Hypnopompic Mama

The crazy one

2011-10-06T22:42:00.005+08:00

It's strange - this grief over the passing away of a man I have never even met in person.

His gadgets are something else. There is the Macintosh I used on those sleepless nights laying out and editing BusinessWorld's Top 1,000 Corporations in the early 90s. The iPod got me into running, keeping me company every step of the way in the last four years. The iPad has changed our idea of family bonding and has even helped my 7-year-old son with a rather difficult homework in Filipino class.

But, more than his creations, his greatest legacy is inspiration.

The crazy one will be sorely missed.

"Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The trouble-makers. The round heads in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They're not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them. Disagree with them. Glorify, or vilify them. But the only thing you can't do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones who do." - Apple Computer, 1997

Au naturel

2011-06-19T13:46:00.010+08:00

About a month ago, I wrote about the environment and our family's struggle with asthma. Many of those who read it strongly recommended that we consider natural alternatives for health. And my son's pediatrician recently told me about Isotonix OPC3.

It is a natural supplement that's reportedly very helpful in the management of asthma and other allergies. We haven't actually started using it yet because I'm still doing some research and consulting family and friends about their experiences (if any) with the product.

So if you've used or heard of Isotonix OPC3, I would really love to hear from you!

It's not that there's a dearth of information about the product. On the contrary, there are a lot of glowing testimonials on the Web and that's actually what worries me (a bit). I googled it and couldn't seem to find any substantial material on its side effects. I've also read about it on livestrong.com and even a few scientific research journals/articles.

So why am I still skeptical? It's shaping up to be a cure-all product that is distributed by a company named Market America. Naturally (pun intended), the jaded part of me is tempted to write it off as some kind of marketing ploy. The claims just seem so fantastic that it's even being seen as the best antioxidant supplement for children with ADHD and autism.

OPC stands for Oligomeric Proanthocyanidins or a mixture of natural antioxidants that neutralize free radicals in our bodies, providing numerous health benefits like improved blood circulation, cardiovascular health, and brain function.

Isotonix OPC3 is a product that combines antioxidants from red wine, grape seed, and pine bark extracts (pycnogenol); thus, the number 3 in its brand name. Pycnogenol is the key ingredient that's supposed to help asthmatics like my son and me.

The name Isotonix, meanwhile, refers to its manner of absorption into the body. "Isotonic" actually means "same pressure" and isotonic supplements are more efficiently absorbed by our body than traditional vitamin pills because they behave much like our bodily fluids.

The one thing I have going for this product is that it's highly recommended by my son's pediatrician. Many of the negative articles and comments I've read so far had to do with suggestions that patients with serious ailments have been known to discard medicines altogether and stick only with this supplement. I'm somewhat comforted by the fact that my son's doctor would still be integrating this into a more holistic management of his athma.

In fact, she only brought it up after I shared with her the comments I got from my blog post. Apparently, her family has been using it for a while now. She also started recommending the product to some of her patients (those with chronic asthma coupled with developmental challenges like ADHD and autism) early this year. She was admittedly hesitant about telling other parents about it because they might think she's into a multi-level marketing business and suspect her motives.

Last Friday, she referred me to the Texas-based Filipina doctor who brought the product into the country in September last year. I'm now almost convinced to go for it. And if it actually works, I might even recommend it to other parents.

I figured, since it's a supplement and not a drug, there is virtually no downside but a potentially big upside (health-wise) for our family. Right?

Starting with conviction

2011-05-23T00:32:00.008+08:00

Considering my post the other day, how apropos that this weekend should end with a Kenny Loggins concert and a song that goes:

Air that's too angry to breathe
Water our children can't drink
You've heard it hundreds of times
You say you're aware, believe, and you care
Do you care enough?
Where's your conviction of the heart?

One with the earth, with the sky, one with everything in life
I believe it will start with conviction of the heart.
More lyrics here.

The air we breathe

2011-05-21T11:19:00.023+08:00

I write this with mixed emotions. Until this morning, I didn't know it was quite possible to be tired, grateful, angry, and hopeful, all at the same time.

The events of the past week have somehow left me tired due to sleep deprivation and angry at the sense of helplessness I get each time I think about the air we breathe. But there's a stubborn part of me that wants to be grateful and, at the same time, hopeful.

Contrary to what some people believe, it's not the end of the world after all. At least not yet.

My husband and I just spent the past week playing tag team, taking turns taking care of our seven-year-old son as he had another one of his asthma attacks. Actually, strictly speaking, our son is still in his latest asthma episode as I had, in fact, just given him another dose of Ventolin at 6 this morning. But, his nebulization schedule today (every six hours) is a walk in the park compared with the last 48 hours when we had to give him steroids every two hours.

As the pediatrician warned, the schedule was toxic. The nebulizer (that little machine that turns liquid medicine to fine mist) had become as worn out as our bodies. We have given up fixing its cover as the hinges finally broke. We've also ignored the fact the needle of the syringe we use to dilute the steroids with 1cc of Sodium chloride had bent out of shape after repeated use.

But, I'm grateful nonetheless. For the fact that we have the means to help our son get well. And that we have been able to avoid hospitalization or even oral steroids (so far).

As for my anger, it comes from the thought that even as we do our best to keep our kids away from harm some things are simply beyond our control.

To be honest, I'm not quite sure if my anger is justified. It actually started out as guilt over the fact that our son got his asthma genes from me. But, then, our pediatrician said that she saw an increase in asthma cases lately, many of which were non-hereditary.

Like me, she also thought that the spike in asthma cases in that last two weeks had something to do with the unusually hot weather. She even said that asthma attacks had extended beyond the usual cold "ber" months.

In the past, she had considered summer as a welcome break for many asthmatics. But not this year. This year, many of her patients have not had such luck. Gabby himself just recently completed a three-month therapy of Montelukast and Seretide before this episode.

So why the anger? I had always wished that if I had to fight for my kids it would be with an enemy I could punch in the face. But how do you fight the weather? Or, okay I'll say it, a monster called "global warming"? And the most inconvenient truth of all, as Al Gore would call it, is that the enemy is us.

I refuse to turn our son into Bubble Boy. No, not our Gabby. Not this kid who loves the outdoors; who regularly bugs me about how much he wants to run in races, just like me.

I've been an asthmatic all my life. But I've also been an athlete too. I was a soccer goalie in elementary, a softball catcher in high school (even won an MVP medal at one point), and a member of the UP Diliman taekwondo team (never mind that I joined that team to keep an eye on my boyfriend, now my husband, who has a black belt). And now, in my 40s, I'm a runner. A struggling runner, but a runner nonetheless.

By God, if our son wants to be an athlete too, I won't let anything stop him from realizing his dream.

But I don't believe being angry does anyone any good. And I loathe people with a defeatist attitude. And so, after giving Gabby his early morning dose of Ventolin, I turned to today's favorite weapon against all things oppressive - the Internet.

We all talk about reducing our carbon footprint. It's time to walk the talk. But even more specifically and more immediately, it's time to closely watch the air we breathe.

I don't know if many of us had been paying attention to the news about how bad the air quality is in Metro Manila. I, for one, didn't know that, based on the latest report from the Department of Energy and Natural Resources (DENR), the total suspended particles (TSP) in Metro Manila was at 133.5 micrograms (ug) / normal cubic meters (ncm). That's 48% higher than the global standard of 90 ug/ncm!

