Parenting parents

Months before my planned visit, I could hear my son’s labored breathing through the crisp broadband connection. Once again, he had gone to the stationery store to buy a calendar that was as big as a general’s surveillance map (complete with pins). He was not taking any chances. This time around, he was planning, mapping and scheduling all our days with him. He penciled in several notes complete with question marks, exclamation points and happy faces. I was, however, suspicious of the aurora borealis that illuminated the space of our date of departure. Did it stand for his freedom day or freedom regained?

In a corner of his kitchen, he saved all the Sunday magazines with interesting articles for me to read. He had gone down on all fours to mop and polish the floor; he had scrubbed and dusted the entire unit as if the CDC (Center for Disease Control) was out to inspect his place for possible contamination. Not pleased with his shiny-as-a-mirror floor and counter tops, he sprayed a lavender-scented surface disinfectant so that the meanest of meanies (bugs, insects and creepy crawlies) could not survive the fumigation.

Lastly, he stuffed the freezer with a variety of seafood and had gone to the Wholesome Food Market for their organically grown and freshly squeezed orange juice. Before locking the door behind him, he made a mental note to get some fresh chrysanthemums. His mind continued to run overtime. "How do I squeeze enough activities to keep my mom busy during this visit?" Scanning the cultural calendar, he encircled the performances going on that month. "Eeegad, this is stressful."

Sensing his anxiety, I sent an e-mail, "Anak (son), check the web site of so-and-so theatre, museum and concert hall. Get me one ticket, but if you’re interested, make it two, or three (to include a daughter who was visiting too) or four (for grandson)." While he noted the dates and curtain times, he knew better not to take this as my "really, really ultimate" plans. Like Macy’s, sale (or mom’s word) is never final.

He was at the airport 20 minutes before our plane touched down. Fidgeting and straining his neck, he decided to get a cup of coffee. Just when he left to find the nearest kiosk, we got out of the customs area. He burned his tongue when he saw us waiting in the arrival area. Quickly, he waved and rushed to meet us with outstretched arms. "Welcome back, mom. How was your flight? Here, let me get your bag and wait right here while I get the car."

Turning the key to the door in his flat, there was a soft and warm glow from his table lamps and the votive candles. I smelled lavender linen with a touch of birch Arabica.

After a long bath, I came out of my room to the smell of something scrumptious baking in the oven. It was tilapia fillet topped with flaked crabmeat and smothered with a mound of chopped herbs and spices and sprinkled with olive oil and fresh butter. A bowl of fresh salad complemented the dish with a vinaigrette dressing made from raspberry and hazelnut. The meal was prepared in 15 minutes. I’ll be darned! Who said one had to slave in the kitchen to eat great food?

Days passed and I glided into a daily routine. Meditation, yoga (to strengthen my back), gym, workout for grandson and a bit of TV viewing – mostly Oprah – gardening, cooking, with time for laundry, Internet surfing and reading, too.

The phone rang several times a day, "Hi mom, are you all right. What are you doing? Can I get you anything? Do you have enough food?"

On weekends, he checked the giant calendar. After washing the car, feeding the fish, cleaning the aquarium and running errands, he was taking us on city tours. "But I’ve been to the Smithsonian, the Capitol, the Washington Monument, Georgetown, the White House, Kennedy Center, the Holocaust and Spy museums and the Liberty Bell. Did I miss anything?" Taken aback and a bit disappointed, he quickly switched to Plan B. "Ah, what about Michael’s or A.C. Moore?" Now you’re talking. Those are two of my favorite stores for arts, craft and scrap booking.

Sitting in the car, he watched until I entered the craft store. He made a few mental calculations and muttered appreciatively, "Hey, I’ve got two free hours to do my own thing." He turned on the ignition and headed towards the motor shop. He had been meaning to check the new car accessories and order spare keys for some friend’s German machine.

A few hours passed. Checking his watch, he jumped, "Oh my goodness. Look at the time. Mom must be furious." He headed back to Michael’s. Of course, I wasn’t there. "Where could she be?" he thought. He rang the cell phone that he left with me and I answered, "Oh, hi anak. I’m next door to Michael’s, a fabric shop. I should be done in another hour." I heard him draw a deep breath and say, "Of course. I knew that."

Sometimes, at work, he’d come up with inspired suggestions. "Mom, why not take the Metro and go to Arlington Cemetery? There’s a brass band competition that you’d surely enjoy." I’d listen politely and say, "OK. I’ll think about it." Calling later, he asked, "Are you at Arlington? I can pick you up there after work." I replied, "No. I ‘m here at Barnes and Noble and guess what? I found the BBC opera of the Little Prince and other rare musical DVDs." I heard him draw a deep breath and say, "Of course. I knew that."

