Back to School, Back to Schedule

Back to school. It's supposed to be an exciting time of year, but for me it creates a ton of anxiety. With school supply lists, back to school nights, parent nights, getting the kids back on their routine, signing up for field trips, signing up for birthday lunches, coordinating schedules. A month in and the smoke is just starting to clear. 

So as you can see, I'm not a girl scout, I didn't come prepared. I see this along the same lines as starting Christmas shopping right after Easter, that's just not me. Oddly enough, I've been doing the school thing w/Meatball for the last 4 grades already and you'd think I'd have it down to a science. But add Spaghetti into the mix you have a recipe for potential disaster. Drop kid 1 off her, pick kid 2 up there, bring kid 1's form here, don't forget kid 2's lunch there... exhausting, right?!? But as parents, we manage.

I remember when I was in 3rd grade (the same grade Meatball is in now), my mother dropping me off for swim class, soccer class and dance class. I was a shy kid and my mother would literally drop me off, no hanging out w/the other mothers, no watching me do whatever activity she signed me up for, just dropped me off because, "It's good for you to have a lot of activities, honey". Thanks, Mother for forcing me off the deep end of socialization.

And here we are, years later, history repeats itself as I find myself signing Meatball up for after school activities, dropping her off, picking her up, shuttling her from one thing to the next... I never asked my Mother why she just dropped me off and took off, but now I'm beginning to assume she probably took naps in between.

The things we do for our kids.

Letters to my Lola (grandmother) & Lolo (grandfather)

It's been about 5 years since my Lola (grandmother in Pilipino) passed away. I think of her often and miss her very much. I've found as time passes: the girls grow older, my parents grow older, my husband, Pretty Pants, and I grow older, the importance of family grows stronger, the memories get richer.

The Meatball was lucky enough to have met my Lola. We have a photograph of them together in our living room, the Meatball's face close-up with her great Lola's face beaming in the shadow behind her. Of course, she doesn't remember as much as I do since my Lola was with me for most of my childhood. As immigrant, working parents, the Colonel and Rambo didn't have a network of friends and relatives, so the Colonel's parents, my Lolo and Lola would take turns coming from the Philippines to help raise me. It wasn't too unusual for my parents to do this, since having three (even four) generations in a family is customary in the Philippines.

I remember when one grandparent would be here they would ask for me to write a letter to the other. Ever since I could remember living with one grandparent in my parents home, I would write, "To my dearest Lolo, to my dearest Lola..." As a child, the letters wouldn't be too long, maybe one page and a drawing I made in school. Each letter would state pretty much the same thing: how happy I was to hear from them, how I'm doing in school, what I'm doing in school, how my parents were doing, how my dog was doing, and how I was being a good girl. In return, I would also receive letters stating the same thing: how was my health, how happy they were to hear from me, how happy they were that I was doing well in school, to always remember to be healthy, remember my prayers and be good to my parents.  I exchanged letters with my grandparents for about a good decade or so in my life. Initially, it was part of a routine, something I always just did, not until I came across a letter my Lolo wrote during my freshman year of college did I realize how important these letters were. Reading through my Lolo's letter, I can imagine him sitting at his writing desk, my letter on the left, his cup of coffee on the right, inserting the delicate typing paper into his now antiqued, typewriter, communicating with his Apo (granddaughter). How beautiful these letters are to read now!

In an age of e-mails, texts, acronyms, half sentences, one word answers, emoticons, I wonder (and sometimes fear) what communications my own children, future grandchildren will remember of me? I've heard that some parents create an e-mail address for each of their children to "write" like a journal of letters of their youth. I haven't tried that, I'm actually still open to writing letters, starting with, "To my dearest Apo..."

Relishing ME Time

I'm sitting at my kitchen table with dinner cooking on the stove. Listening to the new Roots album from my iTunes. A glass of cab on my left, the mouse on my right. It's a unique Tuesday at 7:57 pm. A Tuesday with NO KIDS.

Spaghetti and Meatball are ending their summer with some much needed grandparent time. I honestly don't know who needed it more: me, my husband, the girls or the grandparents. The funny thing about enjoying this silence is the dread I felt knowing these 4 life-without-kids'-days were coming. The guilt of feeling happy about them being gone hung over me like a fog. I couldn't see through the guilt and be honest with myself enough to say, "Self, you need this break."

This kind of reminds me of habits and routines. We get so used to doing the same thing in and out week by week with the kids in tow. Take them here, take them there, make them dinner, help with homework, read them a story, put them to bed, hope they stay in bed. Lather, rinse, repeat. I find myself getting so caught up in these routines, for my kids, that it takes NO KIDS days like this to realize how dependent I am on them as they are on me.  Sadly, I had to force myself to remember what I needed to take care of ME on this day 1 of 4 NO KIDS days. But I'm happy to report it was worth it!

