Let's Remember

Girls Night Out reinvented

I dare go out on weeknights for any reason. It's just way too exhausting for me to have to lug around two girls (who are just as tired and hungry after a long day of school) after hours at the office and a brief commute to pick them up, all I ever really want to do is go home. Maybe because I know it doesn't end there. Once we arrive home, I've got a couple more hours until the girls are fed, bathed and put to sleep until I can exhale. Only to do it all over again the next day.

Sometimes there will be one rare yet random night, that I feel a little brave and actually take the girls out after school. Mind you, my weariness runs an extra lap around my head as I hope and pray that taking the girls out doesn't backfire to the point where I'm crossing my fingers for no tantrums during our outing.Yes, going out on a weeknight, stresses me out that much. So as we sat down for a weeknight meal outside the home the server approaches and says, "Ah, Girls Night Out I see." My eyes peered up toward her from the menu confused at her statement. Girls Night Out?!? But I'm with... oh wait... I am with my girls! I smiled and looked at my lovely daughters, who at that moment looked just as exhausted and hungry as they always do on a weekday until they felt the positive energy from my smile and mirrored it right back. "Let's order champagne!" I suggest to the server, "Oh and two milks for them, thanks." Thank goodness for that server who changed my perception on taking the girls out on weeknights. Girls night out, indeed.

The uncomfortable truth: a pet's death, revisited.

It's been over a week since our guinea pig, Tina's death and my husband, Pretty Pants still hasn't taken her cage down. Maybe he's still mourning? I'm not really sure. We finally sat down, our eldest daughter and Tina's proud owner, the Meatball, and told her the sad news over the weekend. I've been the bearer of bad news by myself as a single parent for some time before my husband came along so I decided it was his turn at bat. After a few rounds of laughing, giggling and tickling playing dogpile, toddler sister, Spaghetti included, Pretty Pants told the girls to settle down because he had an announcement.

As the girls came to attention, Pretty Pants reminded Meatball of how Tina was in the hospital. The Meatball nodded as my husband paused then stated, "Well, Tina's in heaven now." I shot a confused glance at my husband thinking why did he have to use that phrase!?! Tina's in heaven now!?! Couldn't he just have announced with more direction, "Tina's passed away?!?" The moment my glance caught my husband's eye, the Meatballs' eyes started to swell with tears as she wailed briefly. Like 45 seconds briefly. Like her expression took a 180 degree turn from an I-just-lost-everything wail to a glimmer of hope and excitement like one would see from a child passing a candy store as she squealed, "Can we get a new one?" Can we get a new what? Cue another confused glance except this time by both parents.

A few days have passed and as Pretty Pants still hasn't taken down Tina's cage, greeting Tina is still a part of our coming home routine. The Meatball will run to greet Tina only to stop herself remembering she isn't and will never be in her cage anymore. Yet, children are funny beings as displayed in the Meatball's unexpected preliminary reaction to her pet's death. We'll never know why she didn't mourn any longer or if she needed to. Or perhaps my daughter already knew of Tina's passing. Who knows? All we, as parents, can do is to prepare and of course, expect the unexpected.

The uncomfortable truth: explaining a pet death to your child

It's been three days since we decided to put Tina, the Meatball's guinea pig to sleep. Three days of the Meatball asking when Tina would be back from the hospital (veterinarian). Three days of me responding with, "I don't know, Meatball, I guess she's really sick." Three whole days of postponing the inevitable: sitting down with the Meatball and telling her, her guinea pig of a year and a half is dead. Yes, I'm guilty of lying to my child.

Lying to my child about our dear family pet has left me feeling incredibly guilty, especially since it's key to the strategy Pretty Pants and I conjured up and agreed upon regarding Tina's fate. For the past couple months, we started noticing a bald spot emerging from the little guinea pig's back. Unsure what it was and praying it would just go away, the spot just kept growing. For a creature that small, there isn't that much space to begin with. Long story short (and to avoid getting into the gory details), Pretty Pants and I finally decided Tina needed to be checked out by a professional. Two coinciding thoughts were running through our minds about this experience: 1) we sincerely hoped Tina would be okay and the veterinarian could treat her what appeared to be infected spot and 2) this better not cost a fortune for a small guinea pig. After getting the girls ready for school, my husband engaged the Meatball in helping him get Tina ready for the "hospital". He pulled out a shoe box and had Meatball poke holes in the box so Tina could breathe. As Pretty Pants placed Tina in the box, our 2 year old, Spaghetti waved at the box encouragingly, "Bye Tina, bye!", while the Meatball stared pensively at the box she was given to lay on her lap on the ride to school.