According to the DENR, 80% of air pollution in the metropolis is due to vehicular traffic, particularly smoke-belching. While the agency's intensified roadside apprehension activities in recent months helped in reducing air pollution, our TSP stat is obviously still very bad.

And so the DENR recently decided to give citizens a chance, through social media, to get involved in this fight. Every parent, I think, should take this seriously. Even every runner or biker in the city who inhales this dirty air in copious amounts.

I must have read that article before. But then, I must have also brushed that aside as just another story about the worsening state of our environment and judged the DENR's project as yet another government initiative that will surely die even before it can make a real difference in our lives.

Yes, I just realized how jaded I had become. I guess, in that sense, I had indeed become my own enemy.

But, as sad as that sounds, it actually gives me hope. Because it's an enemy I can win over.

My iPhone called me fat

2011-01-25T08:20:00.000+08:00

Although I had been feeling a bit heavy and my jeans a tad tight lately, I was still pretty much convinced that all I needed was some muscle toning. That I only needed to improve my speed and stamina to fulfill my dream of running a half-marathon this year.

Until my iPhone told me otherwise.

I'm currently trying to get back into shape by following an 8-Weeks-to-10K training program. Some people might find this quite strange, considering that I've already finished nine 10k races in the last year or so. As I had to explain to a colleague yesterday, I may have run a few races but I still need a good foundation that will help me get to 21k.

My official race times range from 1:10 (my first race) to 1:30 (my last race). Yep, I'm getting worse, not better. And I hardly think I have what it takes to finish a half-marathon. As such, my initial goal is to have at least three races at 1:10 or better (for an average of no more than seven minutes to a kilometer) before going to the next level.

After this program, I intend to jump into 10-Weeks-to-21K. Both programs are part of an iPhone app I downloaded from personalrunningtrainer.com during the holidays.

Today being Day 4 (the last day) of Week 1 of my 10K program, I went searching last night for an exercise app that can complement my training. I ended up buying the All-in Fitness app. For $1.99, I can choose from over 700 exercises, all with pictures and videos. It even developed a personalized workout for me based on my gender, age, weight and height.

When the app was done putting together my personal workout, I was so surprised by the result that I ended up computing for my body mass index (BMI). I just realized that, at 24.2, my BMI is very near the upper limit of what is considered a normal range of 18.5-24.9. Put another way, I am 0.7 from becoming overweight.

And I guess that's why the personal workout developed for me is called Advanced Mesomorph: Fat Burn.

But who am I kidding? I really didn't need my iPhone to tell me that. A quick check with the bathroom scale (as I was obviously still in denial) revealed that I gained 15 pounds during the holidays. Ultimately, I guess that means I should forget about my lofty fitness goals for a while and focus on one simple thing --weight loss.

10K Training Log 2

2011-01-22T17:51:00.000+08:00

PRT 8 Weeks to 10K: Day 2/ Week 1

Interval Running: 3 minutes at 5k pace then 3-minute easy jog with 3 repetitions.

Felt a side stitch by the third interval, which was a sprint. In spite of this, it was pretty easy session. I even added a five-minute walk and 10 minutes of stretching at the end.

Also checked out the neighborhood gym - P1,000 annual membership fee and P50 per session. Open from 7am to 9pm. Nice. Time to download gym apps.

10K Training Log 1

2011-01-19T19:23:00.000+08:00

PRT 8 Weeks to 10K: Day 1/ Week 1

On most rainy days, I stick my tongue out at the heavens, worrying about an unscheduled trip to the car wash.

This morning, I smiled at the deserted jogging path and said a little prayer of thanks for the drizzle. Who can resist an excuse to run in the rain? Thank God for rainy Wednesday mornings. And the MMDA for the coding scheme.

And so I finally started running using the personalrunningtrainer.com 8-weeks-to-10k iPhone app I bought recently. (How I got the app is an interesting story. But that will have to wait another day. This blogger is a busy working mom.)

This morning's lesson? When it comes to running (as in life, I think), the discipline to hold back is just as important as the will to push forward.

It was a simple 20-minute tempo run. But I had trouble following my virtual coach when he reminded me to decelerate. This being my first time to run in over a month, I was winded and walking before the session was over.

On braces... and kissing a girl

2010-10-24T05:30:00.000+08:00

After a visit to the kids' dentist, the conversation in our family car was about getting braces - Enzo won't really need them if he's comfortable with his slight overbite (which he got from me, I think) although Gabby probably will because the spacing between his teeth may be off (we'll need a couple of years to know for sure).

And then, what started out as a safe family discussion took a tricky turn.

ENZO: You know, Mom, some of my classmates said that, if both a boy and a girl have braces, there's a good chance their braces will get stuck together when they kiss.

ME: In the first place, if both a boy and a girl have braces then they're too young to be kissing.

SILENCE

ENZO: But I also heard that some people get braces in college.

ME (blurted out against better judgment): I think you'd still be too young to kiss in college.

ENZO (turning to me, eyebrows raised ever so slightly): You do?

And so I mumbled something, thinking "Checkmate. Tsk, tsk." And in my head, Bernadette Peters sang "careful the things you say, children will listen."

I'm so not ready for this.

Sorbetes o ayskrim?

2010-09-08T17:29:00.000+08:00

"Rises" and "erkon," I just learned yesterday, are Filipino words. I wonder how many people would immediately realize what these mean in English. I have to admit that it took me more than a double-take.

Yesterday morning, during a parent-teacher conference at my six-year-old son's school, I was very engrossed in our discussion on how much the Filipino language has dramatically evolved over the last few years.

Even my son's class adviser, who I suspect is at least 10 years younger than me, lamented how the subject has become somewhat confusing for many students. She relayed how she was stumped when, after she told her class that "ice cream" was "ayskrim" in Filipino, one of the students said that she thought it was "sorbetes."

I get the part about how language is a "living" thing and it should continue to evolve to capture changes in society itself.

This is why "google" is now generally accepted as a verb. And as someone who grew up in Mindanao in the '80s, it took me a while to realize that "salvage" was synonymous with "save" instead of "massacre."

One might argue that the confusion over "salvage" is a matter of distinguishing between slang and formal usage. In this digital age, that's the difference between urbandictionary.com and merriam-webster.com. But, until yesterday, I also had the same notion about words like "eskwela" and "paaralan." When I saw "swabe" in my older son's textbook, I half-expected seeing "olats" as well.

In my youth, English was considered to be the more difficult language to learn. I even remember how, during English class, a student would get fined for speaking in the local tongue. I guess that's because English was considered our second language.

It's no different from the difficulties my pre-school classmates at Institucion Teresiana (now known as Poveda Learning Center) had with Spanish. I was just lucky then that my native tongue, Visayan, was pretty close to our colonizers' language.

During a "survival" seminar for parents of freshmen at Ateneo High School, a Filipino teacher explained that kids are now more comfortable with English because of media, among other things. When we were younger, we had only one to two hours of cartoons. Today, our kids have access to it 24x7 through cable. We had Flor de Luna and Anna Lisa. Our kids have Spongebob Squarepants.

And yet, I can't help but note that even I can hardly recognize today's Filipino words.

Spell as you say it, we're told. I've always been confused between using "iy" or just "y" and "uw" or just "w." Now, I have to grapple with the idea that "pouch" is "pawch" in Filipino. Say what?

