Riding on the Metro

I've been taking the train for over a year now, and lately when I get down to the station, I hear this song in my head:

I remember searching for the perfect words
I was hoping you might change your mind
I remember a soldier sleeping next to me
Riding on the Metro

It's from The Metro by Berlin. This song is SOO eighties.

Anyway, the Inquirer reported a couple of weeks back that MRT ridership is at an all-time high. Not surprising, considering the rising cost of fuel. I still remember when gas cost P19 per liter; this week it just breached the P40 mark. Looks like it wants to catch up with the Peso-Dollar rate.

I always dress down when I have to take the train, which is practically every day. Exceptions will be when I have a client presentation or a date. In most of those instances I just bring the car since I plan to wear heels. But I just couldn't bring myself to "dress up" when I take the train. Tanks and sleeveless shirts are a no-no for me there.

After more than 10 years of driving myself around, I'm glad to say that I adjusted to commuting pretty well. At first I missed having my privacy every morning. But in time I learned to "shut off" the other commuters and became capable of accessing my deepest thoughts while navigating my way to work. Taking the train became automatic, in much the same way that I can drive on "auto-pilot."

While I did miss the freedom to go anywhere with my own set of wheels, I just reminded myself that I had to take the train day in and day out while I was in art school in New York.

Now that's a happy memory. It was the first time that I was away from my family for an extended period of time, and I really loved what I was doing then. I loved New York, and I loved the independence of going out into the city on your own. Imagine, you can just go anywhere and nobody would know where you are.

Well, glad to say that I was I good girl back then. I didn't go off into the bad side of town and didn't take too many excursions except to museums, art galleries, and the occasional Japanese restaurant. I was mindful of the fact that every art class cost XX dollars, so I wanted to make the most of the investment. Plus I really wanted to learn.

There were so many characters I encountered at the NY subway:

• the street musician singing Elton John's "I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues" to a guitar accompaniment:
  

  Laughing like children, living like lovers
  Rolling like thunder under the covers
  And I guess that's why they call it the blues;

• the occasional black guy who solicited money on board, or should I say, intimidated riders into giving it;

• the Asian lady who made up her face professionally while seated on the train;

• and not to mention the man showed me his hairy tummy on the outdoor train platform - he said that he was a stripper and that they called him the "Wolfman." He got embarrassed when he realized that I wasn't interested in seeing his carpet.

Anyway, riding the MRT really gives me a slice of life. And yes, I am well aware that I am part of that pie. A couple of months back I remember seeing a young man in folded-back longsleeves and slicked-back hair during the morning trip. "Oh," I thought to myself, "a metrosexual on the metro." He stood out at the time, but then more and more upscale-looking people have been getting on the train that it isn't so unusual anymore. I imagine that I must have stuck out like a sore thumb in the beginning too.

Anyway, the metro is one thing that I'm glad for in this city.

24/100

Ever heard of Bo

...Sanchez? His writings have been circulating in the emails for years, and some time ago I came across another priceless one.

It was about being "emotionally present" to your family. You really ought to read the whole article. But I liked the part where he said that you should praise your kids seven times a day. Glad to say that it's something that I do, from simple things like "you're so cute," "I like the way you're sitting" (with feet of the chair), or "I like it that you say please and thank you." And I do tell him that I love him several times a day.

Come to think of it, it's easy to be sweet with kids. With them, we dispense the hugs freely and unabashedly. It's with the adults that we seem to have a problem.

I think that most of us grew up with parents who were not very expressive. I may be wrong, but that's what I reckon from the conversations I've had with colleagues and friends.

Like my Chinese producer whose mother always said at mealtimes, "Eat that...it costs P400 per kilo!" She grew up resenting her mom's habit of putting a price on the food that they were served. Until she read Amy Tan's Joy Luck Club and realized that this was her mom's way of saying that she was giving them the very best.

Between my mom and pop, mom is the more reserved. Dad was not the kind to express his feelings with words, but he certainly was affectionate - at least with the girls. It's something that my sis and I have inherited in great amounts. But you can imagine my frustration with mom, who was so careful not to pass judgment on anyone that she even forgot to praise her kids.

