We use chopsticks...

Fall 1996--

I was a 40ish year old woman with a six-year old cute little boy. I was dating a man three years my junior. He was a very good catch; educated at an Ivy League school, Georgetown Law magna cum laude, successful, no child support checks to write, with only an ex-wife-to-be, threatening to collect alimony until death does her part (with the alimony).

I was on the other hand, well, a catch- I was a relatively well traveled but at that time a single mom of an adorable six-year old boy, gainfully employed, owner of a seven-year old Saab 900 that has milk stains, and a closet full of old clothes, belts, purses, and shoes. I can cook, swim, ski, act, direct, dance, eat fire and balance on wire...And damn, I have nice legs.

Prior to Kris being born, I have had the opportunity to travel through Europe and Asia, staying in pension houses and inspired, not by the destination, but by the partying with my equally adventurous friends. I lived in a nice 7th floor coop, 10 minutes away from Washington, DC, a self-indulgent twenty something who one day realized that there was really more to life than Gucci purses.

This fateful day, I would meet my future mother and father-in-law. I was warned that I was not to hug either of them. They are from New England and will be shocked at the gesture. They are WASPs. They do not show emotion. That was an understatement. I do not recall them laughing or smiling once when I met them. But they were not unfriendly either. They were just sticking with the program.

They did not show any interest in me. And I was not interested in them either. I was interested in their son :-) hee-hee. At the time of the meeting, I did not have the slightest idea of where this relationship was going but I was sure that it had possibilities. That I might marry a prince. Hee-hee-hee.


So there I was, extending my acrylic manicured-hand to the Queen dowager:-) I was doing and saying all the wrong things. It was as if my tounge had retracted and my brain had forgotten how to speak English or any other language. I was literally mute and when I spoke, I babbled like an idiot. An idiot savant.


Then I offered to help set the table. Dowager Mom handed me the flatware. I asked her what she wanted me to do with them. She told me to set them on the table. Like how? Like what? I said, "We do not use knives and forks in the Philippines. We use chopsticks." Oh no I did not just say that! Oh well, I had once told her that my sisters taught Scott how to eat with his hands. The dowager was not impressed. "I did not raise my son so he could eat with his hands." She realized at that time that her son was dating a savage. I said, "He told me you raised him to accept other people's culture." I won that round. Hee-hee-hee. At this particular instance, I just stood silently, while she took the flatware and laid them out. Okay, one down. Very, very down.

I was clearly nervous and Scott held my hand under the table while we ate. I dared not say anything unless I was spoken to, which did not happen a lot. Every word I uttered made me sound like an immigrant from Idiotastan. I spilled my coffee and dropped my dessert. I was convinced that if I were wearing dentures, they would have fallen out as I spoke. That night, I tearfully told Scott that I wanted to go back to Washington. I told him that I could not do this anymore. In the first place, this trip was not supposed to be one of those "meet your future in- law" trips. This was a skiing trip at Killington! Instead, this trip was killing me!


The next day we left his parents' home to ski. Afterwards, we drove to the B&B where we were going to stay for the night. I was enjoying a bag of roasted peanuts on the way from the slopes. When we arrived at the place, he announced that the B&B owners are friends of his mother. Oh great, so I got out of the car, went to the reception and mustered a friendly "Welcome to Disneyworld" smile. When we got to the room, I realized that I had peanuts in between my teeth. This was like having a wardrobe malfunction during evening gown competition. Definitely lost the pageant at this point. Loser!

The truth is, in spite of the fiasco during that visit, and the fact that I had to later admit to dowager Mom that Filipinos do not eat with chopsticks, and despite the fact that I did not win the title of Ms. "Amrika", in Scott's eyes, I was the real deal. I was Miss Universe. Because I was and still is real. I am perfect in my imperfections!

I speak with an accent, but I can speak three languages and fake my way into speaking two others; I am neither blond nor blue eyed or any of the day's special combo but my natural brown skin is the color of almond, I laugh loudly despite, inspite of, and at myself. And lest it be forgotten, I declared that if my son does not like the man I am with, then I choose my son and that is the deal.

My relationship with my son was non-negotiable. He was not an issue. He was the rationale. He is first, last, and everything. As in Barry White's -my first, my last, my everything and the answer to my prayer...

Two years after my brain freeze about flatware, I became Scott's wife in a beautiful religious ceremony and my son had a Dad. In our household, we eat with chopsticks, flatware, and as a nod to my culture, even with our hands!

Of all the little boys in the whole wide world, I love Kristofferi the most...

In 1990, I learned I was pregnant.

On the one hand, I have wanted to be a mom for so long but on the other hand, I was not prepared with the many decisions that only I would make. I was told that my feto-protein count indicated that my baby may have down syndrome. I was told that if an amniocentesis would confirm this possibility, that I would be allowed to terminate my pregnancy, which at that time would be on its 5th month. I was told that that was a decision I had to make.



Ellen, a very good friend of mine told me that I could give my baby up for adoption; that there were couples who would love to adopt a down syndrome baby. I could not live with the thought that I might be facing my own child one day and not recognize my own flesh and blood. However, anguished by the thought that I could not die in peace having a child who would be an adult with a child's mentality, I started to panic and blame myself for being so selfish, bringing a child into the world for my own selfish reasons.

