Gratitude

I have been mountain biking for quite a time now. And to quote a good friend and biking mentor:“Biking for me is a way of life and has shown me life's different faces. It brings me anywhere I want. It has given me the opportunity to meet all types of people. It has showed me what is beautiful and what is worse. All my adventures are with my bike. Next to my wife is my trusty old mountain bike.” - Syano09

True, it was on my mountain bike that I had seen much of life up close through the stories of strangers I met on the trail.

Where we ride is Malipay, an area where one can find a people remotely isolated. Most have no running water nor electricity. Some would hike a couple of kilometers to fetch their drinking water. And when the river that runs across their village rises, they are completely cut off they have to gather rain water for their needs.

But they, in spite of their want, would cheerfully and without fail yell out “Good Morning!” when we pass them by. They have, in fact, become my second wind. Their smile and their greetings brighten further the landscape God has so generously blessed us to enjoy on our bikes.

I would love to listen to their stories. I would love sitting with them over a cup of even the cheapest 3-in-1coffee mix after a hard ride. For there is something behind their cheerful demeanor that reveals the secret to true joy. A joy which we try to vainly seek through the incessant upgrade we do on our steeds only to be left still feeling empty and even wanting more.

I would like to treat that man a bottle of soda for eagerly pointing to us the way out including all the expected obstacles. His direction is the proverbial “light at the end of the tunnel” for this wandering biker.

I would love reaching out to those little children who find it great fun doing a high-five to a passing biker. I would always oblige for it is a way I can thank them, at that moment, for allowing me to run through their space.

I would like to return the kindness these simple folks have unknowingly blessed me by their presence. I would like to be more than that nameless face rushing by on his bike. I want to make a difference, bereft of any funfair, through a simple and quiet giving of self.

Mountain biking has blessed me much. It is time to give something back.

The Missing Christmas Box

I think that as one grows older, the boxes intended for us under the tree either gets smaller or is all together missing.

Unlike those days when we measure Christmas joy through the quantity of boxes intended for us under the tree, as one mellows with age, Christmas joy is now seen through how much we have been hugged on Boxing Day.

Honestly, I was actually hoping for some biking related gifts last Christmas. Everyone in this family knows that would truly cheer me up.

But except for a soccer shirt that can double-up as a biking jersey, I got no biking related stuff. No cash either to purchase biking related stuff.

Instead I got something truly more meaningful: I got hugged. A lot.

Hugs can not be boxed. They are much too big for any box to hold.

Hugs can not be wrapped. No wrapping paper can truly be colorful enough.

Hugs can not be bought. It is simply too precious to be limited by price and to be carried by most high-end stores.

And it needs no instruction on use, has no expiry date, no sizes, no color. All it comes with is a virtual warranty card that assures the recipient of the love that endures.

This Christmas I got more than a box or a wish can hold: the love of my family through a hug.


Photo credit: syd delicious@flickr

11 Years

Yesterday Cecille and I celebrated the 11 years of our married life.

How does one describe this milestone? 

Well, we have our moments. At this age, a person seems to be sensitive to almost anything. While Cecille thinks I should now  be acting my age, I believe she should know better. So there, our life story of the last 11 years.

Seriously though, an overlooked but deeply significant part of our journey together has revealed itself to me only recently.

The other week, Carmella asked her mom to write our names on a piece of writing pad. She then taped it on our wedding picture hanging in our bedroom.

Looking closely, one name in particular says so much about how one-sided this relationship has been: Cecille Jaleco.

Yes, she has taken up my name. All things about her now is about being a Jaleco. Her signature will now include Jaleco, she will vote as a Jaleco, will be addressed as one and her children will carry my forefather's name.

But she has also given up much of who she was, her dreams with all the joys of being single and free, and happily embraced her new identity. She decided to fall in love and to endure the pain of childbirth. 

She learned to love what I love, value what I value and share my joys with me. She loves me and continues to love me no matter my misgivings.

