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!

come potty with me... part two

You may remember our jump on the potty brigade? Well it's been about 2 months since we introduced Pull-Ups and the potty to Spaghetti. With the mild coercion from her school (okay, not mild, they forced us and we gave in) Spaghetti has been intermittently using her potty. To be quite honest, Pretty Pants and I haven't been putting in a 110% into the whole potty training thing only bringing her to her potty every couple hours or so when we remember instead of the advised one time every hour. Ah well.

Since Spaghetti had started potty training she also switched daycares (she now goes to daycare at the same school as the Meatball). My husband and I didn't inquire on their position on potty training. We figured we'd ask once she got a little more acclimated. However, last week, we got the the note. Please bring 5 pants, 5 pairs of socks and 5 panties for next week. Next week?!? Again, my anxiety shot through the roof! I thoroughly hate potty training. It took about forever (well not forever but awhile) to potty train the Meatball. I once had a puppy and had no patience in potty training him either, 13 year later the poor dog is still semi-potty trained. So when I got the note and when the provider asked, "Do you want to start tomorrow or wait until next week?" Of course, I responded, "Next week, I'm totally fine with next week, thanks."

I've already shared the reasons to my anxiety towards potty training. It seemed like Spaghetti picked up on my anxiety (or she's just brilliant) because as she watched me prepare her potty training supply. She quickly grabbed a panty and yelled, "I want to wear this!" Totally taken by surprise, I said, "What? You want to wear this, now?" She nodded her head in excitement and started to pull off her pants and Pull-Ups. I asked in hesitation, "Are you sure you don't want to wait until school tomorrow?" "No, Mommy I want to wear them now!" Great.

For the rest of the afternoon until dinner, bath time and bed time, Spaghetti got her wish. She wore a Pull-Up free panty, successfully! Not an accident in sight! Whew. Once bedtime rolled around and I put her in Pull-Ups she seemed to understand that maybe she wasn't ready to go without at night just yet. Looking back, it's a little funny in moments like these where I feel like my child is teaching me. With Spaghetti and her potty training, she was ready and she needed me to be ready. Which really meant I had to put all my anxiety and dread of the potential mess aside and step up to the plate for her. Support her efforts and who knows, she just may surprise me. In this instance, she surely did.

When did you know your child was ready for potty training?

Momma Mina Loves Yo Gabba Gabba!

It's an exciting time for children's television! No longer are we in a society where parenthood is viewed as being old or out of style. Parents, we are now being described  (and owning it!) as "cool", "chic", "modern", "hip".  And sure that drives some criticism, but realistically, what generation before theirs didn't consider themselves perfect or patronized generation(s) that would follow?

But alas, that is a bigger topic than this post. With the natural progression of a generation maturing, we also see media that caters to their general interests (like the links above). Note to self: I am not as cool as the blogs I like, ho hum. I am however intolerant of a big, singing purple dinosaur, more intrigued about the backstory of Blue's owner(s), and let's not even talk about those four Australian (were they from Australia?) males who really looked ridiculous in those Star Trek outfits!

So thank God (really.) for Yo Gabba Gabba! Twenty minutes of dizzying fun, engaging visuals and Anthony Bourdain or the Roots or Biz Markie, say what? As for the educational piece (since we are parents after all), DJ Lance Rock and cast center each show around soft skills, the environment and holidays. Singing a song with the Roots about loving my family is definitely more appealing to my ears than the loving you, loving me of that dinosaur, who will still remained unnamed, sorry. Because aren't children shows supposed to be enjoyed by ALL family members?

Without further ado, some clips:
Children learn how dance moves with guest stars like Mya!



Yo Gabba Gabba comes to your town!


Finally, our family favorite:

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!