When the test results came out, I was told that I would have a normal baby boy. I named him after "kris," a weapon of the Mindanao island of the Philippines. It took a whole village, if you will, of my family and friends to get me through his first six years. On the day that he was born, two friends, one of them on the verge of hysterics and I went to the hospital. While there, I could hardly talk through the pain while my friend Beth demanded for the doctor to "Cut her open right now and get the baby out!" Everyone it seemed was in the middle of doing something on me, in me, around me.

A group of young residents came and introduced themselves and asked if I did not mind them looking in. "Are you kidding, come closer and look, today is open house...poke around, check the parts, I do not care, just pull this baby out of me." In what seemed like an eternity, I was finally given epidural. That was heaven. The pain went away, I was back to "normal." Coming from somewhere, I heard women, delivering their own babies screaming, "Oh my God!" "Oh it hurts!" I, on the other hand, busied myself putting lipstick on. At one point, a nurse and a doctor raced to my side. They told me the baby's heartbeat stop. It was just my clumsiness; I knocked over the probe that they inserted to detect his heartbeat. No worries.

Waiting for my son and the "labor pain" or going through the motion of labor pains was very, very boring. I decided to mount a stage play, lying on the hospital bed, while waiting for this baby. I opened each scene, said every line of every actor, closed the act, opened the next, concluded it, and did the curtain call of "Portrait of the Artist as Filipino."


Eventually, and after my three-act play, the doctors told me it was time to push. My friend Wennie who was my coach started to really annoy me. Why does she keep saying 'push' over and over again? I have been pushing and the damn baby was not coming out!? Why was he pushing himself back in? He probably knew that whatever was outside may not be as good as where he was. Smartass baby. What's his the problem? The doctors vacuumed him, but he would not respond to that baby dustbuster whatchamacallit! The last thing I knew, they produced a pair of giant salad thongs.

I did not need to be told that they meant business; either I push this baby out or they would have to pull him out with the thongs. They would have to use the thongs because I was really annoyed at this baby at this point.

I pushed, not even feeling the push anymore, I felt like my whole body was injected with novacaine, if that was possible. Then I heard him cry. And I was relieved. I was expecting to be overcome with emotion like some Hallmark moment see-your-baby-for-the-first-time tears but they never came for me. I was too tired to even act out that scene. I was just relieved and tired.

The nurses put him on my breast. I looked at this newborn. My baby. The one who kicked me and made me look like a tadpole. He was ugly! He was slimy and ugly! I started to laugh inside at the irony of all the emotional pains and labor pains and I got one ugly baby to show for it. And I fell asleep...

They would bring him to me and I did not know what do with him so I would ask them to take him back and feed him. But lo and behold I would have to take it home with me. I made all the wrong moves. I put the diaper backwards and I did not know that I should not leave the baby alone in the room lest someone steals him. I took him to my sister's home instead so she, her husband, and her three daughters could fawn over this newborn. My sister asked if I had bottles. What bottles? The hospital gave me bottled milk. She said we could use those for now so I should wash whatever was emptied. It said "do not mix with water." However, I could not get the last drop of water from the bottles dry enough. This baby was drinking milk like he owned a cow. I had to wash all the bottles all night long.


The next day, I was sure I killed him. He was quiet. I was going to blame my sister. I was sure the water in the bottle killed him. It was her fault. She told me to reuse the bottles. But alas, the baby woke up and as my niece and I tried to change his diaper, he peed like a garden hose. We laughed at this show of force. He was our very own Manikin Pis!

As I carefully changed his diaper and his clothes, I realized that he was beautiful and peaceful and smelled very good. As the days passed, I started to fall unabashedly in love with my little Kris; the one who would do a dramatic reading of "Goodnight Moon" with me, who appreciated my accented reading of "Harry Potter," and who offered me Band-aid to put over my eyes when he saw me cry for the first time. He was the three year old who once told me that I was a stupid driver. The one who told me and my husband that he could tell the future because "I am a ....psycho!"

Kris graduated from high-school yesterday. He is going away to the midwest in the Fall. I worry that he would not wash the fruits before he eats them; I worry that he would not remember to brush and floss his teeth; I worry that he would not wake up on time to go to his classes or not turn his homework in. My husband tells me not to worry; easy for him to say- he was not the one who gave birth to the slimy ugly baby. I worry that Kris would not miss me as I would miss him. I already do. Very much.

Yesterday, as we readied to leave the venue of his graduation, I stood in the rain with my husband, who met my son when Kris was only six years old. Years ago, when Kris would not do what we told him to do, my husband would warn Kris that he would (my husband) go to his classroom to talk to the teacher. Horrified at the thought of his dad coming to the classroom, Kris would do as we say. In high-school, my husband tried the same trick and our son told him, "Oh yeah, Dad, go do that. Like they would believe you are my Dad." You see his Dad is 6 foot tall, blond, and blue eyed while Kris is half Persian and has mocha skin. He would say to his friends with studied sarcasm, "This is my dad. Can't you see our resemblance?"

Yesterday, I realized that I cannot stop time. Kris has to go and pursue his own destiny. His dad and I would always be behind him and if necessary nudge him. I cannot push him anymore...he would not be pushed as I have experienced eighteen years ago. As we attempted to take a photo, he looked at us and with feigned annoyance said, "Mom, Dad, go away. I am fine. I will be with my friends." As we turned to go, I told my husband, "Why do we do as that jerk tell us to? Let us turn around, take a photo. Annoy him." We did. :-)

This Sunday, we will take him to Amsterdam for his graduation trip. And you know what, maybe he and his mommy can share a brownie!