Silly little goose

My darling baby Fortune,  I know, I know.  “Why does that strange pudgy man with the curly hair who makes strange noises from his diapers spend his day pounding away incessantly — and insensibly — on that silly little white box? And for what? To produce those tiny squiggles that hold absolutely no meaning for me. Doesn’t that strange pudgy man realize that his sole purpose in life is to keep me entertained?

“‘Ahgyieourldhq!’ I bark my orders to him. Doesn’t that strange pudgy man understand the majesty of baby talk? ‘Lift me up into your imperial lap!’ I declare. ‘And cease all that gibberish!’ I pound the flat of my hands on his lap. ‘I want to watch the red, furry creature with bug eyes warble that hauntingly catchy song on your silly little white box!’ But all the strange pudgy man does is lift me up into his arms, hug me until I squeal, and then smother me with kisses. ‘No! No! No, strange pudgy man! I don’t want your laway (saliva) all over me!’ I push at his chest but he just pulls me back towards him. ‘I want to watch my red, furry creature!’ But he ignores my demands and just keeps on smothering me until I am forced let out my royal bawl.

“Then the strange, pudgy man heaves out a sigh and gently puts me back down on the floor. ‘Why, strange, pudgy man!?’ I bawl almost inconsolably. ‘Why can’t you let me watch the red, furry creature on your little box? Why can’t you keep on making those funny little faces that make me laugh? Why can’t you read me Silly Little Goose for the umpteenth time!? I want to relive the comical mishaps of that goose as she tries to find a home for her eggs! Why can’t you spend time with me all day long like the Silly Little Goose!?’

“I cling tightly to the strange, pudgy man’s legs and plant my head against his knees. ‘Don’t you know, strange, pudgy man, that you mean the world to me?’”

Oh, my darling baby Fortune. Don’t you know that you also mean the world to your mom and to me? If only I had the mutant powers to bend the laws of physics so that I could spend an extra hour every day just to smother your seven continents with my big, sloppy kisses, then that is all I would do. There’s a reason we called you Fortune, don’t you know? Yes, we did name you after your lola (grandmother) because that was probably the soundest educational policy that we could have invested in. (And a word of caution: Never ever call her Lola or else that educational policy will be revoked.)

One day, my darling love, you will grow up to be smarter than me. You will grow up to me stronger than me. And — unless I opt for Botox and plastic surgery — you will grow up to be more beautiful than me. But while you are still my darling baby girl whom I can bounce on my lap, who is drooling all over my dress shirts, who is grabbing away at clumps of my progressively vanishing hair, I want you to know something: we named you Fortune because you are the most precious little bauble in our small, infinite world.

And — as insensible as this may sound — the strange, pudgy man needs to pound away incessantly at his white little box so that he can pay for your diapers, to purchase your library of Dr. Seuss books, to start your trust fund for Harvard Business School, and to buy just enough time at the end of the day to make those funny, little faces that make you laugh.

This is the second year that I am celebrating Father’s Day, my darling baby Fortune, and I couldn’t be happier than a Silly Little Goose who has found a home to raise her little goslings (I apologize love if I am confusing you with the use of a goose for an analogy, but I could not find anything on a Silly Little Gander).

You are so unbelievably kawaii (cute), my darling baby Fortune, that I plan to merchandise your image on a stuffed toy to help defray the costs of your presidential campaign in 2058. (When it comes to your one and only daughter, my three female readers, you need to be open to possibilities.) Every time I drown staring at your adorable little mug while you are fast asleep, I still can’t believe that swirling inside of you is half of my genetic material. 

But when you emerged from your mother’s royal womb with a crown of thick, wavy locks, when you first snuggled into my arms as I lulled you into a sleep with the lullaby version of the Three Amigos song My Little Buttercup; when you first broke out into a smile for me not just because you were passing gas; when you first cuddled up next to me when you had a fever; when you first laughed uncontrollably when you heard me make strange noises from my diaper — then I knew as sure as the world is round that you were my daughter. And that I would forever be your manservant.

I am giddy at the thought of the day when you can finally scrawl out your name on a greeting card and hand it over to me along with a big, wet, sloppy kiss on the morning of Father’s Day. But right now, you would sooner eat a crayon than use it to scribble your name on a card.

But you needn’t worry, my darling love (as if you could worry about anything right now except play time, your formula bottle, and a change of diapers). Every time I find out that you have learned something new over the past 16 months of your existence, it is another gift that fills up the geography of my small world. 

There is no better way to start my day then when I come out of my bedroom to see you playing amidst your clutter of half-eaten books and laway-encrusted toys. Then, once you catch sight of me, you leave behind your playthings to waddle hurriedly towards me, hug both of my legs, then look up at me and smile as you squeal “Daaa-deee! Daaaa-deeee!” The price of your smile, my darling love, is worth a world of treasure. 