Indeed, this relationship has been one-sided but sadly, always in my favor.

And it is a regret that I have not promptly responded to the selflessness that was apparently there from the start. 

It is a time of giving back and to be in love like the first time.

It is a time to be grateful for the good 11 years. 

My Daughter Danced

Last Sunday was Carmella's first ballet recital.

She of who some two years ago was diagnosed with a life threatening disease, who had to skip regular school to avoid infection that can cause havoc to her immune system.

She who had just finished her two year chemo treatment for Acute Myelogenous Leukemia last month. Yes, last Sunday she danced.

She danced and danced with grace and gusto. Together with her ballet classmates all dressed as Autumn Fairies, she beautifully glided across the stage in the main theater of the Cultural Center of the Philippines. The joy that she showed while doing their short routine I shall never forget.

I never heard the music, never remembered it. I just saw my daughter dance. And dance she did. She danced while I wipe away my tears.

For cry I did.

I cried because I remembered how not so long ago we nearly lost her. I cried because I remembered our journey where our only prayer was for the good Lord to bring our daughter back.

I cried because of the joy welling up inside me, for the sacrifices are slowly paying off.

I cried because I was witness to a triumph that was being played onstage through a dance of Autumn Fairies. I cried because no matter how many seats I was away from the stage, I saw the smile that said so many good things.

My daughter danced. And dance she did.

My Dad Is Better Than Your Dad!

This latest NBC offering, currently being shown in The Disney Channel, has become Carmella's favorite. For her, the challenges faced by the participants is entertaining.

In this show, bravery is measured by how scorpion-brave is dad and strength by how accurate he can swinging his child, hanging on a rope, to a target of maximum points.

Here, "better" is measured by knowing what is your child's favorite video game, or what he wished during his last birthday and a reward of $10,000 for each correct guess.

But entertaining it may be for her, it is a dilemma allowing Carmella to watch this type of shows mainly because they wrongly label a person.

It does not genuinely define “best” according to one's inner goodness but rather through means that are totally trivial.

Entertaining, perhaps but it also presupposes that superficiality can be a standard of judgment. And this can lead to intolerance.

Indeed, I can never be the better Dad for I do not know the struggles of other dads nor their definition of victory.

I do not know how much they give up for their children or the noble steps they take to make life better for them. I do not know their journey.

I do not know the pain they carry every time their child is sick or distressed.

I do not know how they have fun with their families. I do not know their prayers.

No, I can not be the better Dad.

I can, at the very least, try to be as great.

A Different View.

All too often we are asked how we can manage our finances when it is only Cecille who earns in this family. She's not in the corporate world earning humongous corporate salaries. She is, in fact, in client services.

And yet we manage quite well with her humble pay.

We can afford to give tithes, extend assistance to family and friends in dire need and still have some left for savings. We can still, on occasions, indulge on our favorite food or go on out of town trips, thanks to promo fares.

But many genuinely wonder how.

Nothing unusual, really. It is just Cecille's view of rewards.

Most salaried folks to tend pay themselves after being paid. They believe they deserve the reward after braving the tide of deadlines, screaming clients, tons of paper works, office politics, mean bosses, the HR Dept, overloaded public conveyances, daily traffic.

Cecille, however, views it differently. Oh yes, she does face the same screaming clients, deadlines, paper works, office politics, traffic, the works. She trudges on like anyone else.

What sets her apart is she views her WORK as, in itself, THE reward. As such, there is little desire to further pay herself after getting paid.

She believes that being able to make ends meet against not being able to because she is without a job, makes all the difference. And it is this difference that moves her to respect her work and constantly add value to it. After all, you nurture the tree that feeds you.

This attitude has flowed down to all aspects of our daily life. We manage well mainly because we can identify the need from the want. I would like to believe this is the core of excellent money management skills and Cecille has become very good at it.