I'm sure many other parents with children in elementary and high school have spent some time adjusting to this trend.

This was pretty obvious during the Linggo ng Wika program at my six-year-old's school. It was hard to miss the perplexed look on the parents' faces as students battled in "Pagbabaybay," our local version of the spelling bee.

Dyaket? A teacher told me that a student in the audience commented that she thought "jacket" was "panlamig" in Filipino.

Even for my son in high school, almost every chat I have with other parents eventually ends up with stories about how only x% of this or that section passed the last long quiz in Filipino.

I'm not saying that I'm against how Filipino is being taught in schools these days.

A few weeks ago, while preparing my son for the first quarter exams, I actually read his textbook. It went something like this in English: "Learning to love Filipino is like riding a bike. You know it already because you're Filipino. You just need to keep on riding to get the hang of it. But, it's really more like riding a horse. It's a 'living' thing and you're the master. You can make it do neat tricks but, as a good master, you have to respect the fact that there are rules in riding a horse."

The book also taught my son that Filipino is both lyrical and romantic. And it reflects the kind of people that we are. Notice how, when we ask if someone has a problem, we say, "Anong problema natin?" instead of "Anong problema mo?"

I totally dig that. And if that high school textbook's purpose is to teach our sons to love, not just learn, Filipino, I'm beginning to think that it's quite effective. This should be a good transition from learning sentence construction to appreciating literature.

Sure, a lot of the students are having difficulty with the subject. But isn't love a lot like that? The more you work at it, the more precious it becomes? I, for one, am thinking of reading Florante at Laura. Again.

The tricky thing though is learning how to adopt English words. My son's textbook also taught him that he has a personal responsibility to make sure that our language evolves. It taught him that it's important for us to assimilate words like "cellphone" into our local vocabulary.

Another source of worry for me is how teachers in special education, those who help kids cope with speech delay and other learning difficulties, are also somewhat struggling with this trend.

What I'm saying is that I appreciate the fact that evolution might have replaced "salumpwet"* with "upuan." I just dread the day when "tseyr" will find its way into the English-Filipino dictionary.

*I say "might" because none of my friends on Facebook know for sure if it ever was a real word. It seems logical with literal translations of compound words, like classroom to silid-aralan. But it simply sounds so absurd!

Criminals on wheels

2010-08-07T21:56:00.000+08:00

How far would you go to save the life of a stranger? If that stranger is a baby in the company of its parents who, unwittingly or otherwise, put the child's life in danger, would you butt in? If none of the other bystanders seem to be going out of their way to stop the unconscionable act, would you?

About a month ago and on a fine Saturday afternoon, the hubby and I saw a child precariously hanging on to the back of a female passenger of a motorcycle weaving through C5 traffic. Both the male driver and the lady passenger wore no helmets. Of course, the kid (probably around 4 years old, judging by his size) also had none. Worse, he appeared to have been strapped to the woman with no more than the sleeves of a jacket wrapped around his waist.

The driver seemed to be in so much hurry because he was even more reckless than many (please note that I didn't say "all") of the motorcycle drivers we encounter everyday. Perhaps, he knew that he was doing something wrong and was trying to avoid the traffic enforcers.

I was so disturbed by the sight that I muttered to the hubby that it was almost like watching a criminal act - that of holding a gun to a child's head and playing Russian roulette.

As soon as I said that, I felt the most unpleasant sense of deja vu. I remembered that about three years ago, while going down the EDSA-Crossing underpass, I also saw three adult passengers on a motorcycle (sans helmets, as usual), with the third one holding an infant in one arm.

I felt a little sick in my stomach as I had that flashback. It wasn't just the disturbing scene that came back to me but also, more importantly, the guilt over not having done anything to stop it.

In all likelihood, the kids in both incidents probably made it to their destinations unscathed. But I simply couldn't stop asking myself this - is indifference only a sin then if someone actually does get hurt? I also worry that it would only be a matter of time before I find myself in that situation again, do nothing, and a child actually does get hurt, or worse.

I would like to think that I am not a callous human being. And that, being a mother myself, it's second nature for me to be protective of children.

In fact, I had actually saved a stranger's child before. One summer, while I was watching my kids cavorting in a swimming pool, a little girl just jumped into the water. Next thing I knew, her eyes were wild with fear and her hands were stretched out in front of her, signaling me for help. She couldn't yell because she could barely get her nose up above water. So I jumped into the pool fully clothed to get her.

I don't mean to toot my own horn here. I just want to point out that I've been wondering a lot lately about my reason for not helping the other two kids. Sure, the danger level was different. The little girl would have surely drowned if I hadn't done anything. And the kids on the motorcycles were in the company of other adults, presumably their parents.

Still, I wondered about why many motorists like myself do nothing more than feel some indignation at this sight that seems to have become more common these days. Perhaps it's diffusion of responsibility, a social phenomenon that suggests that the more bystanders there are, the less likely anything will be done to correct something wrong. (The pundits say that your chances of getting help in an emergency is inversely related to the number of people around you.)

But what is the right thing to do? Chase after those motorcycle drivers and give them some tongue-lashing? Take a picture of them with your mobile phone and send it to the DSWD? Look for a traffic enforcer and give the fiend's plate number?

To my mind, none of these seem to be practical. But I'm hardly convinced that it means it's okay for me to do nothing.

I'd like to think that we'd always want to do the right thing. If we only knew what it was. I have this nagging urge to figure this one out soon. I'm starting to feel that the criminal on wheels is the one who stares back at me when I look in the rear-view mirror.

12 again

2010-06-22T08:26:00.000+08:00

The best thing about it was the rain. Not an easy drizzle but torrential downpour. With matching thunderclaps.

We all knew that Rock and Run was going to be a pretty unusual race. Held last June 19, a Saturday night instead of the usual Sunday morning, it promised revelry instead of grueling competition.

The venue, Fort Bonifacio, was very familiar to most runners but the main event, a rock concert, was obviously a new concept.

Serious runners most probably scoffed at it. With only three categories - 3k, 5k and 10k, it was clearly a fun run and not a marathon. And then there was the special award for the best rock-inspired running costume. You get the picture.

For me, one more thing was different. Since it didn't require getting up in the wee hours, the hubby could finally come. So when Saturday afternoon arrived, I got ready for a leisurely night run with the hubby offering (or maybe conscripted) to be both driver and photographer. Sweet.

Of course, by the time we were traveling down C5 to get from Pasig to Taguig, it was hard to miss the dark clouds on the horizon. And as soon as we turned right to enter the Fort Bonifacio enclave, road visibility was down to only a few meters.

We calmly looked for parking although the appointed gun start was only 15 minutes away. On a typical race day, I'd already be prancing around all warmed up at 15 minutes before gun start. But, like I said, this was not typical.

As we drove around High Street, we told ourselves that people couldn't be crazy enough to run in such heavy downpour so the race should be at least a few minutes delayed. But, as we drove by the starting line to get to an alternative parking area, we discovered that, yep, people (hundreds of them, in fact) were crazy enough.

So, as soon as my doting hubby finished his quick look-over - "wear another shirt under your singlet... wear a cap... bring your water..." - I jumped out of the car to join the other crazies.

Why? When you're past forty, you rarely get a chance to frolic in the rain without people shaking their heads in disapproval or even gawking like you've totally gone mental. So when you find a legitimate excuse, like a race (never mind that you can hardly call it that), you just go ahead and do it.