Getting caught up in day to day when you don't know which way is up has only come upon me recently with the event of the 2 year old Spaghetti aka our tornado, but that's another blog post. Tonight, I'm happy with refilling my wine glass, enjoying a meal for 2 with Pretty Pants, turning off this computer and enjoying the silence sans kids.

Rice - It's what brings us together

The most common staple in our household has to be rice. We have rice for the majority of our meals. Rice with dinner, rice with lunch, rice with breakfast.  You get the picture.

I find it so fascinating that food is a way of learning about one's culture (think Anthony Bourdain's popularity) or in this case, retaining one's cultural heritage. For as long as I could remember, all my family meals were served with rice and now as an parent, I've subconsciously taken this way of eating with me and serve my family rice with every meal. In fact, Spaghetti's favorite meal is chicken with rice!

There isn't too much variance away from eating rice. I actually think it would be very challenging not to have rice as part of our diet. Part of the reason why is because we're so used to it, the other half would probably be the fear of losing that part of my identity. Remembering fond memories of partaking in meals (rice included) w/my parents and wanting the same for my children may just put more emphasis on rice not just for a meal but to hold on to the tradition.

Do you have any foods in your family that have stood the test of time?

Traveling with the kiddos

Traveling with Spaghetti and Meatball is an art all on its own. It takes me a good week before any trip to start prepping and packing for our family. This rings especially true since both the hubs and I are both working and can maybe at the most allot one hour each day prior to a coming trip to pack anything we may need, lest we forget. 

I always start with the girls first. Count out the days to equal the number of outfits divide the number of outfits in half and add the half to the pile. This formula equals to one and a half of the trip's worth of clothes for each of them. Why? They're kids and with kids accidents happen. And I know for a fact, I'm not going to find myself washing clothes on vacation. Along with their clothes, add shoes, socks, hair clips, toiletries, sun block, hats, books, toys, dvds, and dvd player to take along on the plane and other modes of transportation. Top off with Spaghetti's Pull-Ups and wipes, little bottle of detergent (just in case) and of course 3 or 4 reusable shopping bags and 3 or 4 quart and gallon size Ziploc bags because you never know when you're going to need them. Set aside the traveling car seat and traveling umbrella stroller, which should be as lightweight and fast to collapse should you happen to fall in line at a very busy airport security line.

The day of traveling, I dress the girls in layers. Easy removable layers and easy slip on shoes (again for airport security line ease). One bag for snacks, toys, and other distractions for the plane/car and another bag for in-case-those-bastards-lose-our-luggage packed with at least one day of wardrobe, extra pull-ups and wipes.

Can I begin packing for Pretty Pants and I yet?!? You get the picture, traveling with kiddos is a ton of work and preparation. But all in all, priceless.

dog days of summer

My parents rarely eat out. I don't know how they do it. Even as a child, I don't recall eating out at all during the week. The only eating out we did was our Sunday after Mass lunch ritual which went from Chicken Tenders at Burger King, to the lunch buffet at Pizza Hut, and the big time: Lo Mein and Moo Goo Gai Pan at the local Chinese restaurant, the Great Wall. Good stuff, really it was.

Now that I'm a parent in a dual income household (just like my parents), I just can't fathom how they found the time or maybe the energy to prepare home cooked meals every day. Incredible! .I can almost hear Rambo, my father, exclaim when we're at a restaurant he's not too fond of, "You know this chicken here, I can cook this at home and you can pay me half the price!" Goodness. 

Most times I wish I had that discipline, that energy, that developed practice of eating at home all the time.  Then there are times like below, when you just need a break from the norm and take your little one, like Spaghetti, to the local food court and partake in dollar Tuesday at Hot Dog on a Stick!  One hot dog, two hot dog, three hot dogs she scarfed down to that little belly of hers. For $3 dollars, I got this memory and maybe that's worth more sometimes than eating at home, just like Sunday after Mass lunch rituals...

Practicing the art of discipline

I just took Spaghetti out of a time out. Nothing new. Our 2 and a half year old gets a timeout at least twice a week. We plop her down while she screams and wails in the same timeout spot as I glance over at the clock, counting down five minutes. I'm sure those 5 minutes feel like hours in 2 and a half year old time. At this point, I'm not sure if timeouts are effective. I haven't read any books on discipline in a while, just recalling trial and error from disciplining her older sister, the Meatball (who, by the way, was and still is a saint growing up).