We learned to value money, importantly the effort behind how it was earned. It has taught us to prioritize, to invest only on what is truly essential, to be basic. And it has prepared us well during this time of biting global economic crisis.

We may not be as jeweled as the prominent Juan's in our society, nor can we readily afford those boutique cafe's in the business district, or those pampering foot spas or manicures, or afford the latest gadgetry, or join the frenzy of those midnight sales.

But we know how to be happy with less and it has given us an overwhelming sense of freedom.

Equally important, it has allowed us to share.

The Graduate

Carmella has finally “graduated”! After 2 years of treatment, Carmella has just finished her last chemotherapy course.

The closing of this chapter, however, is filled with mixed emotions and that she has finally “graduated” has yet to sink in.

Maybe because this joy we feel is new and has completely overwhelmed us.

Though it now seems ages since that September when Carmella was diagnosed with Acute Myelogenous Leukemia, the memories of those early days remain vivid.

What started as a fever we never imagined was already leukemia. No one can forget the rapid loss in weight due to intensive chemo, the sleepless nights spent monitoring her neutrophil count constantly praying they would improve, the high grade fever that never leaves, the vomiting, the endless trips to the toilet even when there is nothing to move and then the falling hair.

It was the most excruciating 58 days of our life for we thought we were saying goodbye.

But she overcame the induction phase, where the bone marrow was removed through chemical means so a new, leukemia free marrow can regenerate. She then went on to complete the consolidation phase in which the doses were a little milder.

That was immediately followed by a year and a half of monthly trips for the blood tests, maintenance cycle chemo therapy confinement that lasts for days instead of weeks, quarterly lumbar punctures and bone marrow aspiration, home shots I have learned to administer. Though still painful procedures, they offered us hope. Fear has been replaced with promise.

During that year and a half, our lives has become synonymous with treatment. We wanted to be spontaneous in our plans but the rigid hospital schedules and the limitations of being a chemotherapy patient prevents us. We led structured lives. It has become our new normal.

And it has changed much of us. A simple sneeze or wheezing causes much alarm. A slight fever would bring us on the verge of tears. We are constantly on our toes. There is so much to consider even when we are already on holidays. Cecille noticed I have forgotten to relax. I laughed less.

But looking at Carmella these days, it seems almost impossible we nearly lost her. She has grown into a bubbly and a cheerful child. There is no trace of that tough battle she once had gone through and won. She has learned to balance herself on a bike.

Indeed, she has "graduated". She overcame.

I can again laugh more.....

The Visit

 Some things, even it falls short from what we expected, do turn out for the better.

We were just back from a visit to our family home in Baguio. We were there for 5 days and I thought I can do some blog writing in between my biking and family. I was determined to stick to my plan only to fail miserably in the end.

I did attempt to write some stuff, two actually, but I can't seem to get over the draft stage. No matter how hard I try, I just can't organize my thoughts well.

I tried biking, even fell off my steed a couple of times, once badly spraining my right pinky, just to get the mind going. No joy there, only a sprained pinky.....

So why the writer's block?

Maybe because my body has switched to vacation mode, my conscious mind says it is but my subconscious  has yet to process the change.

Or maybe because there is this deep need to re establish my ties with my 80 year old father, to again hear and relive his stories, to immerse myself in the feeling of what it is to be his son.

Maybe because there is this unfulfilled wish to engage with my younger brother, to talk of simply anything, to have fun and a good laugh with him.

Maybe because Cecille needs to be taken on a special date, to feel what it is we felt when we were young and just starting out and Baguio has the perfect setting for that.

Maybe because I need to catch on with what I miss in this family, to reconnect, to hug my nephews, to enjoy our legacy.

Maybe because I need to go back, this time on a bike, and explore the paths that I only saw through the window of a bus while I was growing up in Loakan, to finally fulfill a promise made during the days of my youth.

Maybe, I do need a writer's block so I can do all these.

