When the hot water runs out, using a tabo: Filipino - American style

My sincerest apologies for my three week hiatus! I've really missed blogging! Believe me when I tell you it was unintentional and I promise I'll give fair warning the next time it happens. Moving right along check the story below as to one of the reasons for my blog absence. 

My most recent memory of the tabo was visiting my Lolo and Lola's (meaning grandfather and grandmother in Filipino, respectively) farm in one of the provincial areas. About 12 years ago, they still did not have hot water running through their bathroom pipes. Since the Philippines is an assortment of tropical islands, there wasn't really much of a need for hot water anyway only to accommodate a luxury for American me. Back then, I remember complaining about no hot water to the Colonel. I mean really? How could one not take a shower without it? Overhearing our conversation, my Lola pulled out her biggest pot, filled it with water and put it on the stove. Minutes later, she took the same pot now steaming from the boiling water, walked it over to their bathroom and told me I could shower now. My naive, spoiled self glanced strangely back and forth at my grandmother and the pot that she put in the shower stall. "What am I supposed to do with that, Lola?", I asked, trying not to sound as respectful as my frustrated, impatient self could muster. "You use the tabo, apo(grandchild in Filipino). You look in the pot, I put a tabo there so you can have the hot water." As I looked into the pot I saw what looked like a gallon sized cup with a handle that I wasn't sure I knew what to do with. But when I looked back at my Lola she had such a big smile plastered on her face because she felt that she accommodated her American grandchild, that I knew I had to at least give it a shot. With no hot water and barely any water pressure from the faucet (they didn't have a shower head either) what would normally take 15 minutes in the shower took me a good 45 -50 minutes at my grandparents' provincial home. During that time, I hated every moment of it in so many different ways: a part of me hated that I had to go through something I wasn't used to but another part of me felt such guilt for hating the experience and wishing painfully for the luxuries of my home in the United States. Oddly enough, none of it felt humbling until I returned home.

image taken from: http://liveinthephilippines.com/content/2008/06/how-to-know-youve-adjusted/

So over the weekend, our home ran out of hot water. Instinctively, I thought, "Oh great. Tabo time." Like my Lola, I found the biggest pot I could find, filled it with water and put it on the stove. Pretty Pants asked curiously what I was doing and I went on to explain my experience in the Philippines and how that experience really came into play now. He looked at me with both curiousity and amusement. As I put the pot and a makeshift tabo (7-11 Big Gulp cup) for my husband, he laughed, "So you want me to use the tabo, huh?" "Well we don't have any hot water, what are you going to do?" Up for the experience he gave it a shot. And, like me hated it. For the next few hours we waited patiently in the hopes that the hot water would miraculously turn back on, but it never did. It was a Sunday so there wasn't anyone we could find to check out our water heater. My husband, although he was trying to be a good sport about the whole tabo experience remarked at how he still didn't feel clean afterwards and wondered how we were going to use the tabo with the girls? We ended up checking into a hotel that night.

As you can see maybe we aren't the family that's cut out for roughing it. But looking back, having the experience of no hot water or running water in the Philippines was truly a humbling experience and reminded me of the many things we consider necessities in the United States are mere luxuries for those in countries that have less and that reminder overall is priceless.

A waste not tale from my Filipino father

Rambo is a stickler for anything that he thinks may go to waste: food, clothes, even furniture. Like I discussed in my Officially My Father Moment I do believe it comes from his childhood in the Philippines. Yet, growing up I never understood why. But here are a few more examples: we always had a dog to eat our leftovers. (For all you dog lovers out there who are gasping in disbelief, believe me, I've already discussed the potential hazards of human food for dogs.), when my family and I visit my parents home (aka the house where I grew up) I'll find clothes still hanging in my closet from 11th grade and my mother, the Colonel had once surprised Rambo with some new furniture for his home office which now resides adjacent to his tired, old desk. Living in a society bent on reduce, reuse, recycle, I've found their "strategy" very frustrating. Now, I wouldn't consider it an escalated problem like some folks. But I definitely see it stemming from a place of having nothing to having the opportunity to have everything.