The race was pretty messy. Certain areas (just a few meters before the beautiful Lexus showroom) had already been flooded. Kids from the nearby shanties chased down runners to ask for the bottled water handed out at a nearby water station. Angry motorists, probably stressed out by terrible traffic that ensued in several parts of the metro, kept honking their horns.

After the race, the lines for the loot bags were chaotic. The rock concert, of course, had to be cancelled because the equipment was waterlogged. A short program was held to announce the winners of the raffle, the costume contest and the run.

The organizers were obviously ill-prepared for the rain as the host was reduced to holding up a flashlight to illuminate the faces of the people who joined her on-stage. The whole thing actually reminded me of the funny Cornetto ice cream commercial where a club doorman-cum-bouncer made a customer dance under a flashlight after the latter tried to bribe the former with P20.

In spite of all that went wrong that night, I still had a lot of fun. Sure, my earphones got waterlogged so I had to run without music for the most part. But that was a good thing. Because most runners didn't even attempt to bring their MP3 players anymore (I was just too stubborn, as usual), everyone just kept cheering each other on. Every thunderclap was greeted with a communal "woohoo!"

And the irony is that the one thing that ruined all the race organizers' plans - the rain- was also the one thing I loved the most about that night.

For a little over an hour and 10 kilometers, I felt like I was 12 years old again. And that, when I'm actually 41, can never be a bad thing.

Update - June 26: Official results are finally out and I have a new personal record in an actual race - 1:13:31! That's almost six minutes faster. BUT, there's scuttlebutt on other blogs that the 10k route was actually 500 meters short. I have no way of verifying this because my Nike+iPod was so inundated (even while tucked in my Fuel Belt) that it froze during the race. Nevertheless, I feel good about my performance (like I did when I crossed the finish line) so I'm still very happy and excited to level up to 15k!

My kids on marriage

2010-05-27T05:44:00.000+08:00

One of the fringe benefits of not having a yaya is a VIP seat at the dinner table and participation in some of the funniest conversations with the kids.

The other night, one such conversation went like this:

Gabby (6) : Mommy, you should marry Daddy. I think he likes you.

Me: I did marry him... a long time ago.

Gabby: You should marry him everyday.

Me: Once you marry someone, you're married forever.

Gabby: Ah! I have to marry Patricia when I'm 40.

Enzo (13): By the time you're old enough to marry, you won't even know her anymore.

Gabby: But she said I should marry her when I'm 40 and she's 41.

Enzo: Just because a girl wants you to marry her doesn't mean you should. It's the guy who has to decide who he wants to marry. And you have to be at least 18, I think.

Gabby: Eighteen?! But I think I'll marry Patricia. I like her.

Me: What about that new girl, Kimi? Don't you like her too?

Gabby: Yeah. But I like Patricia more. I'll marry her.

Aaah, if only grown-ups can be as sure about whom they want to spend the rest of the lives with, what a wonderful world this will be.

Change 3: Starfish wisdom

2010-05-26T06:12:00.000+08:00

The 2010 national elections showed us once again that change can be painful.

For several weeks leading up to May 10, one could not avoid talking about politics. More than an end to close to a decade of a graft-ridden Arroyo presidency, the event spawned more than our usual fare of speculations and doomsday scenarios because it would be the country's first ever computerized elections.

Personally, my pain wasn't a physical one since I didn't get to line up under the scorching sun to do my civic duty.

No, my pain was one of guilt and anxiety: guilt in not being able to vote because I failed to register in the first place; and anxiety over having forfeited my right to speak up against whoever the next President will be and whatever he does in the next six years. As a very opinionated person tormented by the specter of another Estrada presidency, this was real pain for me.

The man I wanted to be President didn't make it. Not by a mile. But the good news is that neither did the plunderer. And for this I am thankful and cognizant that we may not be as lucky next time.

For a lot of people, the work of electing our leaders is hardly finished. To this day, Congress continues to hear allegations of fraud. And for those whose sworn duty it is to protect our right of suffrage, theirs is the pain of having to spend days listening to crap on both sides of the argument, in pursuit of the truth.

With dust having settled somewhat, we can already see that our clamor for change has yielded for us a crop of leaders who come mostly from well-entrenched political dynasties. Sure, their roles are somewhat reversed -- 38 years after the declaration of Martial Law, there is an Aquino in Malacanang and a Marcos in the Senate. But the fact remains that the same families have the power to determine the future of our country.

And although technology had presidential candidates quickly conceding to the apparent winner (a phenomenon that prompted a friend to post on his Facebook wall that "(he) looked out (his) window and saw that pigs have sprouted wings"), the entire system's credibility is still in question two weeks later.

Yes, we do have a lot of things to be thankful for and one is that we are a nation with the wherewithal to make painful changes. Not always the big leap we want. But positive change nonetheless.

Ultimately, all's well that ends well. In spite of political differences, a people can still come together because of a common love for a great nation.

As a famous starfish once said, "everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, then it's not the end." After all, everybody loves a happy ending.

Change 2: A new tune

2010-05-26T06:09:00.000+08:00

Last May 2, Araneta Coliseum was filled to the rafters with fans of British band Tears for Fears. Thousands gathered to hear music from two decades ago.

The majority, I suspect, had spent weeks digging up old CDs and listening to their iPods loop songs from the band's two best-selling albums, The Hurting and Songs from the Big Chair.

The crowd sang, according to one account, in perfectly-timed syncopation only made possible "when the soul of a lyric is seared into (our) hearts."

Most, I wager, didn't even bother with the band's most recent album. So it was no surprise to me that someone who sat behind us groaned "whyyyy?" when the band started singing their newer songs, the ones they came to promote in the first place.

Surprisingly, I was so captivated by the band's new sound that I was actually reluctant to take a seat. At least until a tiny voice in my head said, "your feet are starting to hurt because you are too stubborn to ditch those three-inch heels tonight."

Our little party of eight came out of that concert with a hangover that would last a week. Not from alcohol, although drinking definitely followed. By weekend, I let go of the past and embraced the new, still wishing for the concert's repeat but with more songs from the present.

This whole experience taught me that change can be good.

This is particularly true when a little boy changes his tune from "I won't hug you if you won't play Shout" to "remember, Mommy, I told you I'll hold you, till the last days on Earth."

Like any story that is worth telling, the concert was not without irony. And it is that the one song people waited for the entire night but the band didn't play is called Change.

Change 1: Betrayal of trust

2010-05-26T05:35:00.000+08:00

Peace of mind can be elusive, specially if you're a parent.

Trust in the people tasked with childcare is crucial for parents to remain functioning members of society. When that trust is betrayed, change must happen.

Six weeks ago, we had to dismiss our yaya and our maid for lying about their whereabouts.

They had gone missing one Saturday afternoon. When I finally reached them by cellphone, they told me they were on the roofdeck, doing the laundy. They didn't realize that I could see them walking across the parking lot. They had clearly come from outside our compound. They insisted on this excuse for an hour until they were convinced that they were caught.

Something happens to even the calmest human beings when they become parents. Some call it paranoia. Others call it parental instinct. That thing that makes you get up in the middle of the night and take a peek in the kids' room just to make sure they're okay, even though you tucked them in bed just a couple of hours earlier.

