Two Worlds

My sister-in-law tells of an encounter with a local taxi driver, a migrant like ourselves. He's from Malaysia but has lived in New Zealand for many years.

This man tells my sister-in-law that his children don't consider themselves Asian -- at all. They make fun of his accent. They don't understand the old ways. They don't want to.

This, admittedly, is one of my fears. I'm afraid that not only will my children know little about their roots; but that they will be disinterested or worse, disrespectful of them. I'm scared that despite my best attempts at fostering and inculcating a deep sense of love for our country of origin, none of it will stick and I will end up with kids who look Asian and yet disavow any connection to that part of the world.

God Forbid.

Perhaps it's the weather, but as yet another fierce winter day passes; as the chill of the season creeps into my bones, thoughts like this increasingly fill my brain and I find myself laden with a strong sense of nostalgia and homesickness. I long for warmer climes, for summer evenings spent catching up with old friends, for Sunday lunch and afternoons with family. And even as my heart explodes with the ache of wanting all these things; my mind betrays with wayward thoughts of how what is familiar and safe to me - all the things I grew up with; the sights and sounds of a noisy, huge metropolis; the highways and backroads I used to navigate and know like the back of my own hand; the stomping grounds I used to haunt; the food (oh, the food!) so difficult or nearly impossible to get over here -- all these things are in fact, alien to my children. They've either not seen or heard or tasted or experienced many of these, or else only have a vague remembrance. My daughter was only 4 when we took the plunge and moved down under. My son was born here, and we haven't been back since. Manila would be as unfamiliar to them as New Zealand is to me. And all the things about living here that I have only just been coming to grips with will now, in fact, become their own anchoring reality -- even as my own anchoring reality slips further and further away, each day that we remain on NZ soil.

I love our new life here and yet like many first generation migrants, I will always be torn. I'll always have one foot in, and the other one jutting out just ever so slightly in the direction of some 5,028 miles north. While we've done well enough to cope and settle in, the truth is I'll always have one eye in the direction of what I left behind, even as I continue to look ahead and forge bravely into this new world. Sometimes however I do wonder if in my constant looking back, whether I am in some way impeding the forward momentum with which I must move on. After all, I can't keep living in the past. And yet, I can't - mustn't ever -- forget, or leave it completely behind either. I also can't help wondering - in a parallel universe, what would our lives be like if we had stayed? What would that look like? In the end, would all have been for the better? Worse? I will never know. And for that fact alone, I know I must stop asking.

We are scheduled to return to Manila in December 2010. It's something to look forward to. You can bet we'll make the most of it. It will be a time to catch up with old friends; have lunch with family and all our titos and titas and pinsans and pamangkins. If we can, we'll laze around the beaches and be warm. We'll stuff ourselves with Taho and Litson and Jollibee chicken with sweet-style spaghetti topped with hotdogs, and Tropical Hut hamburgers and Auntie Anne Pretzels and Goldilocks polovoron and fat juicy, ripe, Philippine mangoes. We'll drive by and through the suburbs bursting with Christmas lights and bright parols; eat Bibingka and Puto Bumbong dripping with butter and heavy with coconut shavings; and catch Misa del Gallo at least once (I doubt we'd make the whole nine-day novena.). We'll also make time to pay our respects and visit their Grandparents' graves. We'll make memories worth holding onto - and repeating. Hopefully that will go a long way to ensuring that while my kids reap the benefits of this new life, they also come to know all the things to which they should hold fast and dear, and why that must be so.

A wise man once said, "He who does not know how to look back at where he came from will never get to his destination. " (He also said "He who does not love his own language is worse than an animal and smelly fish. " Somehow it sounds cooler in Tagalog.) As my kids navigate their way through life, I hope this is something they'll always keep in mind. May they always keep a part of the Philippines alive in them. May they keep returning. And when they look in the mirror, may they see themselves as Filipino still, even as we continue to celebrate and embrace all things Kiwi, and all things which our adventures in New Zealand bring.

To Be a Dream Is So Much Fun!

Ah the curious and wonderful things that children say!

Scene: Tiny, miniscule, cramped-with- appliances Kitchen. Mom is prepping dinner while Older Sister keeps Younger Brother occupied with a game of snake rope.