No, I don't take it against her; I love my mom totally. Even if she didn't want our heads to grow big with praise, at least she never said anything bad to us. No name-calling, no accusations...ever. Even when I was really out of line.

It's just that after reading Bo's article about praising your kids seven times a day, I figured I ought to do the same with my mom. Heck, you ought to do it with everyone. It's just that it's a bit awkward when you're breaking in an adult onto new habits. But I don't mind. Like I said, I love her to pieces.

23/100

Fecund

I ought to go through that Artist's Way book once again. Sometimes, when I sit down to write a post, I don't know what to say. Weird thing is, it's not for a lack of subject matter. I have hundreds of things in my mind; it's just that not all of them are rated GP.

When I started this blog I did it as a creative outlet since what I write for work is pretty much limited. It was cathartic at first, and I eagerly pounded away whatever so-called deep thoughts or musings I had at the time. I obviously enjoy wearing my heart on my sleeve as far as this parenting thing is concerned.

I still feel good about writing about these singular adventures of mine, but really there is so much that goes on that I'd like to tell but can't or won't - for reasons of privacy, security, or just to stick to my theme.

I remember, when I was painting, how I always said that it takes guts to put yourself - your true self - on the canvas. A lot of us are afraid to be rejected. Same goes for blogging.

So.

Thank God I have a theme. Ha ha!

But going back to the Julia Cameron book, I remember that there were a lot of ideas there that helped get you started on whatever you had to do. It's like I have a to-do list that's unfinished until now. That's kind of how I feel at the moment.

22/100

3 women

Yesterday while I was crossing the street I saw a woman carrying a baby. She was beautiful. Mature, but beautiful.

Not alta-sociedad or even sosyal beautiful. She didn't even dress rich, so the safest I could say was that she was probably better off than most. She had shoulder-length hair in loose curls and highlights. Her face was beautiful, but aged by wrinkles around the eyes and sagging jowls. She even wore a bit of make-up. But what struck me most was that she was carrying a baby - a girl, probably a year old.

She walked with a purpose and carried the child in a protective way, as if to say, "this is mine and you can't take it away from me." It made me think that she was the mother of the child.

But as she walked towards me and I got to appreciate her age, I noticed the younger woman beside her and to her rear: twenty-ish, fair-skinned, and simply but neatly dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. She was looking down, watching her step as she followed the older woman.

So I thought, maybe I'm looking at three generations of women here: dominant grandma, docile daughter-in-law, and doted-upon grandchild.

In a moment they were past me. Funny how so short a glimpse can give you ideas about other people's lives.

But honestly, there was something in the way that she carried the child.

I love watching people with their kids. You should try it sometime. People can be oblivious of the general public when they're with young children. Much like lovers behave when they're in Paris. Lots of private moments there.

As I like to say, I love the way we love our kids.

18/100

Morning pages

There's this book called "The Artist's Way," by Julia Cameron. I came across it in 2001 when I took a workshop under Jim Paredes about "releasing the artist within" or "unblocking your writer's block." Something like that. It was one of those groundbreaking workshops, the kind that you never forget. He pours himself into the sessions, and the if you give as well, the more you get back. Lots of memorable stuff happens there, if you allow it. I'd recommend it to anyone even if they're not artists.

Anyway, Jim's modules were based on the Cameron book, and the exercises were very good, challenging you to try something new. The most basic exercise is the morning pages. With apologies to Julia Cameron, it goes something like this: every morning, the moment you wake up and when your mind is still foggy, you grab a pen and a notebook and write. Doesn't matter if garbage comes out; all that matters is that you're producing creative output. The theory, I think, is that quantity is better than quality.

There might be an argument for that, because at least if you push yourself to write everyday, you're bound to come up with a gem sooner or later. And then, you know what they say: practice makes perfect. Same thing holds true for painting. Well, like I say, you really aren't a painter unless you're painting. So I guess you really aren't a writer unless....

