Wawa whee!
I watch a three-year-old chubby boy with round shoulders and heavy thighs maneuver four steps and I’m already breathless with fear. I see chocolates around the mouth of his Manong Pico and say out loud, “Yuck, how can you kiss me?” “If I wasn’t dirty, Wawa, how would you know the difference when I’m clean?” Correct, smart kid! And our conversation touches on comparisons based on what was just a requested kiss! Four steps has led to Pablo’s ability to climb 12 wooden steps up and go down. “Twelve steps alone! Mom let’s him...” True, I’ve seen that and I’ve closed my eyes — and waited at the bottom steps with open arms — concluding that mothers have different methods in rearing their children. I shelter mine. Pin lets hers explore to farther limits than I have done.
I like to listen in on children’s conversations. You can call me an eavesdropper, but there’s a need for being one. When their reasoning and discussions go astray I corral them back towards my opinion. For example, “I like to hold snakes,” Raf Jaworski said one day. Oh no, you don’t, I sternly said. You throw that snake in the bottle you picked up in Morong! “Where Wawa?” In your enemy’s house, I answered. “Oh no, Mom, don’t teach them that,” Mikee butted in. Come to think of it, they’ll meet enough snakes when they grow up. Poor kids.
My household has numerous solutions for little people who amuse me. Very often children’s comments become lessons for me as a bystander. “Sir” Pico said the other night: “A policeman must learn how to drive but he shouldn’t stay with drivers all the time. He’s a major.” How perceptive children can be, and they say what’s on their mind. Even if it were on our minds we wouldn’t be able to say it as adults. They can, though, as little tykes.
My life the last two weeks has been filled with more psychology lessons and reliving a lot of time gone by. My life is unfolding all over again to the mid-1960s with these two grandchildren living temporarily with me. I’ll certainly be sad to let them go when their parents arrive from America.
To begin with, it was loneliness seeping in from sniffing Seres Baby Olio di Mondorle Dolci Profumato Aceite de Almendras. In short, almond oil. Its flowery scent derived from crushed nuts is so lovely that in Florence, I couldn’t help but kiss little Demi to take a sniff of the olio around her ears. Bringing a bottle home, I couldn’t use that aceite Mai gave me. It makes me homesick for a girl in a linen white cap of four months. Through God’s kindness came magic. Circumstances transformed the Olio Mondorle Dolci to Lacoste men’s cologne, which my curly-haired lovable boarders use before school in the morning.
These days I’m the boss even if they Skype their mom on the Internet every other day. Their parents Jojo and Pin are in Boston and texted, “Are you spoiling the boys? They won’t want to return home with us when we arrive. “Wowo, are you allowing the boys to climb all over you while snatching your champoy even before meals?” Guilty to all charges, I answered.
Actually, I don’t mind if my story ends with how I intended to begin this article. “Mom, can my boys stay with you at Acacia? They don’t want to live anywhere else but with you.” Isn’t that the ultimate praise a child can smother an adult with? I think so, but I wondered why. Why do I deserve that decision on their own? Is it love? Could it be the bedroom cupboard on top of the refrigerator where the junk food is stored — potato chips, Planter’s peanuts, turones, chicharon, prosciutto ham and cheese? Is it because their mommy doesn’t allow them to eat that kind of food in between meals due to its consequences like acid tummies, cholesterol and indigestion? These days they eat all the desirable stock Auntie China buys with the consent of a liberal Wawa.
As a grandma, I see that my children dare their children to go ahead and follow my house rules, which they wouldn’t allow in their own houses. Touch anything you want. “Sure you can.” “Yes, you can.” “Yes, you’ll be able to.” “Yes anytime.” Consequently I have them under my wing at all times — even if Pico messes up the kitchen trying new recipes and does his homework while I read Ileto’s book on the Maguindanao Datu Uto, us sitting side by side on the same bench by my desk. He may disturb me with statements about drivers arriving late for work, ask me so many why’s and when’s to solve objective homework and it’s all so much fun. Living it up? Why not, as long as both Pico and Pablo wake up at 6 a.m., keeping their promise to be early birds. Staying up late to 11 p.m. instead of sleeping at 9:20 p.m. is all right with me. Sometimes it’s 11 p.m. because we talk with my officers about adult subjects like bullets and the firing range and minimizing gas expenses of school buses — Pico included, because he just can’t wait to be an adult.
It’s been three weeks now and I expect a call on the phone again. “Please come home, I can’t eat without you and the food’s getting cold.” That appeal makes me wrap up the day’s achievements just to be met at the door by Pico who shouts “Wawa’s home!” and readily gets my bags to give to yaya Sally and leads me to the kitchen… with Pablo chasing me with the news of his biggest achievement of the day, “I farted so loud, Wawa.” I take a close look at Pico’s chicken cooked with wine and topped with cheese and meatballs. It’s his new concoction, something Margarita Fores might enjoy with breadsticks. Pico is our little chef while Mikee’s Robbie is our actor and dancer. But again, for both the best way to their hearts is through their tummies. That adage hasn’t changed in centuries. Another time I watch Pico pour sauce — not on the chicken wine but soy sauce for his adobo. One year of private cooking lessons on weekends with Chef Jason has him planning a menu and cooking for the household. “Almost every recipe begins by frying garlic, Wawa, and please don’t argue with me on the amount of salt the sinigang needs like Mom and Dad do. Like it or not…” I like! I offer a nervous smile. My imagination carries me to hot lard and a possible burn, yet we smile at each other with a spirit that uplifts giver and receiver, a smile worth the late hours in the day.
Love is borderless with Pico. Having left for Cotabato to attend a wedding, I arrived home with ensaimada and crabs from Ofelia Siao to this kind welcome, “I never, ever missed my mom until you were out for the weekend, Wawa. Where’d you go?” So I promised my Chinese school student to take him with me next time. We boil the crabs together with some claws dangling out of the pot. Mikee says that’s how she and Uncle Ninoy boiled lobsters in Boston. Unexpectedly I get criticized for handle-less pots and pans and an incomplete set of knives. Cook Zeny’s been telling me about purchasing some but since the help doesn’t take care of my new purchases they will just have to suffer along with me until next year’s budget.
Right now I’m getting nagged for some attention with a piece of paper that’s got Chinese characters on it. They’re for arithmetic class at Xavier school from Pablo. What should an essay on good governance look like? Pico goes to school at Fely Atienza’s International Chinese School and I’ve warned Jojo and Pin about having two children learning a language — like Chinese — that the parents can’t understand. We’ve heard about coup plots, right? We did, coming from Ayala Avenue during the standoff between the Army and the RAM. Bullets entered our bedroom. No kidding! Swear to God, I’ve got the bullets on my Chinese screen and glass showcase but verbal coups I’ve yet to hear of — say Chinese vs. English, or Pico and Pablo vs. their Dad and Mom.
All they want to be like is… the Jonas Brothers. Who’s that? “Famous singers, Wawa. Martina and I want to be like Hannah Montana, too.” Golly, who’s that? “Never mind na they don’t have a lola who died for the country.” That comment was so surprising! Pico’s values are in their proper place except for chasing after me when I’m in the shower with this question: “What’s the opposite of ‘win’?” Lose, of course. “What’s the answer to my crossword puzzle that must begin with R?” Relative. “Right, Wawa.” Louder, louder I can’t hear, the shower’s running. I open the door and he gets sprinkled with water and I stay wet and cold. “Hurry, it’s malamig…” We laugh together, and he finishes his puzzle with “I get it” while I finish the crossword coaching with a sneeze.