And I actually did.

Age? Probably.

It must be age.

For suddenly I found myself skipping most other sections of the dailies and would linger more on the news and the business section. I would now and then breeze through the food section, if there is one. I use to cover all but lately, I have been more selective.

I feel the entertainment section is just too glossy and is nothing but. No input here unless by input one means getting into the murkier side of someone else’s private life.

This reminds me of a family gathering I had recently where one close relative proudly related how lucky she had been to find herself in the same plane with a controversial local actress. It’s not that they were actually seatmates but that she was on the same flight was what makes everything worth talking over dinner.

She then went on to report that this particular actress was with a man other than her rumored boyfriend and then closed her piece with an analysis of how this actress’s life must be coming on.

More on the entertainment issue, on her recent blog post, a cousin picked on Noynoy Aquino's recent video ad. She zeroed in on the overwhelmingly huge number of movie stars that were in that ad. Yes, I can only agree: "It simply plays to the shallow celebrity mentality of the masses."

And sadly, Noynoy may get voted into office mainly on that thinking. Not on platform but on being celebrity-linked. I find this very, very dangerous.

I think that our country is slogging on laboriously the way it is because most would rather identify with a movie star, no matter how weak, murky or immoral their standards may be, than those who silently contribute to the uplifting of many. Only a few would instantly recognize Tony Meloto only because they themselves are driven by their passionate commitment to the poor the way Tony is.

Going back to the dailies, I really think there is just too much advert going on in too many pages. Are we less of a person because we cannot have this cell phone or that car or as fashionable as those anorexic models? The flood of adverts insists we are.

The same is echoed all over the metropolis, this time by gigantic billboards that can topple over and can kill innocent passersby. Once it actually did. Too much premium has been given on being noticed than on being trusted or being engaged with.

In one of Seth Godin’s blog on what he calls  “cable news thinking”, among others he listed that in this sort of attitude, “Things become important merely because others have decided they are important.”

This is precisely the reason why I have become selective in my readings: I will decide what is important.

Age? Probably.

The Kitchen Conundrum

I was not born a cook (though I wish I was) but current circumstances dictate I should, at the very least, know basic cooking by trying simple recipes. So its off  to the cooking channel, the food section of the major dailies and those free recipes that comes with that brand of noodles or this soy sauce for ideas.

I was looking at one recipe recently. It came with the egg noodle that Cecille would like to try. Sweet and Spicy Beef Egg Noodles, it says. It looks delectable so I thought I would give it a go.

I browse the ingredients: Canola Oil, minced chilies, garlic, egg noodles, salted black beans, down to cucumber, julienned carrots and bean sprouts.

Surprisingly, the procedure did not include the last three ingredients. I have read it four times over and still did not see the cucumber, carrots and bean sprouts being mixed in. I am no longer sure if I would try this. I might be setting myself for some disappointment.

I think that if they intend to miss on some items, perhaps it would have been better if they just wrote under Procedure “Surprise!” and nothing else. Or maybe “Explore!” which I think is better once taken on the context of a verb. Splash out all the ingredients and leave the adventure to the would-be-cook. That would be fun.

But on the second thought, wouldn’t this oversight also say something adverse about the product it was suppose to promote? How do we know they did not miss out on the important ingredients? Will it really taste genuinely egg noodles? How can we be sure if it is really safe to eat?

Oversights, it seems, are also the in-thing even with the humble but ever popular instant noodles. It has become some sort of a staple that the government uses it as price benchmark. If it remains cheap, then the economy is stable, so they say. Yeah, sure. 

It is cheap alright but is often hell getting on with. The companies try to save on convenience packaging and as a consequence those little packets are so difficult to open. And when you do, it’s all over you. All that oil, soy sauce and powdered flavors they insist as nutritious condiments splattered onto that favorite shirt. It is cheap.

