason in particular, he's developed a great dislike for his potty, and nothing we do will make him sit on it willingly. He's on XXL diapies now, but with the size of his butt and the volume of his expulsions, we'll have to think about getting him size small adult diapers soon.

Gathering leaves

Most toddlers his age are sleeping through the night. Not this little monster. In the dead of sleep, when we are well into r.e.m., he climbs into our bed: “Up!” he explains unapollogetically, “up!”, and he knees us on the belly and elbows us on the nose, until he has found that precise position between us, with his head against my ribs and his feet on his father's face. At around this time, we are groaning and cursing, while “Up...” he sighs blissfully, falling back to sleep.

We have tried plunking him back on his bed, he simply finds his way back up again. Rather than go through this exhausting repetitive cycle for the rest of the night, our sleep deprived selves have decided to let him be. Surely, he'll grow out of it. It's a decade or so before he becomes a teenager. Not too long a wait.

Too, at 20 months, his temper tantrums have reared their ugly head. Taking just one wheel off its axles from his offroader jeep isn't enough for him, no. He has to remove the remaining three tires, as well. And it's all our fault that the vehicle is a little too well made for him to discombobulate. So SCREAM, SCREECH, YOWL, SHRIEK you! Same goes for the square-block-that-won't-fit-into-the-round-hole puzzle box, or the plastic hanger that won't hook into the closet handle. HOOOWWWL!

What do you do about a toddler who insists on being carried, all 500 tons of him, until he warms up to the new day, or leaves whatever cobwebs he has woken up with behind? Or an almost two-year-old who shies away from new people, is terrified by the kiddie rides at the mall, and hollers blue murder at the modiste trying to take his barong measurement for his aunt's impending wedding (assuming he'd consent to wear one)?

Hiding inside Mom's closet

Except that at 5 A.M., before you even want to think of getting up, he is draping his heavy barrel chest on you, asking for his “kich”, and wetly smothering your face with a combination of “ooombwah's” and the new smacking sounds he has just recently learned to make. And after you'd make some sleepy grunt of acknowledgement, he'd press the point of his chin on your cheek or arm or shoulder, and dig and wiggle down until you are wide awake. Then and only then, will he demand an “ugg”, and give you one of his own without even waiting for your reply.

“Who's my sweet little fat little gwapo little baby?” I'd ask him. “'Ah-jah!” (Elijah) he'd squeal, tapping his chest proudly.

Delays? Was I talking about delays?