I am beside myself with glee when I see you perform the most rudimentary of tasks like running in circles and clapping your hands and doing calculus. I am ecstatic when you add new words to your extensive vocabulary that already consists of names, fruits, body parts and animal noises (remember, my darling love, my name is “Daddy” and not “orange”). I smile to myself when I see you spin around on your behind when you get excited and bend it like Pilita Corrales when you attempt do dance. I am astonished at the way that you devour your books. (Quite literally, I might add. My darling love has cannibalized Good Night Moon, The Very Hungry Caterpillar and the cryptic I Know An Old Woman Who Swallowed A Fly. If scientific research reveals that knowledge can be ingested, then I plan to feed her the entire set of the Encyclopedia Britannica.) I am amazed at how you wrap your legs around my things and dig your fingers into my skin when you don’t want me to put you down. I am amused at the way that you pretend to talk into my cell phone and babble away at an imaginary caller (that caller better not be an imaginary boyfriend). I wince when you turn my arm into a chew toy whenever you get gigil (excited). I am awed at the way you used the mixed media of crayons and markers and pasta to turn our walls into totally unexpected yet pricey works of art. (Note to self: Call the painter for a fresh coat of odorless paint.) I giggle as you pretend to type away at my keyboard while accidentally erasing eight hours worth of work (I assure you, my darling love, that those were tears of joy streaming down my face). I am dumbfounded by the fact that even if I have had 36 years worth more of experience in using my legs, I have a difficult time running after you. I am all choked up when yaya has to pry you away from me as you bawl like your world is ending because I have to go to office in the morning. (Damn you, inflexible working hours.) 

And there is no better way to end my day then to have you to pull out your half-eaten copy of Silly Little Goose from your shelf, make atras (back up) then plop into my lap, excitedly open the book, and point at the goose and say “Orange!” (Okay, we could use a little bit more work on the vocabulary, my darling love. But as long as your “daddy” is more important that “orange,” then it sits well with me.)

Come to think of it, my darling love, there is one gift that you could have given me this past Father’s Day (aside from helping me complete my collection of Justice League of America comics). And that is the mutant ability to freeze time in Groundhog Day-fashion, so that we can continue to relive these little gems of your first few years of life as if they only happened yesterday. But that would be selfish of me, my darling love.. You see, the irony of a father’s love is that the more I learn to love you, the more I have to learn to let you go. (Yes love, that was cheesy, even for me, but please forget your dad who grew up listening to Barry Manilow and Dennis Lambert songs.)

Pretty soon, the beauty and the cruelty of time will catch up with us: When you finally go off to big school. When you become manang (eldest daughter) to the 11 children your mom and I plan to have (your mom smacks her palm to her forehead. Then she smacks mine). When you finally go on your first date (Yaya will be there to chaperone you). When you finally enter college. When you finally become Miss Universe (I’m sorry, your mama Fortune inserted this). When you finally take home your first paycheck. When you finally take your double masters degree in the Harvard Business School and the Harvard Kennedy School. (Why do you think I’ve been working so hard?) When you finally become a world-class violinist. (That was your mom, naman.) When you finally become the head of your first multinational corporation. When you finally run for president. And then when you finally become conqueror of the world. 

Remember, though, my darling love, that for you to accomplish all of our — este, your — goals in life, I can only allow you to go on your first date when you are 41 years old. And, if by that time, science will have found a way for you to me grandchildren asexually, that will make me ecstatic.

I write all of this down now for you, my darling love, because I know that one day I might turn out to be an overzealous, overbearing and overprotective dad who wants what is best for you without realizing that you would know what is best for yourself (even if right now, you have difficulty differentiating a goose from an orange). And I apologize in advance for that (but I may end up doing it anyway). But, hey, we dads aren’t perfect, you know (as much as we would like to believe that we are). Apparently, being a good dad takes a lifetime of practice. Probably just as much practice as it takes to be a good daughter.

I write this all down for you so that when the day finally comes that you sift though my old articles and find out that all your crazy old man ever wrote about was spray-on tans and colonic irrigation, you will not have me committed when you do become Empress of the World.

And I write this all down so that you will know that your old man loved you like a Silly Little Goose. So when you finally come of age — which is about 41 years from now, or thereabouts — and you meet the man that you intend to marry, please show him this letter. Because if this man can love you even more than I can (which I truly, truly doubt), then he might have a chance in the Nine Circles of Hell of marrying you. And that is only if I approve of him (along with your mom, your mama Fortune and your yaya). But if you meet somebody who is just like your crazy old man, then there is only one thing that you should do: Run for the hills. 

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Thank you to the National Mothers and Father’s Day Foundation for selecting me as a Special Awardee for the Ulirang Ama Awards held last Father’s Day at the Century Park Hotel.