I was fortunate at the age of 29 to have three sets of parents: my parents, my husband’s mom and stepdad, and his dad and stepmom. While coordinating and managing holidays and special events was sometimes complicated, it was still a blessing. For my kids, having 6 grandparents was absolutely awesome; never a shortage of someone doting on them and telling them how perfect they were (so essentially, they are liars that we don’t hold accountable because someone has to spoil my kids since I won’t). After 17 years, I am sadly now down to 5 parents. On August 7, 2024, we lost our Bill.
Bill was Jamie’s stepfather. He came into the picture when Jamie was 8 or 9 years old, just a little younger than my son today. Though initially giving Bill the cold shoulder, as he was probably not ready to let a new man into their home, Jamie eventually let his guard down and let Bill in. Soon he and Bill grew a very deep bond, and he became one of Jamie’s strongest role models in his young life and even into adulthood.
When Jamie and I first started dating, I believe I won Bill over when he heard that I valued things like maxing out my 401K and having a solid health insurance plan. Then he learned that I have a strong love for bacon, and he called me a keeper. I first met him on Thanksgiving of 2006, the year Jamie and I had a contest to see who would gain the most weight after celebrating with 3 different families in the same day…not to brag, but I won. Our first stop was to Mom and Bill’s home, and they were nothing short of warm and welcoming. I was so taken aback because they literally welcomed me with open arms, as in these strangers willingly hugged me, whereas I think my parents welcomed Jamie with a couple of raised eyebrows, a head nod, and pointed to the food with their lips and told him to eat (that is equivalent to a Filipino hug, I suppose). Bill was so attentive, already knew what kind of wine I liked (the alcoholic kind, I’m not picky), and he seemed to have studied different aspects of my life so that he could have an engaging conversation with me. I felt like he really and truly had a genuine interest in getting to know me. He seemed so thrilled to see Jamie happy with me, like he could burst at any point that day. And he laughed at all my jokes (I kept them clean the first few years), and everyone likes a good audience. At one point, I noticed he held Jamie’s mom’s hand in the middle of the meal and just stared at her so lovingly. I was very confused. It only lasted a few seconds, but I felt like he was saying so much to her in his intense stare, like, “Sweetie, we did it. We lived to see the day Jamie found his person.” And then I thought, “Ah, so this is where Jamie gets his googley-eyed staring habit, from Bill.” I kept thinking, man, white people really are so different. I have only seen my parents hold hands a few times, and it’s mostly in church when we pray the Our Father. Bill was one of a kind that day, and really, all days. He became family in my eyes on day one, and I think that feeling was mutual.
Everyday after that, Bill received me with the same enthusiasm as day one, with so much joy and love, excited to hear how I’ve been and my latest experiences. I kept expecting it to slowly deflate as he got used to me, but it never did. He was such a role model in that way, to present yourself to someone you care about with an obvious and deliberate intention to make you feel loved. I regret that I took it for granted.
Two years into my relationship with Jamie, we got married. So many memories of that day flood my brain, one being of Bill absolutely weeping in the church with pride and joy that his boy picked the most amazing partner in the entire world (I may have embellished the description of myself a bit). The photographer captured a picture of him wiping away his tears and perhaps in prayer, either asking God to bless our marriage, or to save his son’s soul (both can be true at the same time). The videographer caught Bill and Mom dancing at the reception, with Bill having the time of his life, twirling Mom around and just being in the moment. That day was one of the happiest I’ve ever seen him, with tears of joy, boisterous laughter, smiles from ear to ear, and sharing the day with the people he loved the most. The day would not have been the same without him.
Bill was a loving husband, father, brother, uncle, Papa and friend. He was generous, kind, and thoughtful, and wanted nothing more than for his family to be happy and safe. He showed his love in many different ways, like visiting our homes every few months to check the batteries of our smoke and carbon dioxide alarms, or gifting us bottles of wine or unique rosaries, or making us personalized labels to put on every item we owned, or placing water alarms in the basement in case we had a leak. He was so proud of his grandkids, saved every picture of them and went to all the grandparent days at school. He would come to their games and make a note in his phone of every kid’s name and number and study the note, so that by the next game he could cheer for each kid by name. He had the patience to try to teach me how to golf, and also had the wisdom to know that I was a lost cause. He had a knack for grilling his famous pork tenderloin, and used no less than 3 timers at once to ensure perfect cooking times so that our meals were restaurant quality. He knew everyone’s favorite drink and had it at the ready. He was there for others, big ways and small, to show them he loved them in his Bill way.
We were in Florida when we got the call that Bill was going downhill. My sister-in-law flew home to be with Mom, while the rest of us drove home as quickly as we could. When we got home early that morning, the vibe in the house was so bizarre, so quiet and chilling. I went upstairs to find broken glass all over the bathroom floor. Our shower door must have randomly cracked and shattered to bits while we were away. As I was cleaning up the glass, I felt so sad, like this was symbolic of our family unit breaking and forever changing as we were preparing to say our goodbyes to Bill. I hated picking up the pieces of glass, I didn’t want to do it, but I did it anyway. I remember feeling very angry, even though it was just a shower door. But now that I think about that moment a year later, I see I was grieving, I was angry about losing Bill and that cleaning up the pieces was an inevitable must-do in order to move on, even if I didn’t want to.
We lost Bill so quickly, too fast to comprehend all that was happening, but perhaps the swiftness was merciful in a way that maybe we’re not all that equipped to readily understand. The day was so vivid for me, with all of us there by his side to say our goodbyes. I watched Jamie like a hawk, making sure he was okay, ready to catch him. He was understandably distraught, wanting so badly to be strong for his mom and sister, but falling apart on the inside, feeling beyond exhausted and a bit lost. There are no words you can possibly say to someone losing a parent right in that moment, so I just held him. Then I watched over my babies, made sure they were processing things in whatever way their little brains allowed them. And when I didn’t know what else to do, I took the Filipino route: I prayed and made sure everyone was eating.
As attentive as Bill was towards others, he himself did not like attention, and did not want a large wake or funeral, as he did not think people would even attend. But we filled the church he was so devoted to with family and friends. His favorite priest gave a thoughtful homily filled with personal stories of Bill. The choir sang songs that will always remind me of him. Family members did readings and the grandkids said petitions. Megan and Jamie ended the ceremony with heart-felt eulogies that spoke of the great man that shaped them into the adults they are today. We gathered afterwards as a family at his favorite restaurant and toasted to one amazing man. He deserved attention. He deserved a celebration.
Jamie and I went with some friends to a concert a few days after Bill passed away. Given the timing of it all, we felt kind of guilty going, but we had these tickets a year in advance. We saw Smashing Pumpkins and Green Day at Wrigley Field. Bill, being a big Cubs fan, was shining down on us that day. When the Smashing Pumpkins came out, Jamie was as happy as a kid on Christmas morning. I think he even shed a tear or two, as he had been waiting to see this band since he was in high school. Funny back story about that…so Jamie wanted to see the Smashing Pumpkins perform in the city when he was in high school. Bill and Mom said absolutely not, no high school kid is going to the city with no adults on a school night. Jamie sulked and pouted, and would not talk to them for weeks. Bill and Mom felt so bad about it, they ended up buying him 2 tickets to the Mariah Carey concert. Yep, not a typo, I said Mariah Carey. They thought Mariah Carey was a pretty even trade off for missing Smashing Pumpkins. So not only did Jamie have to go to see Mariah Carey in the burbs, but he had to bring a friend. So he and his buddy enjoyed the “Vision of Love” tour, but probably acted like they didn’t, being two high school dudes at a Mariah Carey concert. Now fast-forward to nearly 30 years later, he finally got to rock out to one of his favorite bands, and as I watched Jamie with tears in his eyes, I pointed to the sky and said, “Bill, he finally got to see his Smashing Pumpkins in concert! You did it!” Later on that night when Green Day came out, the lead singer said something about remembering the people we have lost, and Jamie grabbed my hand so tightly, like he was asking me to help him keep it together. Bill was smiling down on his “Bud” for sure that night.
As the year went on, we returned to our daily grind, because what choice do we have but to move onward. There have been many little “Billisms” popping up randomly. I remember going to Costco one day and watching this older couple go through the aisles. It seemed like they were preparing for some kind of family gathering, and the older woman remembered to get a certain type of chips the kids liked. The older man said, “Oh, Grandma’s so good!” That was something Bill would always say to Mom. A few months later, our sump pump failed during a rain storm and we were about to get a shit ton of water. One of the water alarms that Bill insisted on us installing started to screech, and Jamie was able to keep the water from causing a disaster in the basement. He sat in that basement and cried, knowing that Bill saved the day again, even from Heaven.
Certain things still feel strange, even after a year has gone by. Holidays feel a bit empty. Jamie was especially tearful on Thanksgiving, as he and Bill love this holiday the most. On the kids’ birthdays, it was weird not to get Bill’s request to have a copy of their birthday dance video. I cried a bit when Reese had her confirmation and graduation, as I know his Reesey Girl was the apple of his eye. How he would have loved to see her in her 8th grade dress looking all grown up, telling Jamie that he’s in big trouble with all the boys that will chase her. How delighted he would be to watch Evan’s talent show dance, see Conner hit a home run over the fence, or watch Cooper play Gorilla Tag. And what we would give to be able to see the pride in Bill’s eyes just one more time.
I know it is still hard for the kids. Evan cried a lot initially, wrote about him in religious education assignments, and even now talks about how a very specific song makes him sad every time he hears it because it was playing on the radio when we left the hospital the day he died. Reese has remained rather stoic in her grief, though I know she was feeling a lot of emotions on the inside, based on the super sad slow jams she was listening to in the shower. She went shopping one day with her friends and came home with cross necklace that she bought because it reminded her of Papa. Jamie takes it one day at a time, sometimes telling stories about him with a smile, and sometime quietly thinking of him. And when he is missing Bill, I know. I have mostly been focused on making sure my Newton loons stay afloat during this difficult time, that they express their emotions, and know they can talk about Bill and feel angry, sad, lonely, or happy, and it’s all okay. But sometimes I also have my own feelings of guilt, how I wish I could have done something to help him. Whenever I have a patient that reminds me of Bill, I give them extra special attention, hoping that maybe I could help this one in a way I couldn’t for Bill. And then I give their wives a super long hug because I know they need it. And then I get a call from HR (just kidding, just need to lighten this up because it’s getting pretty sad).