So it’s back to the food channel for me. But that may even be cut short for cable rates had gone up and we decided to unsubscribe. This is indeed turning into adventure time.

Photo credit: foodie.jenius @ Flickr

Braver than Brave

On her confinement next month, Carmella will once again go through a Lumbar Puncture and Bone Marrow Aspiration procedure.

It is a very traumatic experience both for her and us her parents. It was no coincidence that a few days ago, Cecille spoke of being “Braver than Brave.”

Though Carmella is heavily sedated and the region where the aspiration needle will be inserted is topically anaesthetized, she can still sense when it starts. The eyes may be heavy and her body limp but she will still moan when the needle starts to invade her spine.

Because most of her body is held down for the procedure except her feet, they would weakly wiggle in agony. It is a very emotional moment and it always crushes our heart. We weep.

But braver than brave is what we have to be. No matter the helplessness, no matter how heavy is the burden of seeing your daughter go through a painful procedure, we carry on the best we can and pray.

We stroke her hair hoping that through the pain she will feel we are there with her. We whisper “I love you” through her crying.  We keep whatever strength we have left for it is through us she draws hers.

Yes we try to be braver than brave.

We try to see past the suffering of the moment, embracing what hurts while focusing on what gives hope.

In spite of my own tears, I gently kiss this child so distressed with an experience she cannot understand with hope that it will calm her fears.

We keep our faith knowing it is all that we have.

We try our best to live normal lives in spite of illness and reach out to those who hurt like us.

Yes, we try to be braver than brave.

Fastfood Blues

This time I think I’ll rant.

Treatment time, or chemo time, is also fast food time for Carmella. The medicines coursing through her system alters her sense of taste she becomes very picky on what she will eat. Treatment time essentially becomes hurry time which means fast food.

But I have had enough of people who can’t seem to understand what the “fast” in “fast food” means.

I have always wondered why some remain undecided even after standing for ages on a queue in a fast food place. The offering is there, posted all over, in-your-face and can be viewed from the moon. Why then the delay when ordering? Did they know it was suppose to be “fast food" for everybody?

Surely they have long decided what to eat. It was no accident they were in that particular place on that particular time of that particular day. They must already know what they want. Why the delay at the counter then? Have they suddenly realized on the final minute they were at the wrong place? Have they somehow forgotten they wanted to eat?

What can be particularly irritating is when a family conference all of a sudden takes place right at the counter. You can always bet someone changed his mind on something. Can’t they have a food conference way before actually standing on queue, maybe some 5 kilometers before turning into the fastfood driveway? Do we upsize? Do you want that with fries?

It is equally distressing what happens on the other side of the counter. Why should those handling the money also serve the food? Haven't they been informed of issues like contamination and Swine Flu? And why do these service people, busy as they are, should still allow themselves be distracted by small talk among themselves? Do these people understand that work time is rush time in a fast food place, never a buddy time?

There is this Asian saying that goes: “You pay peanuts, you get monkeys.” So are we in for monkey service because this is just fast food?

It is now clear why my Obi Wan would rather avoid fast food. Monkey service isn't her cup of tea. Better make that her slice of tiramisu.

Where's my burger and fries???

Triumphs

After a long while I clocked 72 kilometers on my bike’s cyclometer. It’s not the first time I did this stretch but it felt good that I was able to do it again.

It was one agonizing adventure where the up hills seem endless. The cramps, the neck and back pains and the bum burn brought by prolonged stay on the saddle I could still feel.

But I would ride that route again. Am I into self-flagellation? Absolutely not. It is essentially about this father discovering and then conquering his limits.

I am the slowest in the group, constantly at the last. Maybe it’s my age or even my equipment. But one thing I can boast about is I never walked my bike over any of those horrendous climbs. I pedaled and pedaled as hard as I can and I conquered.

The road ahead can get quite lonely for the man who is in the last. But in bike rides as it is in life, it is the last man who makes sure no one gets left behind. The rest of the convoy can meander on peacefully confident someone makes sure everybody gets home.