Experience also taught us that something happens to even the most reliable and seemingly trustworthy yaya when she stays with a family too long and is trusted too much. That thing that makes her think, after five years of good service, that she has the license to let a secret boyfriend into her employers' home when no one is looking.

Where our children are concerned, our policy is this: it's always better safe than sorry. And that will never change.

Sometimes, if you're lucky, the challenge of finding trustworthy household staff leads you to discover that your children are smarter and more capable than you assume them to be.

Two blogs, the Blue Eagle & an orange moon

2010-04-02T21:27:00.000+08:00

A former colleague of mine (a very brilliant girl and a self-confessed atheist) once asked me if I believed in God. I was so overwhelmed by the question that the only reply I could give was "How can I not?"

I can never forget that conversation, if you can call it that. To this day, I am flabbergasted by my inability to expound on my answer. All of a sudden, this chatterbox was at a loss for words.

Perhaps because of the Holy Week, I'm finding myself thinking a lot more about God these days. And if I were to be asked the same question today, I would probably add "I see Him everyday."

Now, before you think that I have gone looney, or scary like that kid in Sixth Sense, let me expound.

TWO BLOGS

This week started with an unusual blog post by a friend who works for a car magazine. He talked about a Bible study group formed by individuals from the motoring industry. He showed that, even though the world of cars is a materialistic one, its denizens can include God-loving men and women. I was quick to tell him that the biggest lover of cars I know, my brother-in-law, is also the biggest lover of God I know.

So my friend's blog got me thinking about my Kuya Boyet and his passion for his car's mechanics. (Just last week, he sent me an e-mail to tell my husband to "stop the presses" because his beloved BMW is going front-wheel drive.) But the more amazing thing about my Kuya Boyet is that he has been fighting a rare, deadly disease for over a decade now but has remained steadfast in his worship of the Lord, using his talents in singing and photography in praising Him.

And, get this, while he had a major struggle with his health early this year, he found the time and energy to go shopping for my shoes (presumably in between trips to the cancer institute) and post on my Facebook wall that my running inspires him. My reaction was "Me? I inspire him? When he's the one fighting a disease and biking like Lance Armstrong? When, every time I think of him, I see the face of God?"

Another friend's blog also got me thinking about God the other day. She shared a strange experience she had with a couple of concert tickets that accidentally got wet and seemed to display the image of the crucified Christ. No, I didn't see the image (although a couple of readers did). But I saw something else altogether. I saw a pious woman devoted to her family, particularly to her autistic son.

I was reminded of the very first article of hers that I ever read. It appeared in BusinessWorld several years ago. She talked about how she discovered and embraced the fact that her beloved Alphonse was autistic. Reading her blog the other day, I realized how she has remained as committed today as she was years ago in pushing for awareness and understanding of autism in the Philippines. And of how, through her blog, she continues to provide emotional support for other families with autistic children. Yes, she got me thinking about God. For where else can love and hope come from but God Himself?

THE BLUE EAGLE

Last Tuesday, Arnold, Enzo and I went to Ateneo for our family interview, a pre-requisite for admission into the high school whose mascot is the Blue Eagle. Apparently, high school life at the Ateneo begins and ends with an interview to assess the student's formation based on the five C's: Christ-centeredness, competence, compassion, conscience, and commitment.

My husband and I were delighted to learn that our son will go through quite an intensive immersion program with the underprivileged segments of our society. Among other things, he will have the chance to experience being a teacher's assistant in a shelter for abandoned and abused kids and spend a weekend with a family of a New Bilibid Prison convict. All these experiences, of course, aim to teach the student to do everything Ad Majoren Dei Gloriam (For the greater glory of God).

But the slogan of that school of the Blue Eagle isn't the only reason the interview had me thinking about God.

As I sat through the interview and listened to my son answer questions directed at him, I was amazed at how much he's grown as a person. And I thought to myself that no matter how hard my husband and I will work to bring our son to his full potential as a human being, we can never do it on our own. It has been said that it takes a village to raise a boy. But, at that interview, I thought to myself that it will take God's grace to turn my boy into a man.

AN ORANGE MOON

And then, driving home the other night, I noticed a huge orange globe that hung over the horizon. I thought that it was a giant lamp set up at a condominium project just ahead in the distance. Outdoor advertising has become really creative, I thought, that the developer probably came up with an interesting gimmick to help sell more units. It took me a while to realize that it was actually the moon. And I was so mesmerized by it that I thought to myself "God created such a marvelous moon."

I was so moved that I called up a colleague of mine who's into astronomy. He reminded me that we were to get a blue moon that night. I laughed to myself thinking "isn't a blue moon supposed to be, uhm, blue?" Haha. Of course, I knew that the color of the moon itself doesn't actually change, that dust particles in the atmosphere turned the moon orange that night. But I got so obsessed with the idea of a blue moon that I googled it.

I found out that a blue moon, or a second full moon in a single month, happens every 2.5 years. What we had the other night was the second blue moon that appeared this year; the first one was in January. The next one will be in August 2012. The last time we saw two blue moons in a single year was in 1999.

And here's a curious piece of information I got from Wikipedia: the Clergy identify the occurrence of a Lent moon to determine the date of Easter; when the moon appears too early, it is called the "betrayer moon" or, ahem, the belewe moon.

Having read all these facts about the blue moon made me wonder if my orange moon is any less marvelous. It is, after all, a natural occurrence. Does it make any sense to thank some supernatural force for its beauty? This got me thinking about Albert Einstein, who is said to have believed in the universe itself as god. He did not believe in a personal god who concerns himself with the fates and actions of human beings. Einstein's logic is, of course, hard to assail.

But my orange moon also had me thinking about my own sister, a molecular geneticist and a devoted Christian. My brother-in-law said it best: the coolest thing about her is that she has uncovered one of the amazing secrets of science in NellOne (a protein that can restore damaged heart and skeletal muscle) and is still in awe of the Creator.

And that's just half of my sister's story. Five years ago, she almost died of myocarditis. Of course, she had outstanding medical care in Vanderbilt University Medical Center, with the latest technology and three teams of the best doctors and nurses working 24/7 to restore her health. But even the doctors admit to this day that her case baffles them, just stopping short of calling it a miracle.

For most people, Einstein's idea of a god too omnipresent and omniscient to care about each human being may be the easier one to accept. But, after thinking about my sister - how she survived a very deadly heart disease to go on and work on a therapy that will potentially save heart attack patients - I cannot get myself to not believe in a God who cares about the fate of men.

THE FACE OF GOD

Since my father died last year, I had become more thoughtful about what God means to me and my family. How he has always been there in our trials and tribulations. And how we are so blessed by His grace.

I've also been more conscious of my own spirituality. I guess, having been reminded of my own mortality, I am now more concerned about making my own life count. And even attempting, through this simple blog, to share my own blessings.

I don't know if this long-winded blog post is any clearer than the answer I gave my atheist friend several years ago. Perhaps I will never be articulate enough to explain my own faith in God. But, then again, to borrow a quote my blogger friend had taken from the poet Kahlil Gibran "Faith is a knowledge within the heart, beyond the reach of proof."

All I know is that I cannot possibly imagine a world without God. I see Him everyday in the indomitable spirit of individuals in the midst of personal struggle, in the unconditional love of a mother for her autistic child, in the faces of family and friends, and even the magnificence of that thing we call science.