(Snake rope definition: two people holding a jump rope, wiggling it to and fro. )

Older Sister (in a singsong voice):


"To be a dream is so much fun! To be a dream is so much fun!"

Mom does not realise it at the time (she is too busy making sure meal is even remotely edible) ; however does think much later:

"that was kinda profound what daughter said at the time, wasn't it? Hmmmmmmm....."

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No doubt, it's fun TO dream. Heck, I do it all the time. Some of the things on my dream list: a new kitchen (see above); a winning lotto ticket (this week the NZ Big Wednesday prize is $21M!!) ; getting paid to keep writing; getting even with people who've pissed me off in this lifetime.

But to BE a dream, someone else's dream - and actually be fun- well, that's gotta be some kind of wonderful right there.

I'm not sure how or where Pilar thought of this little gem. I'm not even sure she understands what it really means (or come to think of it, neither perhaps do I.) But I do know her dreaming it up (no pun intended) makes me feel quite proud. Already she's a better writer than her mother - coolness!

At the risk of overanalysing this, I looked up the definition of dream and according to Google its meanings include:

• a series of mental images and emotions occurring during sleep; "I had a dream about you last night"

• imaginative thoughts indulged in while awake;

• ambition: a cherished desire; "his dream is to own his own business"

• someone or something wonderful; "this dessert is a dream"

So... yeah, sure I'd love to be a dream. I could imagine how and why it might be fun, especially if you take it in the context of the last two definitions. Who wouldn't want to be a cherished desire? And think about all the fun to be had as someone or something so wonderful - you could probably get away with almost anything, and people would still love you for it.

I guess however that the best thing about being a dream is just knowing someone is thinking of you. And whether they're awake or asleep, does it really matter?


(Are you being a dream - and having fun while at it?)

"To be a Dream is so much Fun!" - Pilar, 6 years.

Monday musings – on playgroups, making friends, and creating space

One of the great things about living in Wellington is the abundance of things to do with the kids, often for a tiny fee (if any.) Winter and its gale-force winds are no deterrent – indoor playgroups, musical sessions and storytimes abound aplenty at libraries, community centres, churches.

I haven’t really had the chance to take my son to any of these. So S and I quickly piled into the van together with my sister and her two youngest kids, and off we went to Monday playgroup.

For the princely sum of 50 cents, we got two solid hours of interactive play, food and drinks for the kids and an inside look at fascinating behaviour – and I don’t just mean the children’s.

S had no problem fitting in and enjoying – the place was a veritable mecca for small people. Think two rooms of open space with sections for different kinds of play – toy kitchens, a slide, mini sandpit, art area, cars and trikes (complete with mini gas-station) – the works. I, however, was flailing. As much as playgroups are for kids to develop their nascent social skills, they were also invented for parents to meet similar folk and have some adult “me” time in the company of friends.

So as the room filled with more parents and their offspring, I cast my eye about for a likely prospect to start a conversation with.

Should I perhaps go over to the Asian moms, who by virtue of former location or ancestry may have more in common with the likes of me? They’re speaking in a language I don’t know and looking like a pretty tight group.

Maybe the moms with toddler sons then? Surely we can compare notes on raising boys. That’d be great, only none of them stay still long enough, running after their brood. I doubt I’d get a word in edgewise.

How about the fathers? They seem a bit lonesome in the corner. But then what if they start thinking I’m hitting on them and their wives find out and then they form a coalition and I’m banned from playgroup even before my playgroup life begins? Aaaargh!

This is bordering on ridiculous. Talk to someone for goodness sake. Surely you can string a sentence together - you interviewed people for a living not so very long ago!

But for the rest of the two hours, I barely talk to anyone else except my sister. Sure I exchange a lot of nods and smiles. Even come close to telling some mom off – her much older son pushed mine down and refused to share a toy, and she pretended it never happened. But the swell of the crowd, the noise, the forms in constant motion make me slightly dizzy and leaning towards agoraphobic, so much so that I long for the quiet of the library just next door.

In my almost three years in NZ, I have not made that many friends. A sobering realisation. But settling in – getting a job, a house, arranging schooling for P, and then finding out soon after we were going to have a Kiwi; and the grind of daily life – the chores, the errands – all that somehow ate into the time for more social endeavors. Any free time was invariably spent with family. And mates at work don’t really count – there’s always internal politics involved, and in the sales environment we operated, there was always competition at play. It’s pretty hard to let your guard down in that sense.