I don’t understand death, other than its inevitability. It took away Bill and so many other loved ones, but leaves behind memories, life lessons, wisdom, and “Billisms” that remind us that he is still with us. We will always love and remember you, Bill! We will forever max out our 401K just for you. I will end this with the lyrics of the song that Reese played on repeat when we lost Bill…better get your tissues now…
Too Young to Be Old (by Jax)
I can’t believe you let me get married When you made me pinky swear That you were my true love, the one who braids my hair You moved me into an apartment You assembled all my chairs But dinner’s not the same when you’re not there
The hardest part of growing up Is watching time take everyone you love But I won’t let it, no, I won’t accept it
You’re too young to be old, you’re too fast to be slow You’re too wise to be confused, and I can’t do this on my own Your lungs are strong, your mind is sharp Daddy, please don’t break my heart And stay, don’t go You’re too young, far too young to be old
Now you go to bed early And your hair is mostly grey I let you tell the same story that you told me yesterday You walked me down the aisle Then you gave me away Maybe I’m in denial but I’m so afraid
The hardest part of growing up Is watching time take everyone you love But I won’t let it, no, I won’t accept it
You’re too young to be old, you’re too fast to be slow You’re too wise to be confused, I can’t do this on my own Your lungs are strong, your mind is sharp Daddy, please don’t break my heart And stay, don’t go You’re too young, far too young to be
How could you let me get married? I thought we pinky swore You’ll always be my first love
You’re too young to be old, you’re too fast to be slow You’re too wise to be confused, and I can’t do this on my own Your lungs are strong, your mind is sharp I’m not ready for this part Stay, don’t go You’re too young, far too young to be old
Have you ever had that friend who convinces you to get a pixie cut because it will look so cute with your round face, or tells you that spandex shorts are okay to wear even if you have major camel toe? Have you ever been in a twisted relationship where it feels good to be involved, even though you know most of what you are doing is fucked up and makes no sense? That is how I would describe my relationship with my friend, Youth Sports, and if you know her, you know she’s a fabulous little bitch that plays mind games with you, leads you to make wild decisions, and keeps you coming back for more of the chaos.
I have 2 kids, a 14 year old daughter and an 11 year old son. My daughter is involved in club gymnastics, club volleyball, school volleyball, and travel soccer. My son is involved in travel soccer, club volleyball, and travel basketball, and next year in middle school, he will attempt to add some school sports to the mix. The majority of these activities go all year round. I only have 1 husband, no driving service, and no housekeeper. Simple math tells a rational human that this schedule is not sustainable. Since being rational is not really my strong suit, I dove right in thinking, yeah we could totally do this, it will be fun to watch the kids grow and be competitive in the sports they love to play. And now, 4 years into this way of life, I am an insane woman, drinking the kool-aid with all the other crazy parents, pretending we are all okay. But the truth is, I’m tired as fuck, I don’t know what day it is, the sound of blowing whistles haunts my dreams, wristbands are the only accessory I wear, and I have mastered the art of tournament snackery. I did not see this coming.
As the youngest of 3, I have always been a competitive person, with my goal in life to one-up my siblings to vie for my parents’ attention and approval. Both my siblings are very smart and athletic, which sent my competitive juices into overdrive. My parents did not put a whole lot of stock into athletics, so I never had the opportunity to play in youth sports until it was offered in school. They only allowed me to take piano lessons (very Asian of them), and boy did I play that piano like someone was chasing me down a field. So in the meantime, my brother, who always wished I was a boy, taught me how to play all kinds of sports until I was his make-shift little brother. Once I was in junior high and high school, I had more opportunities to be active in athletics, and I loved every aspect of it; the adrenaline rush, the team bonding, the chanting and cheering, the shit talking, the leadership. It also satiated my Napoleon Complex, giving my 4’11” ass a chance to strut around like I was 6 feet tall.
Because I always wished I had tried my hand in more sports, I promised that my kids would be able to play anything and everything until they found what they loved to do. I had my littles in activities since they were 2 years old, mostly because they were so clumsy and would fall for no reason. I kept hearing my daughter fall to the ground and follow with, “I’m okay!” It started with Mom and Tot classes, then progressed to park district house sports. We were happy there, everyone was a winner. Then one day I heard someone say that the majority of high school athletes have been doing travel sports years before they started Freshman year, and I went into panic mode. Fuck this happy place of house sports, I had to get my kids into this travel cult experience before they fell behind their peers.
It started with my daughter joining club gymnastics in 4th grade, and she was a natural. My proud mom brain watched her strut on that floor to that God-awful competition music that all the girls have to use, and I thought to myself, “Wait, am I watching the next Simone Biles? Oh my God, she is going to be the first Filipino-American olympiad, like the freaking Bruno Mars of gymnastics!” (Filipinos have Bruno Mars and Pacquiao to represent in American pop culture, so you’ll be seeing more references of them). Yeah, her cartwheel and forward roll were that amazing. Medal after medal, my heart beamed with pride. Her success was my drug and I was itching for more.
At the time, the kids’ schedules felt manageable because my son was still in 1st grade and participating in house level activities. I was also a stay-at-home mom, only working a few half days during the week or weekends here and there, so their school and sports schedules were my life. I thought, hey why not get her into volleyball too, since volleyball was my sport and I have dreams of playing on the same team as my kids someday (yes, my kids would hate that, and no, I don’t care). So we added club volleyball to the mix. The following year, a soccer coach poked at my pride and said she could have great success in travel soccer, and I picture my girl ripping her jersey off after a penalty kick at the Women’s World Cup. So of course, we added travel soccer to her schedule too because if she is the next Bruno Mars of women’s soccer, we need to foster that growth.
No biggie, right? Wrong. See, when you’re watching your kid do gymnastics, you’re not screaming a bunch of obscenities and instructions; you are quiet so that she doesn’t crotch herself on the beam. You keep yourself composed in the stands and clap and cheer softly, keeping your poise. Then during the car ride home, you tell her everything she could improve, because everyone loves unsolicited advice from people who know nothing about the topic of which they speak (I mean, I did do gymnastics in high school for 2 whole weeks, but when I realized that no amount of chalk could handle my sweaty palms and I could not fathom wearing a leotard, my career was over). At volleyball and soccer games though, well shit, you can just yell your balls off until you get kicked out by the officials. In the blink of an eye, I went from hoping my kids get some cardio in and have fun with friends to, “Score some fucking points or you’re not having dinner!” There was something about competitive sports that unleashed some kind of unhinged behavior in me. Soon, I felt like I was way more invested in the kids’ success than they were. That’s when I knew I was officially sucked into this mess.
And that was just the beginning, because remember, I have another kid, the one that was dragged around to all of his sister’s practices and games, just waiting anxiously until it was his time to get into exactly the same amount of activities or else life is unfair. So I had no choice, I had to put him in all things travel as well, or else I’d be accused of favoring his sister (little do they know that my favorite is my husband because he listens the best out of the 3 of them). Even earlier than my daughter, my son got started in travel sports in 3rd grade. This was the turning point of our family, when we were forced to divide and conquer, as well as give up our own extra curricular activities. We had 2 children balancing 5 to 6 sports in a given season, with each sport demanding practices anywhere from 2 to 5 times during the week. I was in charge of driving around one kid, my husband with the other. Seriously, what was I thinking? These little fuckers weren’t going to be the Bruno Mars of anything, but I was in too deep.
I believe this is the chapter in life when many adults get their mom and dad bods because we rely on fast food during the weekdays, food at concession stands during the weekends, we are in a constant state of stress, we sleep in our cars and develop back pain, and we break our brains trying to figure out how to manage all these sports apps that are truly designed to suck. I watched my kids develop muscular bodies as mine melted into a gelatinous concoction of nacho cheese and Chick-Fil-A special sauce. My new wardrobe consisted of sweatpants and hoodies of every sports team they belong to. My car began to smell like food, feet, and knee pads. I had a steady supply of car chips and water for emergency consumption in the event of hanger by any and all those involved in youth sports. In the trunk I carried a blanket and camping chairs for the outdoor sports, bleacher seats for the indoor sports, a book to read for in between games, and an extra battery for my phone for the stupid amounts of videos I take because you never know when you’ll have to create a compilation video for a college recruiter (yes I do, it’s never). In order to better yell at my children on the sidelines and bleachers, I had to learn things like off sides in soccer, libero rules in volleyball, screens and inbound plays for basketball, and the flippidy-flop tricks in gymnastics (clearly I still struggle with those). I also had to learn how to braid hair in various ways, kinesiotape knees and shoulders, find the right shoes and gear for my very different kids, and find creative ways to get my stubborn kids to drink more water and eat less candy. It was a big life changer filled with a roller coaster of emotions, and I like to eat my feelings. Mom bod was in full effect for me. All I needed was a “Can I speak to your manager” haircut to complete the look, but I have opted for hats because I don’t have time to wash and style my hair.
The youth sports demands were all-consuming, spilling into every aspect of our lives. With all the sports came all the laundry; the endless washing of jerseys, leotards, warm ups, knee pads, elbow pads, goalie gloves, you name it. I wanted to burn all their shoes and what smelled like the animals that died in there. I questioned how pieces of soccer turf ended up in everyone’s beds and drawers. I once found stray undies in my car, and realized my kid went from a soccer game to a gymnastics meet and just shed her clothes all over the place. I have 5 right handed youth gloves for those cold soccer days, and wonder why they always lose the left handed gloves. And don’t get me started on all the team hair ties, key chains, and special sweatshirts to wear in place of the already purchased team warm ups. To complicate matters more, I also went back to work because this shit is hella expensive. I already thought tuition and uniforms for these sports was expensive, but no one tells you about the team tournament fees, the hotel fees, the coaches’ travel stipends, the airfare, the car rentals, and all the entrance fees (like why am I paying to watch my kid, didn’t I already pay an exorbitant amount to get them on the team in the first place?). When the kids ask why we haven’t gone anywhere for spring break the past few years, I tell them to quit a sport and we’ll go somewhere. That usually shuts them up.
In my spare time (i.e. during practice times), I live at Costco. Besides filling my tank with gas every week, my Costco purchase history consists of granola bars, trail mix, chips and juice for team snacks and tournament snacks, beef jerky, fruit and veggie pouches, smoothie mix, and so so so many water bottles that are constantly being lost (and if you recall, they hardly drink water, so what a damn waste). We also live off of ready-made meals, lots of processed meat and cheese packages, and rotisserie chickens that I may or may not have left in the oven for several days. And Costco knows what it is doing, pandering to these fatigued zombie sports parents…yes of course I will buy your NutriBullet because I drink most of my meals blended and on the go, and sure I will buy your hammock chair to make my sideline life a bit more comfortable, and wait, do we really need this portable tent for sand volleyball tournaments, why yes we do. It’s like Costco knows we’re already broke from all the sports tuition fees, so what’s another few hundred bucks? Yeah Costco, I see you, and I fall for your trickery every time. Please stop stocking Thin Mint ice cream cookie sandwiches when I’m pms-ing, that’s just cruel. Also, don’t stop.