So you can imagine his shock, when he finds out his American raised daughter is re-organizing her closet and "giving away" clothes to the Salvation Army. "Why can't you just put those in a box and I'll send it to the Phillippines!?!" "Dad, you live 6 hours away. I want to get rid of this stuff now. You want me to wait for you to send it to the Philippines when there are people here just in need of these clothes?" "Hmmmph. You are always wasting."

Or when his American daughter buys a new pair of sneakers when he has found some in her childhood closet that are in "perfect" condition that were bought over 15 year ago. Vintage? I think not. "Hmmph. You are always wasting."

I find this an interesting dilemma. On one hand, I find my father's tale very valuable: to be mindful of what you need and what you actually use so nothing goes to waste. On the other hand, it feels really stressful: to work so hard in life only to find yourself in a position to acquire new items but living in the guilt of not wanting to feel like the older things are going to waste if you throw or give them away. I sometimes see this conflict in my father's eyes, when he recounts stories of his childhood, when life was simpler: when you didn't need a tv, when him, my uncle and my two aunts shared a room with the floor as their bed and when nobody cared if he wore the same pants 3 days in a row to school. "You know, dear, even when we(his family) had nothing, we still had each other and we were happy." Well said, Dad, well said.

But behind all the talk of sayang lays an important point. Happiness shouldn't stem from our possessions but from our family, right? If the American dream is made up of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. It would be safe to assume that happiness comes in all forms. But for an immigrant who's seen the face of poverty to pursue happiness in its materialistic form, can be very frightening and almost surreal, so much so you don't want to see any of it go to waste.

So I take my father's tale in stride, preaching his words (and mine) to the girls in the hopes that they are able to find their own balance between too much and too little and what it truly means to reap the benefits of hard work and perseverance. Although I will never truly be able to wrap my head around his journey (but I hope to) I will never forget his lessons on the value of hard work and sayang.

Living without the Easter Bunny

I called my mother, the Colonel recently to remind her about Easter. Since she is very religious, I didn't have to remind her about Easter Sunday Mass or Lent. What I did have to remind my Catholic mother about was the Easter Bunny. Here's the conversation:

"Mom, be sure to get something for the girls for Easter."

"What for? Don't we just do the egg hunting in the park?"

"No Mom, you have to get them something from the Easter Bunny, like an Easter basket."

"What is that Easter Bunny? I'm sorry honey but I do not do those things, those are like American things." 

"Honestly Mom I don't really know what the Easter Bunny is either but that what they do here, so do it for the girls so that they will have the Easter Bunny. They will like it."

"Oh okay, where will I get these Easter Baskets?"

"Colonel, just go to the grocery store or Target they have ready made ones if you don't want to make one on your own."

" Oh okay, honey I'll get my apos (grandchildren in Pilipino), the Easter Baskets if that's what you guys do."

"Thanks Mom. "

If you haven't figured it out, the Easter Bunny didn't exist for me growing up. Nor did the Tooth Fairy, barely Santa and my Halloween costume every year was throwing my Mom's lab coat on and calling myself a doctor. Apparently they didn't have these characters in the Philippines and so when I would bring them up to my parents growing up they would just look at me like I was speaking a foreign language. It wasn't that my parents didn't try to make these characters happen for me. (They did put up a stocking after all, but didn't know they had to stuff it with toys.) They just weren't used to these American traditions and really saw no need for most of them. Santa was in, Tooth Fairy & Easter Bunny, out. I remember being so jealous of kids that would celebrate these characters and the holidays they belonged with and wanting that for myself. I guess you could say it was the start of my journey into assimilation. Being on the outside and looking in at all these fun traditions others were having was something that I couldn't comprehend as a child. I just wanted it all, the "American" dream. And as I look back, I realize they are dreams after all, these American characters that come with their traditions instilling an idea of fantasy, allowing children to dream. Of course, that is the ideal side of these traditions (let's not forget the uber-marketed side of said holidays).