After Pretty Pants dropped the girls off to school, he took Tina to the vet. The vet told my husband of our choices. They would have to perform surgery on Tina to remove the bump ($297). They can only test the bump post surgery, meanwhile we would be given medication to treat Tina's recovery (at an additional cost of $150). Yikes. Pretty Pants and I couldn't help but agree that it would be too costly for us to move forward with this scenario, which only left us with the decision no one ever wants to make, not even for their pets. Again we were hit by a slew of costs in various packages! Package 1: Put Tina to sleep, cremate her body and have the clinic spread her ashes over the ocean ($200) Package 2: Put Tina to sleep and cremate her body ($150) Package 3: Put her to sleep ($50 and my husband was able to negotiate a complimentary disposal). Goodness. We did feel slightly guilty for choosing package 3 because we do understand the connection's one can make with their pets. Maybe if Tina were a dog and had lived with us for years we'd be dishing out thousands to save her, but she wasn't and we did the best we could with what we had. Inevitably, the risk of performing surgery on such a small animal who would probably suffer and die sooner than later made our case. But now we're faced with the consequence of telling the Meatball, the painful truth.

Growing up I had one dog. His name was Prince. We had him ever since I could remember and he moved with us everywhere: the Philippines, North Dakota, California. Prince lived a long life, about a good 15 years, to the point where he was suffering from blindness as he would run into hallway walls at my parents home. One summer, while I returned home from college, I noticed Prince wasn't there to greet me. I asked Rambo where Prince was and he told me nonchalantly, "Oh we put him to sleep about four months ago. He was already old you know."  I was devastated. My closet childhood friend gone without my knowledge for four months! But that's how my parents treated pets. Of course, they love all their pets, treated them well, kept them fed and taken care of but there wasn't that apparent attachment nor affection as one would see in the States. I knew my parents cared for their pets deeply, since they would never leave them for long periods of time, but they were also realistic about growing old and death. I will never know.

Now as a parent, I'm faced with telling my child about the death of her pet. Pretty Pants and I have danced around how to tell her for three whole days and decided that over the weekend would be the best bet. I know that Tina's death doesn't carry as much weight to us as an actual person would have been, but  to the Meatball it may be one in the same. We're still not sure how to approach it, realistically like my father had done? Come with a plan B/distraction? Tell her the truth? Or twist the truth a little bit as to not hurt her or have her blame us?  We're just going to have to wing this one and find out.

Rest in peace, Tina.

How have you approached pet deaths in your household?

Date Night. Just do it!

Pretty Pants and I have been trying to get a date night off the ground for months. Between two full time jobs, Spaghetti and Meatball, our home, our extended family, our friends, etc, it's been challenging to focus on our marriage/relationship. It's not that we haven't had any date nights or haven't scheduled anything out. But after being pulled in several different directions (aka priorities/responsibilities) on a daily basis, our date nights usually surrender to our exhaustion. Meaning more likely than not, if we had one free night that wasn't scheduled and the girls weren't with us date night would be us in our jammies by 10pm catching up on the DVR. Woo hoo date night!

Now I'm not saying that isn't fun, snuggling up to my husband and sitting in complete silence as my brain goes to mush in front of the TV BUT it's supposed to be date night, right? So then we try to change it up a little and get excited about going out to dinner. As parents to young children, eating at a restaurant without your kids is as exciting as wondering what gifts you're going to get at Christmas! It's that big of a treat. For us it almost doesn't matter where we eat, we're just happy that we don't have to feed or clean up after anyone but ourselves.With that in mind a night free of the girls ends up at a restaurant we visit regularly just because we're happy enough that we get to eat kid-free. Date night, still doesn't sound that exciting does it? How about I add a trip to the movies!?! No? Woo hoo? Goodness, I sound like an old married woman just talking about it, dinner and a movie, good times.

Not to say these two types of date nights aren't fun but they have the words lazy due to exhaustion written all over them. Over the weekend, my husband and I decided to break out of that mold. Although we were both exhausted from the week we made an effort to get out and check out a band. When we got there, I immediately went for a Red Bull and Grey Goose cocktail because I knew we were staying out past midnight (exhaustion rearing it's ugly face again). After thirty minutes and still tired, I was already thinking about when we would be going home to wake up in time for the next day's schedule. Yet, I was determined to fight off the exhaustion and have some adult fun. It seems that my husband shared the same sentiments and we ended up staying for the whole show. High fives all around for us staying out until 3 am!