With Spaghetti it's a little different, she has a stubborn streak. My parents (and husband) say she's a lot like me. Go figure. So when it comes down to discipline, I try to be as firm and patient as possible, but like any one there is always the last straw pulled, the pushed button, the last nerve struck that gets my blood boiling where I cannot control it anymore and I become, my mother.

Well almost my mother. My mother was a hands off disciplinarian and a big fan of crying it out. She was the kind of parent that could take one look at you with a face full of disdain and in the next minute glance away and ignore you as if she could care less. From a child's perspective (aka what I remember from when I was little),  a child wants and needs acceptance especially from their parents, this move worked on me every time. She had this tactic down so well that my challenging, stubborn attitude diminished in seconds as her glare drowned me in guilt for even reacting. She had one of those glares that made you think twice about what you were doing and had you figure out fast that you were and always will be wrong. And boy did that wrong feel bad! I can remember wailing about one thing or another one second then begging and pleading for her forgiveness forgetting whatever the reason was I was wailing about. Throwing tantrums at my mother were battles I never won and I hated it, especially the feeling of not knowing if my mother actually cared if I was wailing on the floor for her for what seemed like days.


I remember feeling so alone during those times. I promised myself that I would never do that to my children and even if they would be a pain, I wouldn't leave them to 'cry it out' extensively. After the Meatball was born, I finally asked my mother why she handled my tantrums that way. "My goodness, anak(child in Tagalog), you still remember those!?!" in her Filipino accent. "Uh yah, you made me feel really bad." "I did not hurt you. You are too sensitive. Emotional." "Gee thanks, Mom." "You know what, anak? I was just tired. I worked so long hours for you and then you were so active, I cannot entertain you so much." "Maybe I was just happy to see you, Mom." "I know, I think you were so hyperactive too." "Why didn't you just tell me you were tired back then, Mom?" "I am not so good in communication like you. We do not do that in the Philippines so much." "Oh." "You are better with Spaghetti and Meatball than me. You are able to talk to them and have patience. You are good in the parenting." 


After this conversation, I understood my mother and her ways. A tired, working mother doesn't have that much energy at the end of the day to pay their children the attention they need. I guess that's the trade off. Our main difference is that I may communicate it better before I impose firmer discipline. I can tell you that half of the reason why I communicate it, is probably because of my own experience. The other half lies in our cultural difference. Growing up, my mother never exercised many emotions. If you were quiet and followed orders, that meant you were well behaved and that's all parents expected. Everything else wasn't really defined. Here it seems like everyone expresses themselves in one way shape or form. I wonder if the combination of the two is effective? I guess, only time will tell.

Happy Fourth!

Don't ask me how but I've known the lyrics to Lee Greenwood's class "God Bless The USA" for as long as I remember. And I couldn't think of a better day than the 4th of July to share it with all of you. Thanks to YouTube I was able to pull up American Idol, Season 2's rendition for your viewing pleasure since Mr. Greenwood's music video doesn't necessarily represent the United States I love and live in. But that's one of the beauties of living in this country, to each his own.



How much more patriotic can you get?!? American. American and Filipino. In between. Or maybe not in between, maybe I've come to the point in my life when both perspectives co-exist successfully within me. How do I know?  Last week, I was running through YouTube checking out the NY Handog Project's rendition of  Handog Ng Pilipino Sa Mundo (translated, "The Filipinos Gift To The World) and well today, it's "God Bless The USA". Both brought the same feeling of pride. Of connection. Of my identity. And maybe my history doesn't go back to 1776 and I'd probably have a harder time tracing my ancestors through the Smithsonian, but I am an American. Born here to immigrant parents who served in the United States Armed Forces, raising my children as Americans, continuing our history with our roots in the Philippines but our story in the United States.

Cheers to celebrating yours!

The bummer of summer: a half sister experience

It's summer, which means the Meatball is off to her Dad's 8 hours away. It didn't use to be as hard when Spaghetti was a baby. But this summer the connection between the two sisters is beginning to show.

When we get in the car, Spaghetti announces, "Let's go pick up Meatball!" When we prepare Spaghetti's bath, she screams, "I want to take a bath with my Ate! (Tagalog word for big sister). When we put her to bed, "I want to sleep with Ate!" Spaghetti whimpers.

It's definitely beginning to show. And I know it's going to get worse, before it gets any better. As Spaghetti grows and starts to realize what spending summers away from the Meatball really means, it kills to see the deeper sadness in her face masked by her innocent confusion. My mother only shakes her head in dismay for the separated sisters. "Kawawa naman. (translated to how sorry they are, how sad), she empathizes about the girls' summer separation. She's probably praying right now for the Meatball's swift return. The downside of blended families.