Now as a parent myself, I have two perspectives to work off of. The practical piece due to my parents indifference to American traditions and the idyllic piece that stems from wanting those figures as a child. My girls get to look forward to Santa, the Tooth Fairy and Halloween. As a family, we celebrate these traditions enough for the girls to believe they exist (You won't catch me in a Christmas tree sweater, though!) and my reward comes in the look of excitement in their faces when 'dreams' come true. As for the Easter Bunny, well he's still not on our list, the baskets yes, sorry bunny, that's where I draw my line. 

Whatever traditions you do or do not celebrate hope this holiday is a blessed one.

Happy Easter everyone!

It's just emotions, taking me over...

Isn't it amazing how children's emotions can range from ridiculously frustrated to pensive to utter joy in 5 minutes or less? Playing around with my kinda new toy and doing what I like to do best: observe my girls in action, I saw just that, an almost rhythmic pattern of emotions playing out when Spaghetti doesn't get what she wants.

I couldn't even begin to tell you what this tantrum was about but I do know it began (and more importantly) ended in record time. Of course, Spaghetti loves to subject us to longer periods of tantrums but it must have been a special day because this one was quite short. 

Honestly, I thought I was one of those few lucky parents that would never have a tantrum kid. I could almost apply Spaghetti's older sister, the Meatball for sainthood for blessing me with an almost-perfect-it's-scary childhood. Eight years tantrum-free? I was on a roll. Then along came Spaghetti, who my husband and I named Tornado for her boisterous, infectious and emotional personality. "My goodness," is all the Colonel could say in reaction to her second apo (grandchild in Pilipino) "that Spaghetti is something else." As I watch my mother observe my daughter, I could sense the curiousity and amusement in her gaze almost in wonder as to how a little 2 year old can emanate so many different emotions?

As a child, I, like the Meatball, was shy and introverted. So whenever I was anything other than quiet or polite my parents would look at me strangely. A perfect example would be my own tantrums at 8 years old, "Why are you crying?" The Colonel would ask quizzically as if she were asking me to solve for the Pythagorean theorem. "I don't know!" I recall screaming back exasperated. And that was the honest truth, I didn't know and the more the Colonel kept giving me that you-are-a-strange child look the deeper I fell into the hole of not recognizing what I was feeling. 

As I look back, I realize that this wasn't their fault. My parents did not grow up in an environment that allowed them to talk about their feelings, much less attach names to them. Of course, they were happy, sad, angry, excited, they just never talked about them. Growing up in the Philippines was about working hard, studying hard and making sacrifices, there was no time wasted on figuring out emotions.

Remembering what it felt like to not have my mother understand me when I could barely understand myself as a child, I felt that it was really important to start identifying emotions at a young age with my girls. Even just naming their emotions when I sense a change in their mood or asking them questions to check in to see what they're feeling and also letting them know that it's perfectly okay to not feel or think of anything at all. (A tough one for us ladies, right?!?) Or throw a tantrum if you feel like it!

Any other techniques out there on teaching emotions?

sleeping like queens

My two year old, Spaghetti, is not what I would call a good sleeper. Compared to her sister, Meatball, who has slept like an angel (on time and through the night) since birth, getting Spaghetti to sleep (and stay asleep has always been challenging. So when it was time for Spaghetti to make the transition to a toddler bed a couple months ago, she wouldn't have it.

My husband, Pretty Pants and I had the normal bedtime routine down: bath, story, prayer, song and a soothing sound machine. Even with all our efforts, she would still creep out of bed and try to sneak herself into her play things in the living room as if we wouldn't notice her. Since we were always in the living room after we put her to bed, we tried a different tactic and went to our bedroom instead in the hopes that Spaghetti would think everyone was sleeping too. This plan had a different success than we had expected. After a few hours of hiding out in our bedroom, my husband and I checked Spaghetti's room only to find she wasn't there! Instead, we found our girls, squished together on Meatball's twin sized bed sound asleep. All of a sudden, Spaghetti made a new bedtime routine: bath, story, prayer, song, soothing sound machine, sneak into my sister's bed.