I suppose that making new friends from your kids’ teams is a perk (and sometimes not) to this circle of hell I have found myself in. Misery loves company, and I have made many friends that are in the same travel sports boat, which often feels like the Titanic, seemingly new and beautiful, and heading full speed ahead into an iceberg. There are definitely good people I’ve met that I trust and cling onto for sanity. The funny thing is, there seems to be a common category of parents, no matter what sport the kids are playing. Let’s break it down: there is the has-been quarterback dad that is too intense and loud even for me, the parent(s) that drink too much during away tournaments, the work-the-room parents that know everything about everyone, the crazy no-filter ones that think it’s okay to tell your kid that they did not play well, the over-sharer that tells you about her ugly divorce that you never asked about, the beautiful mom that still gives a fuck and didn’t get the memo about the mom bod and sports team hoodie uniform, and the resident sports expert that explains all the calls and tries to make sense of what the coach is doing. And no matter which category of parent you fall under, all parents talk mad shit about the coaches, question playing time, and definitely have suggestions as to how to better the team. Most of us don’t coach, we just convinced ourselves that we know better. It’s comical and so true, sometimes you just have to laugh at what you have become. My face looks like all the other faces of youth sport parents, enthusiastic to be here and also wondering how the fuck we got here in the first place. We just shrug our shoulders in resignation and toast our Stanleys with mystery beverages inside, waiting for the ride to end.
So if it is this crazy, why don’t I pull the kids out of the youth sports world and make life normal again? Because the kids love it, and I guess I’m a softy on the inside (apparently, on the outside now too). I must have masochistic tendencies because this schedule is so brutal and punishing, and yet I take the time to manage all of it to make it seamless for them. Gymnastics meets last for 4 hours and my kid performs for 4 minutes. Soccer games are rain or shine and get longer as the kids get older. Basketball and volleyball games are at least indoors, but you don’t know the schedules until 3 days before the tournaments which makes planning any sort of social life impossible. Parking is a bitch at all these places, you have to pay an entrance fee and sit there for hours, not even knowing if your kid will play or not. And then, if you’re like me, you are sweating more than your kid that is actually playing the sport, you are pacing back and forth like a caged tiger, with nervous energy and ready to pounce… on who? I don’t even know, it doesn’t make sense. But ultimately, my kids are happy, have made new friendships, have a healthy outlet for their competitive sides, and they are learning how to balance school work, sports, and a social life. And let’s be real, I am living vicariously through them. I didn’t get this as a kid, and it is fulfilling to see them have these experiences. Also, I get to yell, and I do love a good yelling sesh. For the most part, I keep the yelling at a somewhat positive level, mostly because we’ve been warned by coaches to not coach from the sidelines. I may have said, “You’re handsome…also watch your line, you’re off sides” or “Drink water…and also play your line on defense.” I can’t help myself, I’m sick in the head.
My kids may never be the Bruno Mars or the Pacquiao of youth sports, but I gotta build them up as if they could be. My pride in them is so great, it is the driving force that keeps me pushing through this mayhem. When they tell me they have had enough, I’ll stop. I know when it’s all over and they’ve moved on, I will miss it so much. I will fill that void with endless Netflix and maybe get back in shape (pending Costco’s stocking of Thin Mint ice cream cookie sandwiches). But until then, I am Youth Sports’s bitch, up at 5 A.M. when called for, down for out of state travel, here to wipe away tears, mend injuries, play hype music, give pep talks, and ready to yell, “Yeah that’s my kid out there.”
Growing up, if I saw a bunch of Balikbayan boxes, rolls of packaging tape and rope, black sharpies at the ready, cartons of cigarettes, packets of instant ramen, and bags of chocolate candies and gum in my living room, it could only mean one thing…we were going to the Philippines! My parents would take our family to the Philippines every 3 or 4 years, from the time I was 5 years old until I was 19. We would stay for 3 weeks at a time, often missing a few days of school. Our trips were filled mostly with family time, house hopping from cousin to cousin, and a few shopping days here and there. We didn’t venture much outside of Manila, except for one time my parents let my older cousins take us to the beach for a day. We took tricycles and jeepneys, watched local television programs, listened to the radio that played both local and American artists, went to the markets, played outside in the streets, bathed in the rain, drank soda from a plastic bag with a straw in it, and when we got older, drank San Miguels like the locals did. We stayed long enough to get to know the neighborhood kids, become pen pals, develop a few crushes, and often revisited them whenever we’d come back. For those 3 weeks, my cousins became my siblings and playmates, my aunts and uncles were second parents to us, and the bond between us only grew stronger each time we came back. My parents completely immersed us into the cultural experience, and I did not realize until this last trip how extremely fortunate we are that they did just that.
It had been 25 years since my last trip to the Philippines. I was a sophomore in college, so the main focus of a typical 19 year old were “gimmicks” (Filipino slang for going out to the bars) with my cousins, sneaking cigarettes, playing drinking games, checking out guys (close enough so they notice me, but far away enough to shield me from a shotgun wedding), and shopping (because clothes just fit me better there). As always, it was a blast. But I knew a trip there as a 44 year old would be a much different experience than my last visit. My family here is older, our joints are more achey, we’ve multiplied, and we’re whiter (29% whiter for all you numbers people). Our family of 5 became a family of 14, and 8 of them had never been to the Philippines. That alone is a recipe for adventure, maybe some diarrhea, and a million great stories.
The first challenge was the preparation for this trip. I’m a mom now, so those days of watching my parents pack for me and fight over how much spam to bring back are long gone. And the trip was not just visiting family in Manila like before; it was also going to be a mix of visiting new islands, sight-seeing, and going on excursions too. Now I had to be the one to figure out how much clothes to bring, what medications to buy, how much bug spray and sunblock is too much (answer: never too much), and what we were going to have all the newbies in our group experience. My relaxing Worldle time on the toilet was replaced by writing pages-long packing lists for a 2 week trip, google searches on hotels and excursions, and where the malaria risks were highest. The process was stressful, and likely the start of hemorrhoids. I should probably opt for sitting at a desk rather than on a toilet the next time I plan a trip.
To add to the madness, we were planning this trip during the Christmas season. I was flipping between packing lists, itineraries, Christmas gift lists, and recipes to prep for Christmas celebrations. Since we were leaving on Christmas Day, I wanted the decorations to be put up early so the kids could enjoy it long enough. Downstairs looked like Christmas, while upstairs looked like a backroom at O’Hare Airport where luggage goes to die. I was very overwhelmed, but to see Jamie and the kids excited about Christmas and the upcoming trip made it all so worth it….totally kidding…it infuriated me because I was doing the majority of the work while these ding-dongs had no clue what was happening and were just going for the ride. Oh, the life of a mom.
Perhaps the most important part of the preparations was informing Jamie and the kids about some of the cultural nuances and expectations: respect is important, so “mano” everyone (bringing an elder’s hand to your forehead for a blessing); food is a love language, so try everything, even if it still has its eyeball or snout showing; ask for bottled or filtered water everywhere and bottled or canned soda; don’t use the ice unless they say it’s filtered and you believe them; prep your quads for bathroom squats over the toilet, as toilet seats were optional; be ready for a BYOTP policy (bring your own toilet paper), as the “tabo” (small bucket that functions as a bidet) was a preferred method of cleaning (which would definitely explain the wetness of the bathrooms); and if the toilet doesn’t flush, you’ll have to learn how to flush it manually. Their eyes grew wide and nervous, and I was just like, “Yo, this is going to be amazing, you’ll see!” My little Americanized group was going to be introduced to a whole new world, and I just couldn’t wait to see all of their “Philippines firsts”.
Christmas morning came and went in the blink of an eye, and before we knew it, I was yelling at the kids to put away their presents, hop in the shower, and get ready for a 20+ hour flight experience. Our pooch was at the boarding facility, our shades were pulled down, water was shut off, doors were locked, and we said goodbye to our first-world luxuries. It didn’t even feel like Christmas for the rest of the day, just the start of a vacation. We met up with my sister’s family at the airport and played games at the gate as we anxiously awaited the first leg of our flight. The flight to San Francisco was a breeze, and even the 5 hour layover went by quickly. Then came the 14 hour flight to Manila. Evan was living his best life, switching between video games, watching any movie he chose, and napping, while I struggled to pull an hour of sleep. Jamie and Reese managed to get more sleep than me, but also looked relatively uncomfortable. We all wore N95 masks the whole way there because I wasn’t about to risk getting sick and spending this vacation quarantined in a hotel. To be quite honest, no human can hold in a fart for 14 hours, so you feel a little less guilty for quietly letting them out on a full plane when you can’t actually smell them because of the mask you’re wearing, and you can always blame people near you that look far more farty than you. I mean, that’s what I heard anyway.
I can’t begin to describe the feeling in my gut when the plane landed in Manila (it definitely wasn’t gas…see above). I could not believe we were actually in the Philippines, that this was actually happening with my husband and kids. The airport was nothing like I remembered; it was more modern and developed. There used to be beggar kids lined up along the fence line outside the airport, but none of that was there anymore. It was unrecognizable. The immigration line was still long, but that’s to be expected anywhere you go. And then there she was…my cousin, Agnes. She greeted us at the airport with my dad (who arrived with my mom and brother’s family the night before). She was a constant in every memory I had of the Philippines. We hugged and kissed, I introduced her to Jamie and the kids, my kids mano’d her like we practiced, and I already knew that this trip was going to be amazing.
Our eyes were peeled on the scenery of the city during our drive from the airport to the hotel. I told Jamie and the kids to pay attention to the skilled driving and how 2 lanes can easily become 4. I pointed out jeepneys and tricycles, and how big malls are very popular and can be found just a few blocks away from shanties. It was a short drive through Metro Manila, but they could already tell we weren’t in Kansas anymore.
We arrived at the City of Dreams Hotel in Manila, and it was a beautiful gold colored building. We never stayed at a hotel in the Philippines before, except for one time for a few days with my cousins, who were surprised by the hot water from a running shower and thought the air conditioning was way too cold. We had to walk through security for this hotel, and surrounding the building were guards armed with assault rifles. That felt very unsettling for us, but everyone else around seemed unfazed. The rooms were spacious and clean, the pool was large and perfect for the kids, and I thought, “What the hell is this? I slept on the floor of my uncle’s house for 3 weeks at a time and we played in the rain and used a bucket to bathe ourselves, while my kids get this luxury hotel with a pool and all the filtered water and ice you can ask for? These kids have no idea how lucky they are!”