Just this week, I saw Him in two blogs, the Blue Eagle and an orange moon.

My 10 lessons from Run United for Wellness

2010-03-13T19:20:00.000+08:00

I know it's been said many times before. But let me just say it again. The outcome of a race depends a lot on the things that happen before gun start. The fact that I finished in the bottom 14% (bottom 25% among women runners) was therefore not an accident.

Run United for Wellness inspired me to come up with a list of lessons, including those I learned from previous races. Many of these can be considered common sense and may seem pretty easy to follow. Until you actually need to.

10) When the race organizers include literature in your kit, read it. I got so excited with the nice singlet and the freebies that I ignored the little pamphlet that came with the pack. So I missed a training program that could have made my life easier. It appears to be more appropriate for me than the one I'm following on the Nike+ website, which I'm trying for another week/race.

9) When you're told to taper, taper. The Runner's World book I've been using as reference warned that a lot of runners make the mistake of giving in to that restlessness one feels while tapering off before the race. Me, I snuck a couple of runs - a 7k on Thursday and a 4k on Friday - that my leg muscles were still sore by Saturday.

8 ) Cross-train. - Go for a cardiovascular exercise that demands less of the legs. Using this definition, Teakwondo doesn't qualify. Although I still intend to continue with my Taekwondo classes (in fact, I have a promotion test later this month), I should really include swimming in my weekly routine.

7) Follow a training schedule. No ifs or buts about it. - Making time for training is important. Running when I feel like it is okay for a fun run. But it will never get me to a 21k, which is my goal for the second semester. After all, gun start will always be at the agreed time, regardless of whether I'm 100% into it or not.

6) Practice the race route or, at the very least, the race time. The sight of a long route can still intimidate someone used to running several rounds of a short route, like on a track. Practicing in Bonifacio Global City (where most major events are held these days) at least once a week will help reduce my stress level. Practicing in the morning will also help me get used to the heat.

5) If you have to choose between sleep and training three days before the race, choose sleep. That's simple enough to understand. I think I read that somewhere - the July 2009 issue of the local Women's Health magazine, if memory serves me. I just realized now that this rule isn't really that easy to follow.

4) Prepare everything the night before. Attach your bib to your singlet and the timing chip to your shoes. Do whatever you can the night before race. Don't put it off for the next day. Or else, when certain things don't turn out as planned (as shown in #3 below), you'll have no choice but do what I did. I struggled with my timing chip while queueing for parking, which is a dangerous thing to do.

3) Set two alarms - one to wake you up and another to remind you when it's time to go to the venue. I missed my 3:30am wake-up time and bolted out of bed at 4:30am. Okay, so that's not how I planned it but the second alarm got me to the starting line at five minutes before gun start. Otherwise, I would have missed the race entirely.

2) If you're driving, be at the venue at least one hour early (specially if the organizers announced on Facebook that parking will be "slim pickings"). Running, they say, has become the new badminton. Since the start of the year, we've seen races that attract an average of 9,000 runners (9,000 for Condura; 12,000 for Century Superbods; 7,000 for Run United and at least 8,000 for next week's Globe Run for Home). That only means that parking will definitely be part of the challenge come race day.

1) If you have medication you need to take on a regular basis, never, ever forget to take it before a race. Duh. As I mentioned in my post on the Condura Run, I discovered earlier this year that I have acid reflux. This makes me nauseous at times and causes pretty intense chest pains when I'm stressed (particularly during exercise). Unfortunately, I forgot to take my medicine the night before the race. To make things worse, I managed to eat only a quarter of an energy bar while queuing for parking and struggling with my timing chip. So I wasn't really surprised that I felt the energy bar rising up my throat mid-race. This forced me to walk and take small but frequent sips of Gatorade for about half a kilometer.

So that's how Run United for Wellness went down for me. (Check out the Nike+ screen capture below for a more graphic view. It also shows that my Nike+iPod sensor needs further calibration. ;) )

Of course, one cannot really control everything. I still expect to encounter some challenges and make some mistakes in my next races. But a little more preparation can definitely make a big difference in my performance. And a big difference is what I intend to make next Sunday at the Globe Run for Home.

Oido running

2010-03-06T22:47:00.000+08:00

Oido, I just learned today, is Spanish for "hearing." I first encountered the word as a kid while taking piano lessons and learning to play by ear (from the phrase "tocar de oido").

Yep, there was a time when I pretended to be a normal little girl and tried to learn the dainty things. Luckily, I got addicted to soccer cleats and softball mitts before I even had the notion that I could also try ballet. I say "luckily" because I would have wasted my years trying out ballet, only to grow into this 5'7" hulk of a woman. But that's another story.

Just as I ditched the piano as a kid in favor of sports, I'm using oido to describe my approach to running. And I'm blogging about it now because, over coffee with some colleagues the other Friday, a seasoned triathlete said a proper training program is the key to becoming a good runner.

That's when I realized that I run like I played the piano many years back. And now I'm worried that I'll suck at this sport as much as I did with the musical instrument.

When the urge to run hit me three years ago, the first thing I did was buy a book - Runner's World Complete Book of Women's Running. For someone who doesn't like to read manuals, this is quite a good start. The book is pretty comprehensive. It has various programs and smart tips for every kind of runner, whether you're just starting out or training for a full marathon.

I picked a program that would help me get a slow but steady 3k. The main goal was consistency. But the temptation to run fast was too much that I kept ending up with a fartlek (Swedish word for speed play).

I also wanted to run longer distances. I can't seem to enjoy a run, even if I make good time, unless I feel spent at the end. The unspent energy makes me restless. So I quit the program and began running "by ear" or simply listening to my body.

I've also tried but failed to complete three programs in the Nike+ website. I even signed up for the Nike-sponsored running clinics with the famous coach Rio de la Cruz in 2008. Did that twice. And didn't show up twice.

But heeding the advice of the wise, I signed up for my fourth program last week. I'm now following a 12-week plan to run a solid 10k. I'm still on my first week but I'm already a little off, due mostly to scheduling problems.

Obviously, I'm still not very optimistic that I'll actually stick with this one. All I know is that there are a couple of things that might actually push me to take my running a bit more seriously. There is the office fitness competition that requires me to clock a 10k in an hour in June. And then there's my date with my older brother to run a full 42k in an international marathon by 2011.

Now if these two things won't get me to drop oido running, I really don't know what will.

Motherhood

2010-02-17T20:29:00.000+08:00

It's like a cupcake.
Licked clean of its frosting, yet
Sweeter with sharing.

Gabby wanted this treat from Cupcakes by Sonja but was not ready to let go of his loose front tooth. So we agreed to share. He took the frosting. I got the cake. He kept his front tooth. I was spared all those calories.

All I have to do is dream

2010-02-13T12:03:00.000+08:00

It was a year ago today when I got the phone call from my younger brother that our father had just passed away. It was around 5:30am when he called and I, in turn, called everyone else so he could focus on making the preparations for the wake.

While Papa had been very sick for about a couple of years and the doctors already told us that he didn't have much time left, the news was still quite a shock that I asked my husband to call my brother back. I needed to make sure that I heard my brother correctly. That Papa was really gone.

So a year has passed. And, although I can still feel the sadness I felt on that day, I am now grateful that I can find comfort in some very fond memories and precious lessons I got from him.