Fortunately for me, I do have family I can call upon. And as one of them so brilliantly puts it, when you make space in your life, something always comes to fill it up.

Choosing to let go of my full time job – especially in these times – was not an easy decision. No doubt people must’ve thought me irrational, crazy even. After all, the earning potential was fantastic. The job, on good days, challenging and interesting enough.

But sometimes the right choices are meant to be made with your heart, not your head. And if it means not only surviving, but actually feeling alive again – well then, there was no real contest.

What’s your heart telling you to do? It may not be something as drastic…but if the message is insistent and strong, it may be worth paying attention to.

(Of course it helps to have the support of those around you – so to my partner in crime J – thanks for the love.)

Til next time.

Welcome to the Journey Off the Beaten Mommy Track

Welcome.

This is where the journey off the beaten mommy track begins – at least, for me, in writing.

There are years to make up for. My first child was born in 2002; my second in 2007. There have been countless memories, moments big and small, steps taken, milestones reached - alas all unchronicled.

This is an attempt at rectifying that. I hope to recapture – and relate as the days yet unfold - all that is wonderful and terrible; exciting and exhausting; tender and fierce, about being a wife and mother.

So…onto my first post.

This afternoon my husband laughed his head off in a moment of karmic clarity (I’m not sure I was as amused.) My son, all 18 months and 11 kgs of him – had gone and done himself proud with a “boom boom” to rival all boom-booms. Judging from the smell alone, and knowing what sonny boy had had the night before (smoked fish chowder), none of us wanted to address it. J and I thus negotiated for non-changing rights via a heated game of rock, paper, scissors. Luckily for me, I won.

This, I was to find out shortly, meant absolutely nothing as I spent the next few minutes chasing my son up and down the stairs, to and from the kitchen, and in and out of the bathroom. The skirmish finally ended with me descending upon said son like a hawk to its prey and carrying him off to where dad sat with a smirk on his face. (Wait a minute – why WAS I doing all the chasing??? Hmm.)

It took the two of us – fully functioning, totally capable adults - to change the damn nappy, as said son wriggled on the floor, threw a mini-tantrum, and bucked like a bronco on uppers. When it was over, and I rose to throw the offending article (the diaper, not said son) away, husband laughed from across the room in an eerily villainous way. “You wanted a son…well you got a son.” Snicker, snicker, gleeful snicker - all the while conveniently forgetting that he was the other half of the equation rightfully to blame for current situation in the first place.

I don’t recall my daughter ever truly giving me this much grief in the diaper changing department. Granted, it’s been some years ago now, but certainly as far back and as hard as I can remember, it only ever took one of us to do it, and certainly always well within the time it took to sing, say the alphabet or the Sesame Street Theme Song

And there are more things. As a toddler, my daughter was just a tad bit shy and rarely went anywhere without me. My son hugs strangers in the grocery store and gamely goes off exploring his surroundings without so much as a by-your-leave. My daughter is more artistic than she is sporty and is a bit awkward and gangly; my son climbs furniture and kicks balls like he was born to do it and zooms about in a frenzied bundle of activity. My daughter and I used to spend hours reading books, lying in bed, watching the clouds, drawing pictures. My son can barely sit still through a commercial and likes being outside the house all the time – no matter if it’s cold and wet and raining. My daughter thrived happily on formula; my son barely drinks the stuff. It goes on and on.

I was told many, many times that boys are different from girls, and that – sure as the sun sets every evening – one’s offspring will have different personalities. This I can now say to be absolutely true, having now had one of each. I know this from experience. P is – and always will be – separate and different from S, (and vice-versa) and I should not expect one to be just like the other (though I do know at least one thing they share in common – they’re both mine!)

So now as I get ready for bed and watch the sleeping forms around me, I say a little prayer to the heavens above. Firstly, that the carpets downstairs have nary a trace of baby poo on them. But moreso, and with all the fervor I can possibly muster – I pray for three other things.

The first is wisdom, that I may always know the best way to respond to my children’s differing personalities and needs.

Secondly, I ask for patience, to hear them out and listen well to what they are saying – or not saying - and act accordingly.

And thirdly, I ask for the gift of time — that I may enjoy them for as long as I can, as hard as I can, while I can.

Until next time everyone. Good night and sweet dreams.