As excited as I was to be there, I was tired as hell and wanted so badly to sleep. Jamie and I sat at the pool while the kids swam, fighting our fatigue and jet lag, and you better believe we passed out on the reclined chairs, mouths opened and all. We woke up to rain drops, moved under the umbrella, and went vacation mode with my brother and sisters. Beers and halo-halos were ordered while the kids swam in the rain with their cousins, and we all got our second winds. The energy fleeted quickly, though, and after a dinner where Evan fell asleep at the table, we were in bed early for the next day’s flight.
Yep, that’s right, we were on a plane yet again. Bright and early at 6am, we were at the airport awaiting our flight to Palawan. I have never been anywhere other than Luzon (one of the main islands), so to be traveling to a brand new island was exciting. The resort in Puerto Princesa was nice and the food was excellent. Jamie doesn’t like pancit (Filipino noodle dish) very much, but here in the Philippines he couldn’t get enough. We indulged, had lots of pancit, pork sisig, garlic rice, seafood, soups, chicken made 3 different ways, and fresh fruit smoothies and halo-halos with ice that didn’t give us diarrhea. Everyone was in heaven, and that was just lunch. We visited the boardwalk, where we saw small stalls where people sold various clothes, accessories and toys, waved off vendors walking around selling jewelry, and walked by kiosks where all sorts of foods were sold, anything from “balut” (fertilized duck egg) to barbecue sticks. The sea breeze cooled our sweaty skin. Dinner was delicious, as expected, but was not the most memorable part of the night. My animal-loving brother-in-law committed a dining mortal sin: he fed a stray dog. He just couldn’t help himself. Soon that dog found him (large white guy, can’t miss him), and brought with her a random cat, and they would not leave the table. They parked themselves at our feet under the table, and all I could think of were rabies and fleas. I said, “Feet up, everyone!” We scooted ourselves out of the bench in what felt like a crab walk, making sure to keep our feet away from the hungry animals, and I promise that was the last time anyone fed a stray. Live and learn.
We stayed in Palawan for only 3 short days, but we packed in as much as possible to make our stay worthwhile. We took many small motor boats, which was always an adventure to get my parents onto safely. We visited the Puerto Princesa Subterranean River National Park, which was named one of the new 7 Wonders of Nature. We canoed through a majestic cave full of bats, one which shit on my germaphobic husband (you can imagine how that went), boated through the mangroves, saw long tailed monkeys up close, one which stole my niece’s water bottle and drank from it (opposable thumbs at their best), zip lined over the ocean, which was terrifying and breathtaking at the same time, went spelunking through caves (even my parents went for a bit until the terrain got a little too challenging), and zip lined again over the lush greenery. Jamie and the kids experienced no running water in the bathrooms, and I had to teach Reese how to manually flush a toilet (I actually failed at it after 2 attempts, so the next step was to quickly run out of the bathroom before anyone saw the culprits). We went island hopping, snorkeling, drank coconut juice straight from the coconuts and then scraped the flesh using part of the coconut husk as a spoon, swam in the warm Sulu Sea, and took in all the scenery of island life. The 6 kids even challenged some local teenagers to a beach volleyball game, while we watched with pride. We could not ask for better weather, calmer seas, and a day full of fun activities.
Back at the resort area, we also had the chance to ride tricycles, which are motorbikes with attached sidecars. It is the best way to see the city up close, especially since the drivers took a few backroads to get us around safely. The driving there can be scary, and there were times you just have to close your eyes and pray. The kids thought it was cool, while I felt like it was a lot more dangerous than I remember as a kid, and the one ride was enough. Jamie used his leg as a door, since there were a few bumps where I thought my niece would fly out of the sidecar, so I think he was happy he didn’t get his leg accidentally amputated. I’m guessing one ride was enough for him too.
Palawan was fun while it lasted, truly beautiful and adventure-filled, but alas, we were on a jet plane yet again heading back to Manila. No rest for the weary, as we packed our belongings up and headed to my cousin’s house for a New Year’s Eve overnight stay. Before the long commute, we stopped by the mall for a quick bite to eat. This was Jamie’s and the kids’ chance to eat at Jollibee, which is the Philippines’ most popular fast food chain. I’ve eaten there before, so my sister and I decided to leave the rest of the group and join my parents at another restaurant. Before I left, I asked Jamie if he’d be okay ordering and having me leave him, and he said he was fine. As I was eating my food and drinking my bottled water, I thought to myself, “Shit, what did he order them to drink?” I quickly texted him to not forget to order only bottled water or canned soda. He texted back and said they were out of bottled water, so he ordered them cokes. I felt better for a millisecond, but then asked if it was canned. It was not. I immediately told them to stop drinking all wet things. Too late. Evan and Reese had already drank a little bit of it. I went downstairs to Jollibee to check on them, and THIS GUY let them drink a fountain drink(which is probably mixed with tap water) WITH ICE. I asked, “Did you ask if this ice was filtered?” Jamie said no. I don’t know how many times I told Jamie and the kids the stories of diarrhea I had when I ordered drinks with ice in the Philippines, and yet none of that came to mind when he was ordering his chicken joy with gravy. To no one’s surprise, Reese had the shits and went twice within the next 15 minutes. Luckily it did not hit Evan in the same way. The commute to my cousin’s house was going to be 1-2 hoursand my kid had the shits. You can imagine the sweat draining from my armpits and the “are you fucking serious” looks I was shooting at Jamie. I prayed to all the probiotic gods, “Please plug my kid up quickly.” Reese fell asleep on the ride there, and thankfully woke up with clean pants. No fountain drinks or unfiltered ice were consumed after that incident.
We first stopped at our uncle’s house in Taytay, which is kind of like a suburb just outside of Manila. This was the house that we spent the majority of the time in when we were kids. Driving through the neighborhood was the real Philippines, not the resort version my family was experiencing thus far. It was so nostalgic; the sari sari stores, the little chapel on the corner, the familiar neighboring homes. There used to be a field across from the house, but now it has been developed into another subdivision of homes and condos. The street that used to be our playground was now a steady stream of traffic. Neighbors who became friends had grown up and moved away. Even my uncle’s home was different; new expansions were built, the chicken and pigeon coops on the side of the house were now their garage and grilling areas (they didn’t even have a car the last time I was there), their laundry area was now a hang out for their pet duck, they had a running shower and a flushing toilet, and their front yard was now a store. I walked through the house with Jamie and the kids, pointing out where we slept, ate, played, and even where we got haunted by my grandfather the last time we were there. Though some things were different, it still had the same family feel. The kids looked around at all the decorations and noticed the altar, as they are not used to so many religious relics in the house, other than the one they see at my parents’ house. My nephew asked if Obi-Wan Kenobi was a saint, and I actually don’t think he was kidding. He was pointing to a statue that was either Jesus or a Filipino saint in a Jedi-looking robe. We all moved a couple of feet away from him, just in case lightning struck down at that moment.
I introduced my crew to so many of their aunts, uncles and cousins, too many to count. So many relatives traveled long distances just to see us and celebrate the new year. I know Jamie and the kids were overwhelmed with all the new faces and names, so they just sat back quietly and watched me as I laughed and hugged my cousins. We shared stories of what we did there growing up. My cousins would tell them that I was a bully when I was a kid and fought with them all the time, but eventually became their buddies. I prefer the version that I was a misunderstood jet-lagged child with a budding sense of sarcasm that was only funny to adults because the digs were not directed towards them. My kids believed my cousins’ version. Jamie just said I was pretty and walked away.
My cousins prepared a feast for us for lunch and the Noche Buena celebration (meal after the countdown). They ordered a whole lechon (roasted pig), and had enough dishes to feed 20 families for a week. My kids took naps so they could be awake for the midnight countdown. I fought the fatigue by snacking on all the “pulutan” (appetizers you eat while you drink), which only made me sleepier. But my time with my Philippines family was so limited, I didn’t want to waste it on sleep. As midnight approached, we woke up all the sleeping “statesiders” and went up to my cousin’s rooftop deck. We were in awe of all the fireworks going off at every turn. We had the view of all of Metro Manila, and there were fireworks up close and far away, not a piece of sky in darkness. It was like the 4th of July on steroids, and it went on for hours. We even lit our own fireworks off the roof, which was definitely a first for Jamie and the kids. When our lungs couldn’t handle the smoke any longer, we headed back down for the feast. We ate and drank until we nearly burst. The kids even started playing various games, which may or may not have involved some drinking, which quickly came to an end when Reese five-starred Evan in the back (an open-handed slap on the back that would leave a mark of your hand) and knocked him across the room, leaving him weeping in the corner. That was just great, they were really making a positive impression on my Philippines family. The kids finally surrendered to bed by 3am. Jamie tried his best to stay awake with me, my siblings, and cousins, but eventually passed out in a chair (combo of fatigue and booze). We had our cousin time, catching up and belly laughing at all our childhood stories. By 5:30 am, I had been awake for more than 24 hours and finally gave in to sleep.
I was relieved to wake up the next morning not having seen any ghosts (if you’ve ever been in the Philippines, you know how legit that concern is). I was so certain my dead grandparents were going to make an appearance because they’d be so happy we were all together, but thank goodness they didn’t (or maybe I had enough to drink to not have noticed). I said some sad goodbyes to relatives I was not going to see again during this visit, which is always so difficult. But it was both goodbye and thank you, because they went out of their ways to come see us just for a short time, and that’s what families do.
After having our coffee and trying a few native fruits, we hurried off to our next family visit at a restaurant in our hotel. More cousins who were unable to see us the night before came out for lunch. They commuted for hours just to meet us for a quick lunch, which really goes to show how special this bond between cousins has become through the years. I met my grandnephew (my nephew’s child), and my kids were so excited to know they were an aunt and uncle to this little boy. I met more of my nieces and nephews, who I have only seen before on Facebook. My niece wanted so badly to talk to her American cousins, but she was feeling shy. So I brought her over to the stateside kids’ table, hoping my kids and nieces and nephews would talk to her. They were all an awkward bunch of teens and preteens. I tried to talk their lingo and convince them I was “chill” like they were, and they just rolled their eyes at me. Though I was pretty much failing at making the kids talk to each other, they did what they do best and exchanged social media info. At least now they can keep in touch with family from across the world and can collectively agree that I am not chill.