Don't wake the sleeping toddler

Spaghetti is not a sleeper. Right now, she is currently asleep in the hallway since she is not a sleeper. Ever since the Meatball left for the summer (more on that in another post), Pretty Pants and I have been struggling to get our rambunctious toddler on a sleeping routine.

It was easier during the school year as the Meatball and Spaghetti would sleep together. But now that she's all by her lone self, adding the fact that Spaghetti is a light close to non-sleeper, all free time in the evening has been lost to trying to put Spaghetti to sleep. For the last 30 days, we've tried them all: coercion, threats, routine, even falling asleep beside her... none of them seem to work consistently.

So for now, I give up. Today, I'll scoop her up off the floor after I've had my 'me' time and tuck her away in her bed. Because most times, life like an eager toddler, does not want to fit into a routine.

Parenting and loving the Lakers: teachings from a surprising resource!

Last night was a momentous night in our household! Even if you don't follow national basketball (NBA), just turn on any national news program and you will know the Los Angeles Lakers beat the Boston Celtics in a seven game series (for those not basketball savvy that's playing up to 7 straight games almost every other day until one team achieves 4 wins, whew) for the 2010 Championships!

Being a Southern California transplant, I brought my love for the Lakers with me to Northern California. It's few and far between to find another adult Laker fan in my area so I've succumbed to breeding Laker fans to share in my interest with Spaghetti and Meatball. At this point, you may giggle at the thought, you may even find it slightly amusing but if you've never experienced being a sports fan of any kind, I assure you, you are missing out.

Why, you may ask? Because at this point, for me, being a Laker fan is not just something you watch, it's something you live. For 9 months out of the year, my household is dedicated to following this team, sharing in their wins and losses, feeling the pain of their injuries, appreciating the glimpses into their personal lives and revel as they take the national championship! The best thing about it all? Someone else 'out there' that may come from a totally different lifestyle, gender, environment, socio-economic level, religious belief, whatever it may be feels the exact same way. Imagine being in a sports arena, with 19,000 other fans feeling the exact same way!?! That kind of positive energy is tremendous, infectious, and inspirational. Being a fan is also not a yearly event, I've been a part of a fan base that has had the opportunity to watch Kobe Bryant grow through tremendous pains and obstacles from his days as a rookie, to a spoiled rock star, to the scandals in the press, to his rise as a leader filled with maturity and humility. And the funny thing is I'm not even a Kobe fan but this provides an example of the many story lines that follow a basketball team.

Sportsmanship, commitment to something you believe in, the sense of belonging to something bigger that them through the camaraderie of fans are all things I have learned and felt from being a fan and enjoy it so much I'm happy to breed Spaghetti and Meatball into fans to share in the experience. Even if they don't understand the game to the fullest just yet, they enjoy the cheering, the booing, the clapping, the shouting and the special connection we have through the experience.

I can't speak enough about how I much elation I feel, so much pride in my hometown and for my home team, but I definitely can't encapsulate it all in one blog posts since there seems to be so many different aspects to why I enjoy it so much and share that joy with my girls.

(top photo: Meatball, age 3, 2005, Staples Center; bottom photo: Spaghetti, age 2, 2010, our newest fan)

Disclosure: Although Pretty Pants can appreciate my dedication to the Los Angeles Lakers and supports raising the girls as Laker fans let it be known he is a Golden State Warriors fan. Thank you.

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.

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.

I've been Officially My Mother (er Father) -ed!

Ever since I officially started Spaghetti and Meatball, I've been blessed with virtually meeting mommy bloggers on several sites. JustMommies and TwitterMoms to name a few, have been great communities where I've found other mommy bloggers with such inspiring, engaging, funny and relatable stories. One of these mommies is Robin from Officially My Mother!

Robin is awesome at engaging her readers by having them submit their own experiences about when they officially turned into their parents. (Who would've thought!?!)

Check out my submission below!


My officially my mother moment (actually my father) moment:

My dad hates when I or any of us in the family waste food. Just hates it. I assume it’s from growing up in near poverty in the Philippines and now having all he could ever want here. But still he hates it.

Case in point: he and my mother will take my family’s leftovers from our house (6 hours away) to his dogs back home if the leftovers are close to being perishable. Just so he won’t feel like it’s going in the trash. He’ll even remark, “What? You don’t like that anymore!?! It’s so good! Sayang!” (which means waste in Filipino) 

So last week as I was watching my girls finish their dinner, my 8-year-old daughter, Meatball was eating only the leafy part of her bok choy (kinda like an Asian version of spinach). I asked her if she was going to eat it and she said no. I told her what a waste it was, grabbed it off her plate and ate all her half eaten vegetables… then realized I turned into my father. =/

Cheers to our new follow-ship!