Skip to main content

Things Kiara, on her last month of being four, said to me today

She was sitting on the toilet bowl in a thankfully clean and almost empty public restroom in Molito. We had left the restaurant in a hurry, because there had been a line to their comfort room and she was already dancing from her need to pee.

Kiara: I also need to poopoo.
Me: Why didn't you tell me when you said you wanted to wiwi?
Kiara: I just wanted to tell you after.

***

I was waiting for her to be done with pooping, standing in front of her, my back to the cubicle door.

Kiara: (Singing) Is this the real life?
Me: ...
Kiara: It's your turn. I say "Is this the real life?" And then it's your turn. (Singing again) Is this the real life?
Me: (Singing reluctantly) Is this just fantasy?
Kiara: Open your eyes--
Me: (Suppressing laughter) Kiara, please focus on pooping.
Kiara: MAMA! OOH OOH OOH I DIDN'T MEAN TO MAKE YOU CRY!

***

Fifteen minutes had passed after she first said she was going to poop.

Me: Are you done?
Kiara: I don't know.
Me: Well, try to make sure. I'll count 1 to 100 while you make sure, okay? One... two... three...
Kiara: Faster!

***

On our way home, she hugged me tight.

"I love you, Auntie Dat. I will miss you. You're a fun people."

"You're the only one I really love."

***

Crying, she ran back to me for the nth time for a hug, saying she loved me and would miss me. We had just arrived at their house after their dad's birthday dinner. Her parents were still out, driving the paternal grandparents home.

We were in a bit of a hurry, wanting to catch the Friendship Route before the gates to the interconnected villages closed.

Me: I love you, and I will miss you, too. Let's hug from 1 to 10, okay? I will count.
Kiara: (Tearfully) Okay.

I start counting.

Kiara:
Slowly.

Kiara with my mother that day, playing

Popular posts from this blog

The work for which all other work is but preparation

I've been thinking, off and on, of something I once read: The purpose of marriage is not happiness but holiness. Never having been a "good" Christian despite my many attempts, I couldn't understand this line of thinking. Having been raised Catholic, I understood "holiness" to have as one of its main ingredients suffering — and why even want to get married if to be successful at it means to suffer? But these words never left me, bobbing up every now and then from the flotsam and jetsam of my brain. Until, one day, it dawned on me what the statement meant for me. On that same day, I also realized that I do want the gift of marriage. In fact, that is my Christmas wish this year.  My view is not a biblical view, but I don't think it strays too far from it. To be holy is to be set apart from others, as God is, in his perfect goodness and righteousness, in his perfect love (yes, this is biblical; yes, I know I said I wasn't looking at it biblically).  The

Visita Iglesia

My mom and I went with my sister, her family, and the in-laws to their Visita Iglesia for the Holy Week. I'd never done this before, but I had such an interesting time, and I think I'd like to do this again next year. We didn't do the Stations of the Cross, though. We just prayed and lit candles. A lot of candles. Here's a list of the churches we visited. Recto The University Belt churches, all of which are within walking distance to each other. The path to all those churches were lined with vendors hawking all sorts of things, from food, like calamares (I'd never seen calamares being sold as street food before! Lucky U-Belt kids!), all-sorts-of-balls-and-the-like (chicken, squid, fish, kikiam , and kwek-kwek ), to bottled water and flavored beverages, to candles and religious paraphernalia. 1. The San Beda Church , which I loved for the gilt of gold on the statues and the ceiling, and because once a Bedan, always a Bedan, though I didn't go to San Beda

Dream: Disaster

Last night's dream. This is a long one. I was in a management class that suddenly became a cooking class. The teacher whipped up this Italian dish with pasta, meat and some mushrooms and vegetables. "Would anyone like to have this?" she asked us. Nobody replied. A bit miffed, she handed it to the student in front of her: me. The dish looked delicious, actually, so I stood up and went around the classroom to get everyone to try it. Some of my classmates feigned interest, and some didn't bother to hide their annoyance, but most got some of the food. The plate was soon empty, even for me, so I went back to my seat. The teacher, who'd been watching me serve her dish, asked, "Why do you have blood on the seat of your pants? Do you have your period?" Surprised, and suddenly anxious, I whispered, "I just finished my, um, girly thing, ma'am, but I'll go check. I might have just sat on something that looks like blood." I saw what looked like blo