The fatigue I was feeling was super deep, and I was looking forward to a morning where I could sleep in. That was not happening anytime soon. The following day we were up early again for the next excursion. We visited Pagsanjan Falls, where we sat in canoes while 2 boatmen took us upstream through rapids to a few waterfalls. The main waterfall was closed off due to water levels being too high and dangerous. I was bummed about it and wanted to try to convince them to take us there, which is ironic and stupid because I really can’t swim well and had no desire to die on this trip. But once I sat in the canoe and saw how even an aggressive burp would throw us out of the boat, I was cool with skipping the dangerous waters. This river ride was wild, with beautiful scenery that often made it feel like we were in Jurassic Park. The river water was murky, and soon I had regretted seeing a few episodes of “River Monsters” and “Catching Monsters,” and prayed we didn’t fall out of the canoe. When we approached the rapids, our boatmen got out of the boats and started pushing and pulling, maneuvering the canoe through the rough waters, often using their bare feet against rocks as oars. That was the most jungly thing I’ve ever seen, and I was impressed, amused and in awe of their strength. At the largest available waterfall, everyone except my parents hopped onto a raft made out of bamboo, which felt like it was barely afloat, while 2 men pulled us alongside the waterfall by rope so we could all get drenched. We were screaming with delight as the cold water of the waterfall soaked us. This river ride was like nothing any of us ever experienced, even my parents loved it. It was exhilarating.
The days to follow were finally slower-paced and came just as we were no longer jet-lagged. We had lunch with my dad’s high school classmates, where he introduced each one of us with pride, visited our family and friends in the neighborhood my dad grew up in, and finished most nights with swimming at the resort. We chose a free morning and afternoon to walk through Luneta Park, which felt like Manila’s version of New York’s Central Park, took a “kalesa” ride (horse-drawn carriage) through then Spanished-ruled historical old Manila called Intramuros (“within the walls”), and saw lots of the colleges, where students still have to wear uniforms even if they attend public schools. My parents pointed out places they would go to for dates, the church where they got married, and areas under the bridges where they would shop for Philippine crafted specialties. We were even stopped in traffic because a random parade was passing through, which had several floats adorning a black Jesus statue. We watched as people walked by the parade, touching the “Black Nazarene” statue, as it is believed to lead to healing. I then remembered that when I got sick with cancer, my cousin in the Philippines told me that they were going to pray to the “Black Nazarene” for my healing and recovery, and it felt like a full circle moment for me. No one honked their horns or grew impatient at this long pause in traffic, as it was just expected and accepted that religious festivals pass through whenever they want and are respected.
Jamie and I ventured out in my cousins’ neighborhood one free afternoon and had a Thai massage, while my sister and the girls got their nails done. Jamie and I had no idea what we were signing up for, but we did notice a sign in the massage parlor that said, “While we provide excellent customer service, we do not provide “special” services.” OMG, I guess ‘happy endings’ are really a thing, but thankfully not at this place (I hope). They placed us on mats on the floor beside each other (so that I could protect Jamie). We had no idea if we were supposed to take our clothes off or not. This was not an essential oils and soft music situation we were in; we were just in a dark room on the floor with a curtain partition, and I was sweaty and far from relaxed. Two small Filipinas walked in, and I heard one gasp when she saw Jamie was white. They told us to take off our clothes down to our undies, and then just started beating the shit out of us. I normally can take hard pressure, but I had to tell her to ease up on me. At one point, she twisted my back so hard and fast, I literally squealed, “Oh shit!” They were pushing and pulling, pounding and kneading, cracking our backs, pulling our limbs out of their sockets, pulling our hair, and I couldn’t help but wonder if we should establish a safe word. During 2 instances, Jamie’s massage therapist abruptly walked out of the room and sounded like she was gagging. He was convinced it was because she was stretching his hamstrings at a very intimate range (i.e. face in his crotch) and his undercarriage was not so fresh after a long day in Manila with no air conditioning. I’m pretty sure she was just washing oil off her hands, but it’s more fun to let him believe his version. Although my massage therapist also walked out twice and she wasn’t gagging, so maybe it was too much of his “singit” stank for her to handle. Overall, even though we got a Philippine beat down, I think I kind of mostly liked the massage experience, but Jamie did not; you can draw whatever conclusions you want from that.
You can’t really go to the Philippines and not shop, even if you don’t like shopping. It’s kind of a pastime there. We did our fair share of shopping, both at Mall of Asia and Greenhills. Mall of Asia was a total fail, as it was so enormous and we couldn’t get from one store to another without using our map app on our phones to figure out how to get there. Greenhills was a whole different ball game though; it is this crazy crowded mall area filled with kiosks and stalls where bargaining is a must. Before we arrived, my mom coached all the non-Tagalog speakers on key phrases to say, like “Makano ito” (how much is this), and then no matter what the price, to respond, “Ay, ang mahal” (wow, that’s too much). Jamie only knows things like, “Mahal kita” (I love you), “kili killi” (armpit), and “Mount Pinatubo” (the name of a Philippine volcano). So for Jamie to call a vendor by the name of a volcano and tell her that he loves her armpit would probably not get him the best deals, but I sure would have paid money to watch him say it. He’d probably go in asking how much and then give them 500 pesos more. No matter what my mom told us, no verbal explanations would have prepared us for what we were actually walking into. Vendors would find the most vulnerable prey (definitely us, as we probably look like walking American flags to them), and would pull us into their stalls. Then they would tell us things like, “Oh for you, let me show you my special collection. High quality.” They took us into their secret rooms or pulled a curtain and showed their secret stash of extra goods, and we couldn’t even wrap our heads around what the fuck was happening. My head was spinning. I left the shopping part to Jamie and the kids and kept the fun negotiating stuff to me. I actually hate shopping, but the bargaining part was fun. I bought a few things that I wasn’t even sure I wanted, just so I could bargain and see how much lower I could get the prices down. At one point, I was looking at some shoes, and Jamie started pushing me and telling me in a very panicked manner that we had to leave right now. I didn’t know what was happening, so I just threw the shoes at the vendor and we ran away. I asked him what the matter was, I thought maybe someone was following us or he had to take an emergency shit. He said he saw a rat walking through the shelf of shoes I was reaching into and he thought it might jump into one of our bags. He basically saved my life; I can handle dangerous people, but I just can’t with bugs and rodents. And yes, I washed and disinfected everything we bought there. The Greenhills shopping experience was wild, plenty of fun things to look at and buy, and even offered a complimentary rat for current or take home viewing. Because it was so different from your average trip to the mall, we all enjoyed ourselves thoroughly.
And speaking bugs and rodents, it is impossible to vacation in the Philippines and not see “ipis” (cockroaches). Some are huge, some are small, some fly, but they ALL are after me and have evil intentions to eat away at my food and my fragile mental health. One night, we were too tired to eat at the restaurants, so my siblings and I opted to order take out and eat in my room. 12 people in a hotel room is a lot, but we managed to find space. As we were eating and watching a professional Philippine volleyball game on tv, Reese pointed at the counter and said, “WHAT IS THAT? WHAT IS CRAWLING OVER THERE?” And fuck me sideways, we had a cockroach in our room. OMG I was dying. My brother was closest to it, but he leisurely tried to locate it and didn’t kill it. I was like, what the hell kind of Filipino is this guy? You’re supposed to take off your tsinelas (flip flop) and chase that fucker around until you swat it dead. He did no such thing. I panicked. I said a silent prayer, “Please God, let this ipis be an orphan and have no family with it. Let it not crawl all over our belongings. Let it soon die a quick tsinelas death.” It reared its ugly head again, and still my brother did not kill it, and I was convinced my brother hated me. My siblings and the kids were just laughing at my irrational reaction and made things worse, telling me that ipis would be crawling all over us in our sleep and they’d be in our luggage and we’d be taking them all home with us. The next night, they ate in my room again, and I’m just thinking, “Wow everyone just wants me to die of a nervous breakdown. Why are we providing a nice little buffet for this lone ipis?” Eventually a day or 2 later, I found it trying to get into our fridge, took off my tsinelas with the quickness, and killed a bitch. But you better believe I continued to check under our sheets every night, washed all of our clothes as soon as we got home and left all the luggages out in the garage just in case we had a few stow aways. Ugh, ipis, how you torment me so!
Reese managed to take advantage of my vulnerable mindset, as the thought of ipis now infested my brain, and asked if she could pamper herself a bit and get a new hairstyle with her older cousin. I was fine with it, but Jamie was getting all sentimental, not wanting his baby girl looking like a teenager. He stroked her head and said, “Oh how I’ll miss your shiny baby hair and your innocent look.” Insert eye roll from both Newton ladies. Though she didn’t want to disappoint her dad, she also wanted to feel a little more grown up. She and my niece went through with it and got haircuts and highlights, and Reese sweetly saved a few strands of her natural untouched hair for her daddy. Of course when she handed the lock of hair to him, he was like, “Eww gross get that off of me.” So that sentiment was short-lived. The 2 girls came out of the salon looking like Filipina actresses, and I knew Reese would be coming home all tanned with her new do feeling good about herself. My sister and I regretted not doing the same for ourselves, opting instead to come home looking like tired, old, stuffed sausages in our now tighter clothes.
We filled our time in the Philippines with family visits, sight-seeing, island hopping, lots of eating, and shopping, but my favorite highlight was our adult night out with our cousins. We left the littles with my parents at the hotel, and took Grabs (the Uber of the Philippines) to a bar to meet up with many of my cousins. My college-aged niece and nephew came with, so that was oddly fun to party with humans whose diapers I’ve changed. We chose a bar that wasn’t too crowded and had a live band, and it felt like we had the place to ourselves. We drank a lot, ate, laughed, took a shit ton of pictures, laughed some more, and sang and danced all night. The band asked if anyone wanted to come up and sing with them, and my just drunk enough hottie of a husband volunteered. As he was approaching the stage, the lead singer said, “Wow, you are so white!” which was neither a compliment nor an insult (because he is on the whiter side of white), but funny all the same. Jamie sang “Take On Me” like a fucking rock star, and I was his biggest fan. My cousins were losing their shit, and he had us on our feet dancing and singing along. He hit those high notes like the 80’s hair band demigod he wishes he was, and yes, his balls eventually came back down to earth. At the end of the song, he yelled out “ACOSTA!”, which is our family name, and it was the exclamation point to a perfect night. We closed our tab, closed the bar, and ended our night. I felt like a kid again, like the kid that always came back to the Philippines every 3 years. My cheeks hurt from all the laughing and my feet hurt from all the dancing. I was so incredibly happy, so grateful to have us all together again. But it ended on a sad note as we said our goodbyes. Many things were said, like “Come visit America next” and “Don’t wait another 25 years to come back.” I held back tears, as I wanted the night be remembered as a joyful one. We hopped into our Grabs with full and breaking hearts.