There is so much about fatherhood that would bring one to test his limits and a dreadful illness in the family is one of them.

Still there is no stopping over that steep hill. I continue to pedal with all my strength, constantly believing that I will conquer and making sure no one gets left behind, nothing taken for granted.

Everything is precious.

(Photo courtesy of Jovy Lazan)

When bad things happen to good people

 “So sorry for the late reply. It’s an exhausting and emotionally draining ordeal. But God is merciful. Though our home is a total loss, we are whole. It is well with our soul…. God has other plans and He is freeing us of any hold material things have over us.”  7:57AM, September 28, 2009 

Ed, Chacha, Jeanine and Carlos lost everything and were literally left with only the shirt on their backs after Ketsana hit our country. Their house was in total ruin, everything they once hold dear now covered by thick mud.

Ed is a peaceful and generous man. He is the simple, humble, quiet type who, from this author’s experience, would patiently guide you through stuff and things and would linger to make sure you understood it. He will always share your excitement with you. Always unassuming, always helpful is Ed Garcia.

He is my dear friend, my prayer partner. He is God send.

This is perhaps why the Almighty blessed him with a special lady in Chacha, whose presence always creates an air of cheer. She is the happy aura, the ever contagious laugh. Together they have surely blessed so many others with their presence. 

So why should something so bad happen to these good people?

I have no answers. I can only weep and pray and hope for a very dear friend and his family.

“….. and we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” Romans 5:2-4

(Photo courtesy of Roy R. Fabella)

Of hospital confinements and typhoons....

I am writing this blog while sitting with Carmella through her chemotherapy. The treatment lasts for 4 days and our hospital room essentially becomes our temporary home.

Carmella is in what our oncologist terms as maintenance cycle. The doses are milder so lesser dizzy spells or vomiting for her. She is not bed ridden as most patients in for treatment who after the first dose gets so depleted. Carmella moves about, preferring to use the bathroom rather than a bed pan. She is quite mobile, limited only by her IV line.

I stay with her the whole time she is on treatment and it tends to get uncomfortable on the 2^nd day, getting quite claustrophobic. We have no internet access in our room so it adds to the helplessness. Essentially, when Carmella gets confined, I get confined, too.

But confinement can be a blessing. It is a time of pondering, of quiet reflection. Since I do not get distracted by housework, I get to notice how much my daughter has grown, how far we have gone with our journey and then document our experience hence this blog.

Here I have the chance to go over my life dreams and pray more. I get to read more of Seth Godin’s blog that I downloaded earlier for off-line reading. I also get the chance to practice my dialect by going over a Tagalog version of a book by a favorite empowerment mentor.

Due to the food errands for Carmella, I somehow become an accidental service critique of each fast food place I visit. The experience is always blog material.

Then if I get really lucky, my Obi Wan drops by and we have a feast. This cousin-mentor simply loves to eat. And then we discuss ideas which are much better than after dinner coffee and pastries. Way much better.

And now, just as I was about to end this entry, the heavens opened up and suddenly Typhoon Ondoy (Ketsana) is upon us. All roads leading to our hospital are now flooded, in some portion waist deep. We’re literally stranded, our hospital an island.

Tomorrow I may have to wade all the way to the bank before they ran out of cash. And most likely they will because pretty soon the electricity will be off. 

Yes, confinements can be a blessing for this amateur blogger. Just look at how much I had come up with just sitting here.

Of dialects and my national language

My father used to tell us this funny story on dialect. Though both he and my late mother came from the same province in the South and lived only some twenty minutes away from each other before they got married, they speak different versions of the same dialect.

My father who comes the city speaks Hiligaynon, while my mom who is from the suburbs speaks Kinaray-a, both of which are Illong-go. Most of the words remain common but some, specially the basics, remain quite different. Dog, for instance is “i-do” (pronounced ee-doh) in Papa’s vocabulary while some 20 minutes in my mom’s town it becomes “a-yam” (pronounced ah-yam).