Once, he committed a weekend trip to San Francisco but I didn’t want to go. He called a lady friend and asked her to look after me and then he typed a list of emergency numbers, just in case. "Will you be all right?" he asked. "Of course," I replied. "Your Tita Rosette is arriving from Toronto and she’ll be staying for a week." Immediately, he made some erasures on the calendar and added double question marks. "What are you going to do together?"

"I thought of taking her to the opera and a concert of the Gypsy Kings and then a tour of the Cathedral before some bargain shopping at the Potomac Mills factory outlets. Maybe I can add a quick visit to New York and a guided tour of the Old Town, and what else?" My son was taking notes like a stenographer (a skill that has long been iced). He rushed to his computer to book the corresponding tickets on line. I heard him draw a deep breath and say, "I knew that."

Looking at his notes, he realized the futility of a detailed calendar. As far as his mom was concerned, the old and maski paps (impromptu) scheduling seemed to work better. There was nothing more unsettling than seeing his well laid out plans go off kilter but then, what choice did he have?

A voice within him became his voice of reason, "It’s a fair exchange (for your frustrations), really." Where else can you strike a deal like this?

You come home to a spic and span room with no heaps of laundry waiting behind the door. Your favorite Filipino dishes – which you’ve missed all this time – have been cooked and kept warm for you and you don’t clean up or wash the dishes after eating. Ceiling fans, back of the sofa, under the bed and even scuff marks on the walls had been thoroughly cleaned and vacuumed; if any kitchen appliance needed servicing, someone was conveniently home to let the tradesman in and watch them work. The plants were noticeably greener. There were no accumulated trash, and mail was posted and collected on time. The bonus, of course, was you’ve got a babysitter on board who doubled as a storyteller, a cook, a bathing companion and the bravest-of-the-brave comrade against "under-the-bed" and closet monsters. They were good listeners too.

Two months passed and his calendar resembled wall graffiti. It didn’t matter. He continued to pencil revisions. A surprise weekend drive to West Virginia turned out to be fun and spontaneous. We went camping, water rafting and ate typical baseball junk food from our seats at the Washington National Baseball Stadium. When it came to packing, repacking and sealing the balikbayan boxes, he left the final decision to me.

And then it was time to go. On the way to the airport, my son was visibly pleased that we were right on track with three hours to spare. I caught sight of a large flyer that read, "Grand Opening. The biggest and most complete home and garden store this side of the Potomac." I peered close to the car window, "Oh wow! Look at that. Turn right, turn right, we must check that one out," I hollered.

Son stepped on the breaks and veered sharply to the right. His heart jumped at his quick and timely reflex. "Oh no, could this be one of those Plan B situations?" he thought. "What if they missed their flight? Surely, another day, another week of frantic, quick thinking changes would not matter?" he argued.

Relax, take it easy, anak, and enjoy the ride. Who said raising parents was a bowl of cherries?

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PS: There must be a period when children consider themselves much more capable than their "aging" parents. They call it role reversal. Below are some imagined notes that could be exchanged between a well-meaning son and her equally well-intentioned mother.

ATTENTION: SON:

1. Don’t treat mom like a feeble aged person. She can still hear and think incisively although her bones may have gone the other way.

2. For vacations that are longer than two weeks, mother gets homesick. No matter how interesting and pleasant your town may be, she misses everything that she’s been used to including her own time and schedule. Humdrum, household chores bore her.

3. Settle down and start a family. You are not getting any younger and she wants you to be in a permanent, loving relationship.

4.Draw from your mom’s well of experience for guidance and comfort. There could be no other person who can counsel you, love you and support you unconditionally and without hesitation. Don’t forget, she has the 6th sense.

5. You are now on your own and she’s proud of that. She is especially delighted that her ATM at home can now be declared "off line" and permanently closed.

Love you, son.

Attention: Mom:

1. Do not treat me like a three-year-old still in overalls and Band-Aid knee; I can think and pick myself up after a fall; I have goals and dreams that I would like to accomplish on my own.

2. Life abroad is mentally, emotionally and physically demanding. It takes time to organize and order things (in the house, from the catalogue, give a party). Services may not be as efficient or personalized as what you have back home but I know you enjoy the no-questions-asked return policy here.

3. Do not match me with daughters of your best friends, no matter the good intention behind them. Even Frank Sinatra sang, "I’d like to lead when I dance." Don’t worry, mom, I intend to use both my head and my heart in making my choice and in my own time. Sorry but your timetable is much too hurried and stifling.

4. Open your mind to new and unconventional trends (look at the pleasure derived from being computer savvy, from smoking cigars, in extreme sports and main stream music). After all, you taught me to look beyond the obvious.

5. While my accounts and payables have continued to be on an even keel, it would be a nice, delightful and welcome bonus if the ATM at home could be reopened to cover status-changing and "humanitarian" requests (ha!ha!).

Luv you, Mom