Our 2 week trip ended way too quickly, and the kids were begging for more time there and a million more vacations like this one (Lola, Japan?). They said this was the best vacation they ever had, and those words meant so much to me. I wanted this time in the Philippines to leave a mark on their hearts, and I actually think we achieved that. I had so many hopes for my family during this vacation: I wanted all of us to see the various faces of the Philippines, including the countryside, the beaches, and the city that is mixed with poverty and modern development; I wanted all of us to eat real authentic Filipino foods, including “balut” (yeah, I think I sprouted a duck feather after I ate one); I wanted them to feel the near-death experience that is their traffic, so that they’d stop accusing me of being a bad driver; most of all, I wanted them to meet my family and to know that they have a part of them in a country thousands of miles away. With a fruitful number of “Philippine firsts,” some of the most amazing eating, a total immersion of Philippine culture, minimal bouts of diarrhea, only one incident of Evan almost getting run over by a jeepney, no kidnapping of any of the white and half white people, and 2 weeks straight of family time with members old and new, I’d say we had a trip of a lifetime. Just like my parents did for me decades ago, this was my chance to plant cultural roots for my kids, ones that I hope will call to them someday. May they always know they have a place in the Philippines, and that their family will always take them under their roof. ******
To my parents, thank you for making this bucket-list vacation a reality. We are eternally grateful! To my family in the Philippines, I love you and miss you dearly. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking care of us and showing us a good time like you always do.
As a kid, a week long overnight kid camp was nothing more than what scary movies were based on. I remember an actual 80’s horror movie entitled , “Sleepaway Camp,” which pretty much was God’s and the Universe’s way of telling me to not even try it. And besides, it wasn’t even an option for this Asian kid. I was hardly even allowed to go to sleepovers at friends’ homes; I maybe had 5 at the most my whole life until college, which was just a giant 6 year long sleepover. So you can imagine the butt-clenching reaction I had when Reese asked if she could go to a sleepaway camp for a week with her best friend over the summer.
My initial response after I unclenched was hell no. Other than at family’s homes, she has also had very little experience with sleepovers. I believe she had 1, and it was 7 minutes away. She immediately looked disappointed, so I told her I would at least look at the website. First thing my cheap ass looked at was the price. My reaction escalated to a hell fucking no level. She offered to help with the cost, and I’m thinking, no child, those acts of kindnesss coupons aren’t real currency. Her phone was blowing up as her friend was texting her all these things she could say to get me to say yes. She starts telling me things like, “Mom, don’t you want me to become more independent and confident? Don’t you want me to bond with my friend and make new friends?” And I just took a play out of my parents’ playbook and said, “No. I can teach you that at home. Now go and do your homework.” She pouted. And I gave her a “Maybe, I’ll think about it,” which gave her enough hope to walk away with a smile. Too bad this girl doesn’t speak Filipino, because “maybe” is a Filipino “No.” Oh the white in her, always so hopeful.
I didn’t want to be completely unfair with the situation. I was mostly a no, but I wanted to at least provide her with good reasons and show her that I did my due diligence. That way she wouldn’t think I’m as unreasonable as I actually am in real life. I started texting my friend a million questions about the camp. I sounded like a maniac, asking everything from molestation to drowning to food allergies to clean bathrooms. My worries ranged from ring worm to death and everything in between. She gave me a lot of good information, and obviously she wouldn’t send her own kid to the camp if she didn’t think it was safe and a great experience for her. I began to feel some comfort knowing that if Reese were to go, she would be with a friend that had already experienced the camp last summer. The fact that my Tiger Mom mental decision tree was getting cloudy was making me anxious, so I stopped thinking about it and went to bed holding strong to a no.
Reese did not relent, she kept on persisting in the coming days and weeks. I asked Jamie to also do some research on it, so that when I gave Reese the final no, I could say Daddy said no and blame it on him. Oh the beauty of parenting. Jamie had not even thought twice about it. He could not imagine having Reese so far away. He likes the kids close, as it is probably added protection for him from me. Jamie chose to do some “research” while watching one of the March Madness games with our brother-in-law. After an entire day of drinking, he and my brother-in-law came up with the brilliant idea of, “Fuck it just let her go. How bad could it be?” In case you were wondering, Jamie did not do actual research, didn’t even know the name of the camp, but he was feeling really good about his decision. That was a fun conversation for 2 out of 3 of us in the room.
I was trying to be really honest with myself. The anxious, scared of all the dangers in the world mom in me was convinced this was a bad idea; it was one of those “if something terrible happens to her, I’ll never forgive myself” situations. And the cheap mom in me was saying, dude you are still recovering from Disney, don’t do it! But the adventurous kid in me would have loved this opportunity, especially if it was with a friend. This was an unheard of scenario when I was growing up, I didn’t even know it existed (for Asian kids at least). The most adventure I got in the summer was going to 7-11 with my friends, which was 3 blocks away. But I did mix the Coke and cherry slurpees because I’m a bad bitch like that.
Really trying to put my own fears aside, I was thinking about why she wanted to go so badly, besides her curious and adventurous spirit. And I think it came down to friendships. Reese really had a rough year with feeling like she didn’t belong to a tight friend circle. She often said things like, “I think I’m weird and that’s why no one likes me,” which later morphed into phrases like, “I’m lonely and I have no friends,” and “People put me in the ‘Nobody Cares About You’ category in my class.” So putting extra effort into strengthening the friendship with her bestie that she would be going with was probably the main factor that trumped all my other arguments against allowing her to go. Yes, building friendships beat out lice, scurvy, kidnapping and death. I’m growing soft, I tell ya!
We tabled the topic for a while to see if she would just kind of forget about it. She so quickly forgets to clean her room and do chores, but for some reason she never forgot about camp. When I noticed the registration was filling up fast, Jamie and I decided to just let her do it. But I didn’t want to seem like such a pushover about it. So I told her she had to give me a presentation on all the reasons she wants to go, all the risks that are involved, and what she will do to be alert of and avoid those risks. And I told her I wanted PowerPoint slides to accompany the presentation. She started to laugh, but in that laugh-cry kind of way because she couldn’t tell if I was messing around. I told her I was dead serious, but if she didn’t have time for the slides, then she can present without them. Jamie was sitting in the office snickering; he didn’t want anything to do with my mind games. I told her, “Hey, if you’re going to be gone from me for an entire week, you better research what each day will be like from the website, look at the activities, and really think about if this is something you want to do.” That comment was also for Jamie, since neither of them gave it a second thought. She did some light research, and began to plead her case. It sounded something like this:
Reese: “I think I should go because it will help me become a more confident, independent person. I’m going to become more responsible because I have to wake up early and make my bed everyday and keep my area clean.”
Ely: “You can do that at home. I don’t need to spend a thousand dollars for you to learn that.”
Reese: “Wait! I’m not done! I’m also going to try new things like archery and woodworking. Those are the activities I’m excited about.”
Ely: “There’s archery classes at the park district. That’s ten minutes away. And you want to do some woodworking? Daddy has tools in the garage and a bunch of wood scraps. What do you want, a saw or something? I’ll get it right now.”
Reese: “MOM! It’s not the same! Let me finish! I’m going to strengthen my friendship with “Bestie” and make new friends. You know how hard this year has been for me with having no friends. It will help me with my self-esteem.”
Ely: “What if you fight with your friends? You’re all so moody.”
Reese: “Then I’ll learn how to stand up for myself.”
Ely: “Fine. What if you get molested by a camp counselor? Or even a cabin mate? You know molestation can happen by older people or peers. What are you going to do if someone starts touching you or talking to you inappropriately?”
Reese: “I will tell the director right away if I feel uncomfortable with anything.”
Ely: “What if it’s the director?”
Reese: “Then I’ll tell my camp counselor and my friends.”
Ely: “Good. What if you are swimming in open water, like the lake, and you drown?”
Reese: “They make you take a swim test. They won’t let me in the deep end if I don’t pass the test.”
Ely: “Okay. What if you eat something you’re allergic to and you have an anaphylactic reaction and die?”
Reese: “I won’t eat anything with tree nuts. And I’ll tell someone right away if I feel like my mouth is itchy.”
Ely: “Right. What if you get home sick? You’ve only been to 1 sleepover that was not family.”
Reese: “I won’t get homesick.”
Ely: “Why not? You don’t love your family?”
Reese: “MOM!”
Ely: “Okay, okay. Daddy and I will talk about your presentation. But your case would have been stronger if it was with PowerPoint slides. Just saying.”
I went into the office and gave Jamie a chuckle. He asked if I was proud of my behavior, and I totally was. It was so fun to watch her squirm. I dropped her off at gymnastics practice, and then I texted her friend to let her give Reese the good news that she was going to go to camp with her. I told her to record her reaction too. It was perfect, so much excitement in her face as she danced and jumped for joy. It made me feel like we made the right decision.
I had a few weeks to let the decision marinate. I thought I was feeling good about the decision, until the week before camp came and slapped me in the face. I began to feel so sad as I started to get her belongings ready. I felt like she was too young to be away from me, too naive to be out there alone. Thoughts of her getting kidnapped and sex trafficked flooded my brain and all I felt was dread. My brain is so dark. I busied myself with packing and preparing, buying sunblocks and bug lotions I knew she wouldn’t remember to use, addressing and stamping postcards so she would write us everyday, and sniffing her hair as she passed just in case I’d forget her scent when she left me. Evan would periodically begin to cry and say he is going to miss her so much and he’ll be so lonely without her. He looked so pathetic, I had to look away so that I wouldn’t lose it too. She could tell we were all sad, so I think she masked her excitement. But she was ready to go, and it sucked.
The night before she left, we had a nice family dinner and watched whatever shows she wanted. I just wanted some quiet and relaxing family time, and I loved every minute with her. And then drop off day came so fast and unwelcomed, like a shart at a wedding. I made sure Jamie was ready to navigate and get us through the ride up there because I was too much of a nervous wreck, with thoughts ranging from “Did I pack everything she needs?” to “Will I never see her again?” Her friend drove with us to camp, which probably saved Reese from hearing 2 1/2 hours of my voice saying how much of a mistake I think I made letting her go. I was in a crabby-sad mood, kind of short with her, but also not wanting her to leave me. My dad used to be like that towards me when I was in college during quick weekend visits home. I remember thinking, man this guy is so cranky, he’s not even happy to see me. Turns out, this was just him dealing with me leaving again, maybe preparing himself for another goodbye. But I didn’t want Reese to feel like I wasn’t happy to be spending time with her or that I couldn’t wait to get her out of my hair, so I just checked my attitude and let some Taylor Swift songs chill me out. TayTay, she gets me.