The moral of my post is this: All of us get so caught up in our lives, where we tend to lose sight of experiences that matter most, which usually reside in our relationships. Whether they're planned date nights or random nights alone, make the effort to make the most of that time. Choosing to love rather than choosing to sleep (unless of course the lack of sleep makes you cranky then before you know it you're at each other's throats instead) will hopefully make for some fantastic memories for you and your partner to share.

Got a great date night idea? Do share!

Blending the American "dream"

For as long as I could remember I was supposed to be a doctor. "What are you going to be when you grow up?" Even at an early age, I would answer the most common adult to child question with great confidence, "A doctor!" Of course, this answer would be received with proud grins, eyes and nods from any of the following: the Colonel, Rambo, an auntie, an uncle, Lola or Lolo or even from all these folks in the same room. Nonetheless, it was my dream or at least what I thought was my dream. Maybe because that's what the Colonel did or maybe it was because I wore her doctor's coat as my Halloween costume for 3 years straight beaming with pride as I would glance down on the embroidered letters that spelled my name with the salutation, "M.D." after it. Or maybe it was because my own Lola one day told me how great it would be for me to take after my mother and how proud she would be if her apo also became a doctor and how I would make everyone so proud. As a young child I had no idea what that meant, proud. But I figured, by the way their faces lit up with joy and hope that it must have been a good thing. And as a child, all you want to do is make the others around you happy. So when that one day came and my Lola told me how great it would be for me to, "Study hard, get good grades, get honors, so you can be a doctor just like your mom, so we will all be so proud." There was nothing left to do but nod and announce, "Okay Lola, yes I want to be a doctor!"

And that's how the journey of what-I-thought-was-my-dream-but-it-really-wasn't-but-I-did-it-anyway-because-I-was-too-young-to-know-any-better started. Lucky for me and most of my academic career, getting good grades came easy. Straight As? Done. Honors? Easy peasy. Seems like I was on the glory road, on my way to make my whole family, proud. Being the eldest granddaughter, to the eldest child of my grandparents on my mother's side and the only American born (most of the Colonel's siblings never immigrated to the United States, hence I was the only American born cousin for a very long time) I was perfection. As I grew older, entered high school and started noticing boys, the "dream" started to take more shape. Visits to medical schools with my parents would add to the "dream": 4 years, graduate high school, 4 more years, graduate college, another 4 more years graduate med school (insert meet future husband here, who would probably be white but more on that in another post), a couple years or so of residency, one year of globe-trotting with my now fiance, wedding, happily ever after to include the white picket fence. It was the perfect dream. It just wasn't mine.

Fast forward to present day and if you've been following this blog, you would know that "dream" didn't happen. For a plethora (and possibly quite a lot of material for the blog) of reasons, I, after 2 and a half years of being a failing biology major in undergrad just stopped the "dream". No longer could I rely on stellar grades coming easily, in college, I actually had to work for it. And how can one work hard at something they didn't love? But even though the "dream" stopped, it took another couple more years to let it go. Just imagine growing up thinking, more importantly, believing you were to become something then gradually realizing that the path you were on wasn't your journey at all? That's a huge pill of unlearning to swallow! But in my own beginning (also known as the end of that "dream") it was the best decision I ever made. 

Now that I have children of my own, do I want to encourage them to be doctors? Sure! A little hard work for a profession that provides without a doubt financial security is always something I will promote. And it will make me proud. The difference? I am mindful to communicate to my girls that anything they do, dream of doing, pursue and fail but try their best will make me proud. Growing up I never got the explanation of what actually would make my family proud, I thought the pride from would only come from the straight shot route of being a doctor. And that left me confused for a very long time. From my family in the Philippines perspective, it's easy now to understand why they associate pride and success with prestige and money. I think as Filipino-Americans we fail to remember the environment our native families came from where financial hardship (for my families at least) was a part of life. Whereas here in the United States following the "dream" is supposed to mean following what makes you happy. So, who's right? Does success equal achieving financial stability? Or does success equal achieving one's dream without a dollar sign attached to it? How about both?

As I observe the girls grow and pick up certain skills: Meatball loves to build and has a great eye for color matching and Spaghetti loves to be active and socialize) I feel it's my responsibility to nurture these budding skills. Create a blank canvas of opportunity for them to figure out what they like and don't like but constantly reminding them to finish what they started. With that in mind, I don't know what the future will hold for their dreams. I just know that I'll be there to support them.

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.