It was no surprise then that the first month of their marriage was a bit confusing for both of them.

Being born and raised as a Manileño, I thought I have mastered the national language well enough. Though both parents hail from the Visayas, I grew up speaking Tagalog. I remember Filipino as one of my favorite subjects in high school.

But home schooling Carmella made me discover there is so much I do not know about the dialect I was born with. Much like my father during the early days of his wedded life, I still get confused.

What has made Tagalog, so with the other local dialects, fascinating are its words. Depending on where the stress is they take on different meanings.

Take word “BUHAY”; if the stress is on the first syllable, means life. If placed on the second syllable, however, it means alive. If you add the other local dialects, then it becomes even more interesting. Filipino is a language with interesting word play.

I may have a hundred or so in my vocabulary of Filipino words and in several dialects but there are still discoveries to be made. Indeed, there is so much to know.

I never knew, for instance, that “talampas” is the Tagalog word for plateau and that “lambak” is valley. “Daglat”, on the other hand is abbreviation so “dinaglat” is a verb meaning to abbreviate. A nephew thought “burol” is Tagalog for cliff but is in fact hill.

I just learned while teaching Carmella that the Tagalog for bay is “look” (pronounced lo-ok) so Manila Bay is “Look ng Maynila” in pure Tagalog translation.

Based on the sentence it was taken from, I am guessing that “pakli” means replied, “nausal” means said and “pigtal” is to remove or separate.

We are still in the middle of our text book but the two of us can’t wait for the next Tagalog tongue twister.

Ikaw ba ang may akda nito? Aba’y tigib sa mga katanungan, ano ga? (Were you the one who wrote this? It's full of questions, isn't it?)

View from the Back Seat....

Recently, my wife has been doing most of the driving and I have been relegated to the back seat of our van.

It is a very interactive experience whenever she takes the wheel. There will always be debate on how she tends to forget she is on high beam, her choice of gears and her penchant for honking the horn at almost anything on the road. It is because of these debates that we decided our next car will be an automatic. 

But I have to admit that Cecille is a good driver who is also the “brave and the quick”.  With the frustrating traffic and the gross lack of road courtesy, one has to be a brave when driving in and around Manila. She is “the quick”, which I believe is the offshoot of her being “the brave”, in instances like beating the rest of the world to that gap in traffic to get onto to the faster flowing lane. Carmella is very convinced Dad is the boring driver.

However, more than being scared, my new place in the car has opened for me a better perspective. From where I am I began to see more of the world. What used to be a blur now becomes a complete story.

I think this experience is akin to the pause one needs to take in life.

There is so much I have taken for granted and in the process, have also forgotten my gifts. Like the blur of the passing scenery, it took a move to the back for me to notice the events that I missed.  

I would have not started this blog if not for a cousin who decided to share her “pause” with me. Well, it was kind of an expensive break, really. It took place in one fancy Italian restaurant in a very upscale part of town. The treat was overwhelming but the talk that followed over coffee was life changing. This Jedi finally met his Obi Wan. 

I think I will stay back here for a while longer. The view is truly terrific!

“That’s an awesome looking building, love. It must be new. I never noticed it before”.

“No dear, it’s been there ages”.

There you go…..