Anyway, Pinoy Big Cousin's one-hundred day challenge is something that I could simply consider as morning pages. I think that the longest period that I wrote my morning pages was for 3 months. But I know a director who's been doing it for about 2 years. He even showed me his notebook; he brings it around all the time.

Funny, we're working on a project right now and just yesterday he asked me what my blog address is.

Another thing about doing Jim's workshop back then: when you're in touch with your inner artist, the universe seems to align and a lot of synchronicity happens. Maybe that's why I'm writing now. Maybe that's why he asked. :)

2/100

Shopping and suds

Just got back from the company outing last Sunday. It was a fun, tiring 4-day, 3-night shopping spree. Now this is my kind of clothing allowance: pack up all the employees to Bangkok and give them money to burn. On our first evening, right after our dinner-cruise, people were already itching to hit the Suan Lum night market. Others went to Patphong for the "educational show." I, however, and a few others opted to go back to the hotel. My roommate was out shopping so I had the room to myself for a few hours.

Nice bubble bath waited for me there. Tie up the hair, run the faucet with almost scalding water, pour in the bubble juice, then lie down and soak. Could've used some candles and mood music, but I make do with what I have - selective lighting and the television tuned to the movie channel. That's what I call the art of doing nothing.

When I laid back in the tub and stretched my hands over my head, I heard the strange but familiar sound of bubbles popping around my ears. That's when it hit me: it's been years since I've heard that sound. Then I recalled that the last time I had a proper bubble bath was seven years ago, in Bangkok too.


My memories of that first trip aren't so good. I was travelling with a group of artists called the "Saturday Group" and on our last evening my colleagues had a falling out. What started out as cordial drinking in one of the hotel rooms turned into a public display of dirty laundry. Sigh.

Also, the last time I was in Bangkok I had just discovered I was pregnant, and nobody but my (then) boyfriend knew at the time. It was difficult walking the unfamiliar streets looking for a good place to eat (I was so hungry!) when all the signs and menus were written in Sanskrit.

Well, glad to say that this time out I had a fabulous time. For starters, our hotel (Arnoma on Rajdamri Road) was located right in the heart of the city. Right beside it were a money changer, a mall with a big grocery (Big C) that closed at 11pm, and a really cheap but delicious food court. And all around were middle- and high-end malls.

It was also my first visit to Chatuchak weekend market. As my friend said, "hindi susuko ang Chatuchak - ikaw ang susuko!" (In English, you're going to surrender - due to the sheer size of it.) I was told that it was over one hectare in size, and honey I believe it!

Prices are absurdly cheap when you compare them to Manila's, but then you have to be good at haggling while overcoming the language barrier. By 2pm I decided that I was done with shopping. But since I agreed to meet up with my friend at 3, I ended up spending all my cash by 2:30. I just had enough for the taxi ride back to the hotel in case she didn't show up (to split the cost).

Good thing I left the rest of my moolah in the hotel ;)

So now my attitude towards Manila's tiangges (bazaars) have changed. Just yesterday I was in Greenhills with Miguel trying to pick out a red backpack. When the salesgirl told me the price of the bag that he wanted, I had to qualms about insisting on a really low price. In the end we settled at less than 2/3 the cost.

So you see, travelling really is a learning experience.

1/100

Where did the fun go?

Okay I've been saying this to myself for years, so since I'm on the brink of it I may as well write about it.

Once upon a time I asked myself, "when did life stop being fun?" And after some thinking I concluded, "when I had to go to school."

Think about it. When you're a kid all you ever do is play. Play with your cousins, play with your toys, watch TV, then play, play , play. Then grade school comes around. And all of a sudden you have to wake up early every day, hie off to school, do assignments, and eventually try to make the grade.

(Little did I realize that life becomes a little less fun for the parents too. Big school signals the start of a never-ending ritual of waking up early, saving up for incidentals, and don't forget paying the tuition.)

Despite all that I flourished in a traditional school. I was the kind of kid that didn't have to study yet got good grades. If I were ambitious - meaning that if my parents had pushed me, since I was too young to understand - I could have become one of those nerdy kids with all the honors. Thank God that didn't happen!