Papa taught me a lot of the fun stuff I know today. He really knew how to enjoy life. I didn't get some of the things he tried to teach me, perhaps because of sheer lack of talent on my part, but we sure had fun along the way.

He taught me how to play poker, pusoy to be exact, when I was about 12. It's a game of strategy, he said. Much like life, you learn how to make the most out of the cards you're given.

He loved to dance, just like me, and he taught me the cha-cha. I actually believe that I got his dancing gene and we were quite a natural pair. But he eventually stopped teaching me when I said that I wanted to learn tango. I guess he figured that I had to learn that on my own when I'm older.

He also loved to sing. When I was about six or seven, we'd sing really old songs like Sixteen Tons. One of our favorite duets went something like this-

Papa: Down by the old

Me: Not new but the old

Papa: Mill stream

Me: Not the river but the stream

Papa: Where I first

Me: Not the last but the first

Papa: Met you

Me: Not me but you...

Music was very much a part of our lives. Way before Magic Sing became popular, Papa collected laser discs. He always crooned Sinatra, of course, but his favorite was Strangers in the Night instead of the lethal My Way.

He eventually gave up trying to teach me to sing, after hours of singing The Carpenters in a single note. "Nope," he probably thought, "my singing gene didn't make it." Eventually, instead of coaxing me to flex my vocal chords, he'd taken to reminding me to be kind to the neighbors.

Many of the valuable lessons he taught me had to do with his 30-plus years of working for Del Monte. Before "core values" became buzzwords, he was already teaching me about integrity, perseverance and teamwork.

Once, when I was in high school, I had to go to his office very early in the morning. I wasn't able to take the school bus that day and our driver couldn't make it to our house early enough to take Papa to his office. I rode with my dad to work so I could meet our driver there.

After fidgeting in my chair for about half an hour while watching my dad do that day's crossword puzzle and having coffee at his desk, I finally asked him in my whiny teenager's voice, "why do you have to come to work so early anyway? You're just reading the newspaper and having coffee. You can do that at home."

A basketball addict like his boss, Moro Lorenz0, my dad simply said "It's like a game. You might not have the ball at the moment, you might even be on the bench, but you have to be warmed up and ready to go when your team needs you."

He also taught me that, no matter how high up you are already in an organization, it's both fun and important to hang out with those at the very bottom. He often brought us along when he played with senior executives at the Del Monte Golf & Country Club in Bukidnon, even walking the fairways with him. After a game, we would hang out with the caddies and the maintenance staff. Once, we even had a little barbecue at the edge of the huge man-made lake in the middle of the golf course.

Obviously, I've been thinking a lot about Papa lately. Although I still get very sad because I can't simply pick up the phone and talk to him (and even sadder when I realize that I didn't do that often enough while he was still alive), I'm beginning to find myself smiling more than crying when I think of him lately.

For instance, when I caught the tail end of the movie Riding in Cars with Boys last week (on HBO, I think) and saw Drew Barrymore and James Woods (who played daughter and father roles) sing All I Have To Do Is Dream, I started crying because I missed Papa and our little duet.

But when I look back on that scene now and remember how Woods had a smile on his face because Barrymore was whining about how her son kept blaming her for everything that went wrong in his life, I can't help but grin myself. I was also quite a brat when I was younger that perhaps Papa smiles at me from heaven once in a while as I face the many challenges of raising my two boys.

And so I am grateful that, as I mark Papa's first death anniversary, I now have a happy image in my head - sitting next to him and singing Down by the Old Mill Stream while he's driving his Beetle. One of many happy memories I have with my very cool dad.

How I helped save the dolphins...

2010-02-08T04:26:00.000+08:00

...and Beyonce saved race day

While going through my race kit for The Condura Run 2010 last Thursday, I was struck by this statement in the event's advertising supplement in The Philippine Star: "The best runs are the ones you make when you feel that you don't want to run."

Although I was excited when I registered in late December, several obstacles were thrown my way in the weeks leading to the race that I seriously considered dropping out. In fact, I was pretty sure the race was a no-go when I had to make a trip to the Cardinal Santos emergency room Monday night because of severe chest pains.

But my medical issues were resolved somehow. And run I did, finishing a 5k at 39'43" on my Nike+iPod.

So was it really one of my greatest runs? You bet. No, it was not my fastest. But it was definitely a personal victory I will never forget.

The Condura Run is an annual event staged to promote awareness and protection of our marine resources. In 2008, 2,000 runners joined and the proceeds went to the preservation of the Tubbataha Reef. Last year, 6,000 ran to save the whale sharks. In this morning's race, 8,500 participated for the dolphins of Pamilacan Island in Bohol.

I knew it was going to be different from the races I've joined in the past. From the Condura Village set up at the site four days before the main event to the fireworks that served as the gun start, it was a clearly a major undertaking. Except for the congestion at the 5k finish line, the race itself was smooth & hassle-free, which is quite a relief for someone like me who has been dragging her feet to the starting line.

Okay, so I wasn't exactly "dragging my feet." But I was anxious all week, literally forcing myself to do a last-minute walk-run workout with the hubby on Friday night. And the reason for the dilly-dallying was that I wasn't even sure if I could race because the results of my thyroid tests were expected to be released on Saturday, the day before the event. The thought of wasting all that training in case my blood tests turn out positive for hyperthyroidism again kept me from giving my best.

Thankfully, my medical woes were resolved. The severe chest pains were due to gastroesophageal reflux disease (GERD). This means that my heart is fine, my thyroid hormones are within normal levels, and, as long as I take the GERD medication prescribed to me, I should be fine.

But that's not the end of the story.

When the drama about my health finally ended, I was anxious about whether I had practiced enough and if I deserved to wear my bib the next day. I was worried that I might have another one of those chest pains and pass out during the race. Or finish dead last like I almost did during my 10k at the Ateneo Sesquicentennial Run last December, recording 1:32:38 on my Nike+iPod. (I think there were only 20 people who finished after me.)

My older brother called up last night to check if I was going to join the race. "I think so," was that best answer I could give him. My husband asked me the same thing and I gave him the same answer before I dozed off at 9pm.

I figured that I would just take one step at a time. Just get some sleep. And then check how I'll feel about the race when I wake up.

I woke up at 3am and all I could think about was the race. So I ate an energy bar, took a hot shower, got my stuff ready, and drove to Bonifacio High Street. I got there at 5:20am, just in time to watch the fireworks that signaled the start of the 10k race. The 42k and the 21k started at 4am and 5am, respectively. (The organizers were so efficient they even had the nearby vacant lots opened for parking since the usual slots were already full.)

As soon as I checked in at the starting line and felt the energy of the crowd, I was already patting myself on the back for just getting there. Little did I know that I would be going on a roller coaster of emotions. I was dismayed when I had to walk for a few meters soon after I hit the marker for the first kilometer. And again when we hit that hilly part on the way to McKinley. Eventually, the whole thing became a walk/run routine that I was tempted to walk to the finish line by the time I reached four kilometers.

And then it happened. I felt a jolt of energy as I heard Beyonce wail "Every night I rush to my bed / With hopes that maybe I'll get a chance / To see you when I close my eyes..."

It was a strange thing, really. I didn't realize that I had become oblivious to my running music as I struggled through the race. And the funny thing is that I was actually listening to a new playlist with a slower tempo. I created it at 4am on race day, knowing that I wasn't in my best shape yet and may have a hard time with my usual running music.