Home Schooled

I was quite apprehensive. This is Carmella's future being placed on on my very unqualified hands. All the while I was sitting at the home schooling orientation seminar, the nagging question in my head was if I can really do it.
It was right in the middle of the school term when Carmella was diagnosed with her illness. By the time she recovered, it was already too late to go back to regular school. Since she will also need further treatment, Cecille and I agreed we will home school her instead and I will be her mentor.
I always believed mentors were endowed with special gifts since birth. Gifts like patience and perseverance both of which, sadly, I do not have.
Still, I have to prepare my daughter for the world. I have to believe I can work on my patience and also persevere. I can see the fight up ahead but have decided I will win.
We are now on our second year in home schooling. Her reading has improved, she loves science class and is quite good at math. We have our own unique methods and we try as much as we can to incorporate fun into our learning. I am not the perfect mentor but a work in progress.
I have to admit it was a struggle, and it continues to be. I can sometimes be mean and overbearing. She, on the other hand, can be a handful when in tantrums. But together, we learn so much from the whole exercise. It is a journey of discovery for both of us and the rewards are far more than I imagined. The hugs are now tighter and more frequent than ever.
A home schooling mom once told me that she was quite firm with her kids back when she was still mentoring them. She was then always afraid that her ways more than what she taught them is what they will bring up with them in later life.
If one asks her children today, most of whom have gone off to college, of what they remember most during their homeschooling years, it will always be the love their mom had devoted in teaching them. Not those long, tear-filled hours of going over the same subject until they grasp the concept they recall but a mother's patient perseverance. Love is hardly forgotten.

Apart from the books we read, the math problems we solved, I hope that later in life, it is in the little things that we did together that will make the most difference in Carmella as a person. I hope it is in my being a father and a friend that she will remember most.

Oooops!

I started a blog last night.

Though I thought I have covered all the bases, read and re read my piece maybe over a dozen times, chose the appropriate theme, I still ended up forgetting the reason why this blog was started on the first place: for people to read. And so the setting I need to do, which is to allow comments for my work, I overlooked.

This reminds me of an old story of a wife who in the middle of their night-out suddenly remembered that in her haste has forgotten to turn the iron off. Stricken with panic, she demanded they cut the dinner short and head home right away. In a rather cool demeanor, the husband assured the wife not to worry for he also failed to close the tub faucet.

Ancient (since newer flat irons shut themselves off automatically) and corny this story may be, it highlight's one important but quickly forgotten truth: in our hurry, we often miss out on what is essential. 

And often, we do. 

I did. Well, nearly.....

Not so long ago, marriage was not a part of the picture I was trying to paint. There was so much going on in the world and I wouldn't miss it. I was in deep reverie when my mother finally asked the defining question: "Who will take care of you, son, when I am gone? Without a wife, who will?" Scary...!

And so at 40, considered old to many, I finally settled down. Three years later, God gave me Carmella. And even with this journey we are currently going through with her, I will always consider my self blessed. I already have what is essential. 

Yes, in my hurry, I nearly missed the love of family. And so I will be forever thankful to Mama for her scare tactics.

Why the Title?

So much has been said about stay-in dads and I guess most figured our mascot to be the sloth. Special creatures, really, and nothing more special than my personal favorite Sid, that fumbling but enduring friend of both Diego and Manny the Mammoth.
Why the blog title when it may cause so many to pass judgment on this poor author?
I guess because there is so much to being a dad at home like simplicity, no rush and dash, no keeping ups, no pretenses. It is easier to define a purpose, easier to be one's self. The world may be fenced out by a 30-square-meter dwelling but in here I have the universe because this is HOME.
I am a dad at home for a very special reason: my daughter.
Two years ago she was diagnosed as having Acute Myelogenous Leukemia or AML. Since then, I made her my main agenda. My wife and I discussed the issues of having a child with a life threatening disease and have decided I will be the one to forgo plans and take care of Carmella. I have become a Stay at Home Dad, a 24-7 father and yes, full-time in every sense.
I made it my vocation to be there at every doctor's appointment, at every laboratory tests prior to chemotherapy, at every treatment, at each Bone Marrow Aspiration and lumbar puncture, to personally administer her home medicines, to be her cook, her personal carer, her home school teacher, her friend.
I will be my daughter's witness and she will be my victory.
Yes, there is so much to being a Stay at Home Dad and this blog hopes to capture and share the view from this spot.