After a few weeks of "sneaking around" my husband and I decided, why not just have them share a bed? It took us some time to deliberate over this matter. We considered their age gap (Meatball, 8; Spaghetti, 2) Would this be appropriate? Would they disrupt each other's sleep? I even asked my mother, the Colonel, only to get the 7-of-us-had-to-sleep-in-one-room-in-the-Philippines story on repeat. Then we asked Meatball if she thought it was okay and we knew she had mixed emotions about it: for one, she didn't know if she wanted to sleep with her sister but then again it was better than sleeping by herself, so she agreed. We couldn't afford to buy another bed but we did have a daybed with a trundle that the Colonel had given us for our spare bedroom. Luckily for us, we were able to convert the two twins we had to a king sized bed.

For a good two months, the transition worked out perfectly. For the girls, it was like a mini-slumber party every night before they went to bed. For my husband and I we were able to get an hour of our relaxation time back. We decided to check in with Meatball every six months or so to see if she was still okay with the sleeping arrangements. But at the same time, enforcing our parental authority that this is what they had to do. Lola, their grandmother, had to do it in the Philippines growing up, so why can't they? After two blissful months of more rest for everyone, Spaghetti went back to taking about an hour to settle down and sleep. Sometimes she still wakes up in the middle of the night, in which case either Pretty Pants or I or both of us can now lie down next to her and her snoring sister on their big king bed where we can all sleep like royalty.

come potty with me

Another indication that time is flying by. Last week, Spaghetti’s daycare provider, Ms. P told me to bring pull-ups for next week. “What?”, I responded but really wanted to wail, “She isn’t even two yet!!” Pretty Pants and I weren’t ready to begin potty training and were secretly dreading the day that we would have to start. From my prior experience with the Meatball, potty training is not a whole lot of fun. It requires extra, extra amounts of patience and extra time for cleaning up messes. Being woken up by your potty-in-training child at 3 a.m. letting you know she wet the bed and now you have to change her (and the sheets) when you really needed that good night’s sleep for your early meeting the next day… right, not fun. So the jury’s still out if we’re thankful for the shove onto the potty train ride that Ms. P gave us, “Please, bring pull-ups. If I train here and you train at home, she will learn fast” Great, thanks. But regardless of the dreadfulness we felt tackling this adventure, we agreed. Spaghetti was to join the potty brigade.
 

They say that most toddlers show readiness for potty training between 18 and 24 months. Matching Spaghetti up to a list, I found on BabyCenter I had observed she met all the criteria. If she was ready, then we had to be ready too. We purchased some pull ups and got her a potty chair that jingles when she tinkles with some extra fun perks: a pretend flusher, a toilet paper holder and there’s even a smiling face painted on the potty. If that darn thing doesn’t make potty training “fun” I don’t know what will. Ms. P had advised us to take Spaghetti to the potty every hour so that she would get used to going to the bathroom. Every time she were to go potty, we should cheer her on. So I made a call to my mother, the Colonel and told her we started potty training Spaghetti. “Wow, so fast! You guys do things so fast here!”, she replied. I asked her if she had any tips and she laughed. “You know, in the Philippines there was no potty training. If you pee in your pants, you pee in your pants and that’s how you learned. They only have those kind of potty training here.” Oh those kind… right. I’m going to take a stab and define “those kind”. “Those kind” actually translates into: in the Philippines we didn’t have or make the time to hold your hand, buy you a pretty potty and get all happy if you pee. Potty training? Maybe a little harsh, but gets the job done.

So here we are with two very different potty training practices: Ms. P’s gradual practice-makes-perfect potty training and the Colonel’s hit-the-ground-running-but-change-your-pants-if-you-potty training. Both have validity. (See the Diaper Free program on BabyCenter for a structured version of Colonel’s technique) We haven’t tried the Colonel’s technique yet but may entertain the idea once we have a free weekend to clean up every accident. But I’m happy to report that Spaghetti is catching on to the whole potty business and squeals in delight when her potty sings a song whenever she goes, while Pretty Pants and I are there waiting to give her high fives for a job well done. No wonder that potty is smiling.