But notwithstanding my above-average performance, I resented school. In a way I felt like it was a prison.The rules. The nuns. The box that I had to follow. Remember having to stand 2 blocks (tiles) away from the next student at flag ceremony? Or having to walk in single file on the right side of the corridor? Makes my skin crawl to think that Miguel will have to live that way for the next 8 years. I grew up in that mold and in spite of my being an artist and an ad writer I am still totally anal.

To be honest I would really prefer a non-traditional school where students are encouraged to think creatively. There are a few good ones, just a bit more expensive than Ateneo. But it would be a new concept for my family. (You know, the one where everyone went to Ateneo.)

More than anything I would need family support to send my son to a different school. Can you imagine the constant questioning, "what school is that again?" and me having to explain why I chose that school. I'd have to have an airtight reason for sending him there. ADD? There's a possibility, but...nah.

And there's also this thing about your child's learning style. That you should put him in the kind of set-up in which he will thrive. Well guess who turned out obssessive-compulsive like his mom?

I know, I know. I'm always denying my obssessive-compulsiveness.

But honestly. I'm so thrilled that Miguel's going to Ateneo. When I got the letter informing me that he had passed the entrance exam, I realized that this was the first time that he achieved something totally on his own. Well, not really the first. Remember that he was promoted to yellow belt in taekwondo last year.

For the entrance exam, he went into the Guidance Department with 20 other kids and came out 40 minutes later. I had no idea what went on inside. I asked him how the test was, and he replied, "it was easier than the mock exam." Well whatever happened in there I guess he had an easy time because he passed.

So now we're bound for Ateneo. Big school. But wait...let me pay the tuition on Monday first. Thanks to my bro Gueli can enroll this year.

So will life stop being fun for Gueli? I really hope not. He really wants to go to Ateneo. Ever since we brainwashed him at age 2 by telling him that there are a lot of corners in La Salle. (As in, "stand in the corner!")

The thing he will miss is having girls for classmates. Oh no! Who will he kiss now? Who will he ask to marry him next? Man, he's got to get over that habit soon.

Exciting, isn't it?

Zzz Day

Last night Miguel went to sleep on his own.

Big deal, you might say. But for me it really is a big deal. I'm looking to move him into his new room by the end of the year at the latest. My sister's old room is almost empty now, thanks to my brother's housecleaning due to the upcoming wedding.

But I digress.

Last night I came home from work just as he was trying to sleep. After a kiss and a hug, he asked me if I would read him a story before having my dinner. I agreed, on the condition that he go to sleep after one chapter (we're reading book 1 of The Chronicles of Narnia now).

At the end of the chapter, I called the nanny to keep him company in the room, but he said, "Why don't I go to sleep on my own?" The suggestion made me do cartwheels in my mind. Acting very calmly, I tucked him into bed, turned out the light, left the door half-open as he requested, and went downstairs to have dinner.

Ten minutes later as I'm eating my fish and veggies I hear tiny footsteps on the second floor landing and a sweet voice: "Mom-my!" Getting up from my meal to meet him, Miguel tells me that it's too dark in the room. Take two. I go back to the bedroom, turn on a lamp, tuck him in, close the door, and go back to my meal.

After another ten mintues I pass through Miguel's future room, into our connecting bathroom. I can hear him playing in my bedroom. He hears me puttering around the bathroom and opens the door, quickly shutting it the moment he sees me. I decide to go check him out. He is lying on my bed, saying that it's too bright and that he can't sleep. I decide to turn off the lamp and turn on an insect-trapping lamp that's dim enough to serve as a night light. He asks if he can sleep on my bed, and I say sure. I tuck him in a third time.

Five minutes later, as I'm about to take a bath, I hear only silence in my room. Finally.

After my bath I enter my room to see a cute bundle on my bed, surrounded by pillows. I smile. I'm gonna miss it when he's in his own room, but I'm thrilled at the thought of his independence. One day he's not even gonna want to hang around me. Well hope not. I enjoy being on his pedestal, and I kinda hope it'll last forever.

I decide to wait a few minutes before I move him to his own bed.

Won't be long now.