When we got to the camp ground, I gave myself a private pep talk to keep my shit together so I don’t embarrass her in front of potential new friends. It was such a fast process, just checked her in at a parking lot, handed in her medications, and that was it. I didn’t get to see her cabin, meet her camp counselors, nothing. I could hear Keith Morrison’s voice in my head on a future Dateline episode saying, “Any of these counselors could be the next predator, or perhaps was it the nurse collecting the medications…hmmm…” Oh my God, my baby is going to be in the woods all by herself; she’s naive, too trusting, too inexperienced with the real world, what am I doing? Shut up, Keith Morrison, you’re making it worse!
I tried to hang out in line with her as long as I could, but realized we were the only family members doing that. She looked either annoyed, scared, or sad; with an RBF like hers, sometimes it’s hard to tell. I decided it was time to cut the cord and I began our goodbyes. First I hugged her friend and whispered to her to take care of my girl. Then I hugged Reese, and she gave me a 3/4 hug and kissed me on the shoulder or chest. I said in a rather appalled tone, “Dude, who kisses like that? Kiss me on the cheek like you mean it!” I embarrassed her after all, and I didn’t even try that time. I could feel her tween rage rising, so I stepped away to let Jamie in. He gave her a quiet hug and kiss, and I made sure I didn’t watch because there’s always something with father/daughter stuff that makes me tear up. Then Evan came in and gave her the biggest hug, and he would not let go. I pulled him off of her because I didn’t want her to get too down. And then I went in for seconds and gave her another hug and kiss. I was about to cry, so I stepped away and we went back to the car. As we pulled away, I saw her watching us drive away, so I made sure the three of us waved and smiled enthusiastically at her to leave her with happy vibes. When she was out of our site, my heart was in pieces.
Evan started saying things like, “Guys I miss her already.” I told him that the week would go by fast and that she’d be home before we knew it. Then I made him try to sleep in the car because I didn’t want him to keep saying that stuff. The song “With or Without You” by U2 started playing, and I just stared out the window beginning to cry, but I wouldn’t let gravity take my tears. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep because it would be the only way to get me through the ride home.
We pulled into the garage and Evan said, “It’s not even the same at home without her.” I said nothing, just went upstairs because I couldn’t listen to him anymore. He’s going to be one sappy boy when he gets dumped someday. I took a few minutes to collect myself, and when I came downstairs the dog was going nuts and Evan was literally weeping. I thought he hurt himself, so I asked what happened, and he said, “I just miss Ate so much!” I held him so tightly and I started bawling. I said, “I miss her too, but I’m happy because I know she will have so much fun.” I was lying, I was feeling so blue and empty.
Jamie captured this moment of us crying and consoling each other.
Eventually we pulled it together and slowly tried to continue on with the week without Reese. We emailed her every night, including the dog, and we checked incessantly for any email reply. You wouldn’t believe how often a desperate parent can refresh their camp email app just to see if their kid is alive. The camp tries to remind the parents not to worry if they don’t hear back from their kids, it means they are having fun. Well fuck that shit, that’s stupid and unacceptable, even if it totally makes sense. Reese eventually responded twice, and it was as if the clouds parted and the heavens opened their gates and the message of an angel appeared. Okay, maybe not that majestic, but it was still a really exciting time. We even got 2 postcards from her, and it was just nice to see her handwriting. I didn’t even mind (that much) all of her spelling and grammatical errors. She put my heart at ease and reassured me that she was having fun with all the new activities, making lots of new friends, but still missed us. She even added that she had a new crush, so I knew for sure it wasn’t an imposter. It helped the time go by faster knowing that she was happy.
Still, days without her were tough. I kept Evan super busy with constant activities and play dates so that he wouldn’t feel so lonely. Though it didn’t feel right, we still went to our usual spot to watch the fireworks on the 4th of July. Admittedly, I held back tears thinking Reese should be with us. But then I reminded myself that she is probably having her own 4th of July celebration up at the camp that is probably twice as fun. Jamie was quiet, hardly said a word as the fireworks went off, so I knew he was missing her too. When we got home he said, “When these kids go away for college, I think you are going to have to put me in an institution.” We’ll probably go together, hopefully we could be roommates. I call dibs on the Xanax.
On the eve of her return, I could not sleep at all. I was both so excited and terrified. On one hand, I could not wait to have Reese back home. On the other hand, I started thinking of all these scary scenarios, like what if she came home with lice, or worse, what if they got into a terrible car accident on the way home and I never saw them again. Yep, the What-if Monster got me again. I had to say a prayer just to quiet my brain and trust that she was going to get home safely.
My baby girl came home the next day, alive and in one piece, and I just hugged and kissed her until she couldn’t take it anymore. I was probably embarrassing her in front of her friend and my friend, but I didn’t care. I swear she grew 3 inches in a week and looked like a teenager. The million fears that clouded my brain disappeared the second I held her, and I could finally take a safe breath.
Reese spent the entire day telling me all about camp, from stories of what she and her bestie did together, to her new friends she made, to the different activities she tried, to co-ed dances and fire pit nights. She spent hours playing in the lake, tried paddle boarding and wind surfing, archery, braiding her friends’ hair, getting to know new people, and probably talking shit about her mom like daughters do. She said she loved the food, but added that mine was better (because she’s not an idiot). She had to make her bed everyday and had their cabins inspected everyday for cleanliness, which for a few days carried over into her home life, which I happily welcomed. I thought, damn this is fantastic, I’m about to send Jamie and Evan to camp if they come back here and start cleaning up after themselves too! It didn’t last much longer than a week unfortunately, but that one week was nice.
Perhaps the most spoken about camp topic was her new camp crush that she decided was pretty much her boyfriend, even though she never spoke to him, does not know his last name, his phone number, or what town he lives in. She said she saw him day 1 and thought he was cute, but didn’t have the courage to talk to him. But she sure did talk about him a lot to other friends. She said he and his friends approached her and her girlfriends at the dance and he “almost” asked her to dance. I asked, “Well, how do you know he was going to ask you to dance?” And she responded, “Ugh, Mom, I just know! Don’t ruin it!” Haha, classic me, just ruining her life. She said she was talking about how cute he was one day while they were on the beach, and another girl asked who she was talking about, and Reese pointed him out. The girl said, “Ewww, that guy? That’s my brother!” Then she ran away and told him. Reese said she was mortified and continued to be awkward around him and NOT talk to him, and I thought to myself, oh thank God she’s got her father’s “Rizz” and not mine. On the last day of camp, she said she watched him and his sister walk onto the bus, and he turned around towards her and made a heart with his hands towards her, the way you would picture Justin Bieber doing in one of his stupid music videos. She awkwardly waved back at him, and probably decided then and there that they were boyfriend and girlfriend. It is such a cute and innocent story, I just listened and let her revel in her daydream. I periodically brought her back to Earth and told her he is not her boyfriend because, you know, they never spoke and barely made eye contact. It reminded me so much of the Brady Bunch episode where Jan made up her boyfriend, George Glass. Coincidentally, this camp boy’s name is also George, which makes this story funnier to me. When the camp pictures came out, she eagerly searched for him. She showed me his picture, and oh hell no, he resembled what Jamie looked like as a boy! Daddy issues much? And what did Jamie think of all this? Of course it made him feel uncomfortable every time she spoke about him, which was basically constantly. But I was like, dude this is the safest “boyfriend” she will ever have, as he is nearly imaginary, so enjoy it.
Thinking back to everything Reese presented as her “pitch” to us as to why camp would serve her well, she was spot on. I can definitely tell she is more independent, more confident, she grew closer to her bestie and made new friends, and she seems so much happier than she was during the school year. She is a good kid that keeps getting better with time and experience. She did not do woodworking though, so I guess I need to get her a hand saw and some wood so she could get her Geppetto on and whittle a puppet version of her camp crush and wish him to life.
As for me, I suppose despite losing approximately 7 years off my life from worry and sadness, it was a good experience for me too. I learned that I’m a fucking spaz and need to relax a bit. I learned that Keith Morrison is in my head too much, and maybe if my inner voice was more like Conan O’Brien I might live a little lighter. Mostly, I learned to let go just a little bit and let my little girl fly. I don’t like it one bit, but I’ll do it, so long as she flies back home to me from time to time to say hi and tell me she’s loving life.
Now before I am accused of being a sap, I will end this entry with sharing the messages that our dog, Alby, wrote to Reese while she was away. It’s best if you read them in a Filipino accent because, though she is an Australian Shepherd, she is in spirit a full-fledged Filipino. Enjoy!
7/4/23 Ate, I’m scared. Dur is so mots boom booms in the night times. I am bery nerbous op da big sounds. Don’t gib it to me. Lubs you, Alby
7/5/23 Ate, durs a thunder boom booms today. I hiding in da shoes room. Smell of peets makes me peel sape. I hab a questions por you…is der sticks in your camp? I eat dat. Gib it to me. Lub, Alby
7/6/23 Ate, dis morning I put my head under da pence and rub mud all ober my body and I smell so good and presh. Then that lady Mom shout to me dat I smell stinks, and you know what she did? She put me in da shower and make me so sad. I make cries when she takes away my smells. Den I shake my body and make her wet and she scream. I ran upstairs and make whole house wet. She spray someting on me dat make me so stinks. Bad day for Alby. Come home and hug me, I take you por a walk. Lub, Alby.
With any cancer diagnosis, you get an unspoken lifetime membership to the Cancer Club. It has some perks, such as frequent blood checks and early access to all the great screens, such as mammograms, ultrasounds, and colonoscopies. Plus, if anything in your system has gone awry, you get at least 2 doctors checking you up and down. The downside…cancer. It’s always on the brain, even after years in remission. You learn to live with it, like a weird mole on your face that you have no choice but to accept (by the way, if you have a weird mole on your face, you should probably get that checked).