So Beyonce got me running again. All the way to the finish line.

What did I get at the end of the race? A finisher's medal and an important lesson. When the going gets tough, you just gotta keep the faith and keep going because you'll never know where the much-needed boost will come from.

And so goes the story of what I did to save the dolphins and how Beyonce saved race day.

A quiet panic

2010-01-30T22:48:00.000+08:00

Perhaps nothing is as exciting and, at the same time, unnerving to a mother than the realization that her baby has finally grown into a young man.

This realization hit me as two things happened the other week - we received a much-awaited letter from the Ateneo High School Department and attended a briefing on the Sacrament of Confirmation. And this morning, when I dropped Enzo off at the Loyola House of Studies for his final Recollection before leaving Ateneo Grade School, I felt a quiet panic.

I quickly went over my usual checklist with him, "Do you have enough money? Is your cellphone charged? Meet me here are at 3pm. Call me if there's a problem."

But, in my head, I was asking myself tougher questions, "Is he ready? Have I done enough to prepare him? What do I do now?"

These thoughts suddenly popped into my head. I knew they were coming. But I was still startled when they did.

It was like being woken up by an alarm clock that sounded more like a school bell. You wake up surprised and disoriented, even though you set the alarm yourself the night before. And you ask yourself, "What time is it? Am I late? Where am I? Where am I going anyway?"

Things are starting to happen really fast. His confirmation will be in two weeks. And then there's graduation.

As I drove off and looked in my rear-view mirror, I realized that there were other parents behind me, waiting to drop off their kids and probably asking themselves the same questions.

They were the same parents who, like my husband and I, attended that seminar on the Sacrament of Confirmation held at the Lee Irwin Theater last Saturday.

And, like me, they will be reminded not to worry too much about not knowing all the answers. That it is the height of hubris for us parents to think that we can raise a child on our own, guided only by our own experiences and feelings. That there is always prayer. And that the Holy Spirit will help us as we continue the journey with our sons.

There is definitely a more challenging road ahead of us. But, as I reminded myself this morning, it's also a very, very exciting one.

Magnetic sushi

2010-01-22T04:59:00.000+08:00

What should you do when your six-year-old son greets you at the door as you come home from work; excitedly exclaims "I have a surprise for you;" hands you a container filled with refrigerator magnets garnished with strips of green paper; and proudly explains, "It's sushi, Mommy?"

You give him a big kiss; say "thank you, honey;" and put the "sushi" in the refrigerator so it won't spoil. Of course.

Gabby has this knack for creating the sweetest little surprises for me and his dad.

He would stick drawings and notes inside our cabinets so we'd see them when we dress for work. They would always say "I love you" and have the occasional reminder to "please come home." If he should find our bedroom door locked, he would quickly knock and slip the note under the door.

Even his notes can be very creative. Once, he gave me a piece of paper with my name on it. There was a series of squiggly lines and a checkmark to the left of each line. When I asked him what it meant, he said: "It's your report card, Mommy. See? There are a lot of checks!"

He'd come home from one of our compound's playgrounds and have a flower for me that he'd insist on putting in my hair. Sometimes, we'd put it in a cup filled with water. I had to eventually tell him to stop doing this when he started bringing home three or four flowers at a time.

Then there are other spontaneous gestures like text messages sent through his yaya's cell phone. And the random big, wet kiss on the cheek that's preceded by "I love you, Mommy. You're sooo preeeetty."

Of course, like any kid his age, he does have his tantrums. Sometimes, when he doesn't get what he wants, he'd yell "I don't love you anymore! I only love _____ (filling the blank with "Daddy," Yaya," "Kuya Enzo" or whoever is within earshot and he thinks will side with him)!" To this, I always say, "That's okay, honey. I still love you. I'll love you forever. Even if you don't love me anymore."

But, generally, Gabby is that kid who comes up with the sweetest, sometimes strangest, surprises.

I know that he will outgrow this one day. I'm sure that he will still come up with the most creative and sweetest surprises. But they will probably be for a girl with a name like Patricia or Chloe. And he wouldn't be caught in public giving me a big kiss.

But, for now, we have only one magnet stuck to the door of our refrigerator, holding another one of Gabby's masterpieces - a letter in Wingdings font with a picture of an airplane and a car. The other magnets? They're still freezing in the refrigerator, pretending to be sushi.

Joy without apology

2010-01-17T07:07:00.000+08:00

My sister and her husband are two of the most down-to-earth people I know. They often find joy in the spiritual and the cerebral, rarely the material. So when they talk about their his and hers bimmers, they always seem sheepish, apologetic even. As if those cars are their guilty pleasures.

My brother-in-law, for instance, has pampered his car with Bilstein shocks, a Remus exhaust, Turner swaybars, a UUC short shifter, a UUC aluminum flywheel and M5 clutch set.

My sister, who has a green thumb, is a little more modest in her affection for her car (so far). She proudly displays a license plate holder with little blue flowers.

I don't know much about cars, unlike my husband and his friends. But this I know: if a guilty pleasure is something you shouldn't enjoy but do anyway (like a caprice or an indulgence), then the 1999 M3 and the 2007 525i hardly qualify as such. You don't have to be a gearhead to know that BMW engineering is synonymous with high performance. That one should fall in love with these cars is therefore a natural response. And, clearly, there is no need for apology.

Laying off the snooze button

2010-01-16T15:27:00.000+08:00

Someone once said that making resolutions when you're past 40 is a total waste of time. That's because many of the things you often vow to change are 20-year-old habits that are almost impossible to break.

While I agree that old habits are hard to break, I think midlife is the best time to make resolutions. You have a better idea of what you want out of life. Your priorities are clearer. And, presumably, you have the resources or means (financial, intellectual, emotional) to actually make things happen.

I'm obviously one of those who take the annual ritual seriously. Every Christmas, I'd be on the lookout for a nice planner where I'd painstakingly write down my goals for the new year. And I can be pretty anal about it too.

(That may seem strange to some of my friends who know that I'm a slave to my phone's calendar. But I'm very old school when it comes to planning for my more personal stuff. I still write things down.

No, I don't look for the most creative and visually pleasing planners, like the ones we see in our high-end bookstores these days. I'm too much of a cheapskate for that. For the last four years, I've been using a very straight-forward, functional one that my husband has been receiving as a corporate gift from a bank.

Don't get me wrong. I love hanging out in bookstores and checking out those nice notebooks and planners. Every trip is never complete without a quick review of the Moleskine rack. I'd buy one of those things and give it as a gift but I wouldn't buy it for myself.)

Like most people, I find that some of the plans I make at the beginning of the year don't see fruition. Projects are not completed. Certain dreams are not realized. But, at the end of each year, I always find something that I've accomplished and that's what makes me start each new year with a grateful & recharged heart.

This year is all about "moving forward." Sorry for the cheesiness but, yes, it's like the motto from the movie Meet the Robinsons. You see, last year was a particularly difficult one. My success rate was lower than usual. So this year is about some unfinished business and taking certain things to a new level, like getting my black belt in Taekwondo and running in a half-marathon.

If I were to use an analogy, I think my outlook in life has improved in the same way that my waking habits have. I no longer act like my 13-year-old son who keeps saying "five more minutes" until he's taken 30. I've actually thrown the blanket aside and have a foot off the bed, feeling the floor for the those slippers I know I left there the night before.