My chemo anniversary is a time to celebrate, and yet for some reason it has become a Friday the 13th thing for me. I love to celebrate it and keep it as a reminder to be thankful for second chances. But when I look back, this time of year is fucking bananas in this house. In 2020, my first remission anniversary, Covid was rearing its ugly head, and soon we were all locked up in our homes. 2021 was still rough, with many public activities still masked and anxiety-ridden or worse, virtual. I couldn’t even hug anyone without me hearing my oncologist’s voice in my head telling me to be cautious. 2022 seemed more promising, with Covid becoming slightly less of a worry. So of course in true Ely fashion, I tore my rotator cuff, had adenomas in my breast and funky looking lymph nodes that had to be biopsied, and I randomly passed out in what could have been a seizure or heart issue; that all happened in the month of February. I spent all of February and March of that year getting scans, EEGs, and cardiac workups. Everything was clear, other than my torn rotator cuff, thank goodness. But it was just a kick in the balls, with the universe being like, “Be thankful because you never know.” Ok, universe, a little less dramatic next time please.
Here we are now in 2023, and I intended on breaking this strange vibe around my anniversary. Much to my chagrin, bad juju still surrounds this time of year. I recently found a few cysts in my breast, which are luckily benign, but I will be getting an MRI in a few weeks to check both ladies out more thoroughly. AND I had my first colonoscopy. My dudes, it is the absolute worst, and this is coming from a person who underwent 8 months of chemo. Whoever coined the phrase, “Shit hit the fan” was definitely prepping for a colonoscopy, and it was probably a literal statement.
Jamie had a colonoscopy last year, so I knew it was an arduous event. When I told him that I scheduled one this year and needed his help, he said cool; I didn’t realize he meant, “Cool, as long as it’s not me.” Turns out he was traveling for work that whole week, and left his poor children in my care when I’d be hangry from being on a liquid diet for 24 hours before the procedure. When it was time to take the prep, I had already sent both kids out to their practices, Jamie was still not home, and the house was eerily quiet. I drank the concoction as directed, and was convinced that only a person working on Satan’s behalf could have made such a potion. It was so terribly sweet and salty that I didn’t know if I liked it or wanted to vomit. An hour later, my asshole decided it wanted to vomit. At one point a friend asked how I was doing, and I told her I didn’t know if I was shitting or pissing. I couldn’t be more than 15 feet away from the bathroom all night. At the peak of Satan’s tricks, my phone started ringing. It was Evan’s basketball coach. I didn’t want to answer the phone because she’d know I was in the bathroom from the echo (and other stuff). I didn’t answer. She called 2 more times. I had about 5 minutes in me to call her back before I had to jump back on the toilet. She wanted to make sure someone was picking Evan up from practice. I was saying a silent prayer that this woman was not hyperverbal, and thankfully she wasn’t; she just wanted to make sure Evan was going to have a ride home. 3 minutes left. I called my in-laws to make sure they would be getting him from practice. 1 minute left. My sister-in-law asked if I was okay, and I said, “I’m shitting my fucking brains out! Gotta go!” She said, “Oooh…ok, well godspeed!” Sure as shit, God sped me back to the bathroom just in time.
By the time Jamie and the kids came home, I was spent. And I still had a second round of prep to take at midnight. I was back and forth all night to the bathroom. I was jealous of how soundly Jamie slept, as I expelled demons from my colon that were in there from 20 years ago. At most, I got 1.5 hours of sleep that night. I just knew my colon was going to be super photogenic for this colonoscopy, squeaky clean.
The following morning, I was so excited to have the procedure done, just so I could be put to sleep for a few hours. Apparently, according to social media, it was a beautiful morning with a breathtaking sunrise. Yeah I don’t remember any of that, I just remember praying that Jamie didn’t hit any potholes on the way to the hospital, while I repeated in my head, “Please don’t shit the car, please don’t shit the car…” I was tired, hangry, and literally butthurt.
They got me into the procedure room pretty quickly before any “Code Browns” could occur, promising I would sleep soundly. I heard them say I needed a pediatric scope. When I looked at what they brought in, I remember thinking there was no way that thing could fit in a child or small adult without tearing up someone’s insides. I thought to myself, “Please, may the gods of lube be ever so generous and shine upon me.” There was no pre-procedure foreplay or romancing by the staff, I was simply put on my side and was knocked out. And then it was over.
When I came to, I was annoyed because I wanted to sleep for 12 more hours. The doctor spoke to me and told me he found just one polyp. I’m sure I said some words to him, but my face was saying, “Dude, just give me some food and water.” I ate the most delicious cookie of my life, which was just a hospital cookie that I could probably get at the dollar store, but it was solid and not gatorade, so it was perfection. Jamie took me home, and since I wasn’t allowed to drive for the rest of the day, I finally had a day off. Who would have thought that in order to have a day of rest, I had to schedule a colonoscopy for it. Momlife at its finest.
The results came back in a few days, and the polyp they found was benign. But when they tell you that you need to schedule this procedure in another 5 years instead of 10 because polyps are precancerous, you are reminded yet again of that Cancer Club you belong to. It’s a bummer, but hey, it’s not cancer. In fact, everything that seems to pop up around my cancerversary ends up not being cancer. So this bad juju is actually good juju because my body and mind keep fighting. And every year for the past 4 years, I’ve been winning.
I’m a proud member of the Cancer Club, and when the next new thing comes my way, I’ll be like, “Nope, not today, Satan.”
Disney World, the happiest place on Earth…and also where Type A people go to die. Disney a betch for sure. I have put off a family trip to Disney and Universal for as long as possible because the horror stories I’ve heard about planning, strollers, character meals, the long days ending in tantrums, the outlandish price tag, they were all complete turn offs. Maybe I was hoping the kids would never mention it or grow out of it and we’d happily let the boat sail by. It was actually working for a while; their Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and Disney Princess phases came and went, and no child even asked for a trip to Disney. And just as I felt like the window was closing, Harry Potter, Star Wars, and Marvel got us good (thanks to Jamie and a Covid lockdown), and well, the Disney and Universal boats flipped a U-ey, came by and said, “Get your asses on this boat because it’s your turn for a torturous good time!”
I mean it when I say I was not planning on going for a while. We did some home renovations over the summer and I told Jamie that we shouldn’t do any major trips for at least a year because we needed some time to financially recover, and he completely agreed. Fast forward a few months, our friends reached out in the fall to see if we had a Thanksgiving break, and though we did, we already had some light plans. Those plans fell through though, so we said that maybe we could do something small, like a quick trip to Tennessee or Arizona. She mentioned Disney, and I immediately said hell no, not going during a holiday season when it’ll be crazy crowded and expensive. And besides, I always pictured our Disney experience to just be the four of us together, frolicking in wait-free lines and meeting all the characters (clearly I had no clue how Disney works, total amateur daydream). We toyed with a few options for a while, but nothing stuck. Then I thought, 3 different families all with this same break, all the kids getting older so quickly, when will we have this chance again? Plus, another set of friends had just gotten back from Disney and they could help us with any questions, so maybe this is a good time to go after all. So I said fuck it, let’s do it. Hello, Spontaneity, I’m Ely, let’s party.
Turns out, Spontaneity a ho, she played me, and I hate her. While other more rational people spend a year planning a trip like this, Spontaneity said I could definitely plan this in 5 weeks. I can hardly plan a going out outfit in 5 weeks, I don’t know how I fell for this trap. We were a group of 13 with a set of wishy washy plans that sounded a lot like, “Sure I’ll go. What do you want to do? I dunno, what about you? Hmm not sure. Eh, we’ll figure it out.” I’m too anal to be spontaneous, I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve tried to be spontaneous before, only to find myself in fits of anger and frustration. It’s like me constantly trying on rompers thinking that this is the time it will look good on me. Unless my goal is to give off toddler vibes, it just will never work out.
I parted ways with Spontaneity and reunited with my Type A brain and got to work. We used a Disney travel agent to set up our hotels, and she was there to answer any of our questions. Once she got us our hotels, there was no turning back. I considered for a very brief moment surprising the kids with the Disney news the day we were going to leave, but then I thought, “Nah I better not. Who knows, Spontaneity probably a betch to them too.” They were so excited and in jaw-dropping disbelief. Evan said, “I never thought we’d ever go to Disney World or Universal Studios.” And when I asked why, Reese chimed in and said, “Because it’s so expensive.” So my kids are fully aware of how cheap I am. I’m not thrilled about that, but they’re not wrong, and maybe they’ll stop asking me to buy them stupid shit.
Once all the excitement quieted down, it was time to get my butt in gear and learn everything about how to survive a Disney World and Universal Studios vacation. College prepared me for this, with all those hours of cramming before finals, and all the binge drinking afterwards to numb my anxiety and mental fatigue. For several days, I made pots of coffee, sat in front of a computer for hours at a time to “make a research,” as my aunt likes to put it, and ended the nights with a cocktail. I flooded my friend’s phone with thousands of texts about daily schedules, Genie+, Individual Lightning Lanes, Express Passes at Universal, you name it. I listened to Disney podcasts, watched YouTube videos of very annoyingly happy people discussing Disney itineraries. I took copious notes that cluttered our island. I thought to myself, ugh we should’ve just planned for Tennessee and played Catan all night. But I couldn’t unring that Disney and Universal bell, the kids would never forgive me. I promised them a magical time, and said this would be their Christmas gifts for the next 5 years. I also said this is the one and only time we’re doing this, so have a blast and don’t mess this up for me…er, I mean them…but mostly me.
Before I knew it, the trip was upon us. I had scanned notes and itineraries in my phone, had plan A through Z in my head, and everyone’s bags packed with everything from ponchos to beef jerky to interactive wands. Friends warned me that I was going about this all wrong, that my days were too packed, and that the kids were going to fizzle out by day 2. And I’m thinking, they fucking better not! But if they do, we can just take a quiet power nap in the corner somewhere (college prepared me for that too, and I could start them young). All joking aside, I was willing to be flexible if they had meltdowns and just stick to our top priority attractions per park. But that was like plan Z, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
Per usual, Jamie was crazy stressed in preparation for the trip too. He had nothing to do with the actual planning of the trip, all he knew was that we were going to Orlando, something about a mouse, a genie made of lightning, and a wizard. He always has a shit ton of work to get done before and after vacations, so he is kind of MIA until we get to the airport. I gave him some “gentle” reminders to at least pack, and by gentle, I mean using 1 to 2 “fucks” in my sentences (threats) instead of 5. I also emphasized that I will need his brain on the trip, because as planned out as the trip was, I cannot for the life of me read maps, so I needed him to navigate. And I’m not exaggerating about my map reading skills either. I once read a hiking trail map backwards when I was in Ireland with my sister, and I lead us to a cliff with nowhere else to go. We can’t have that on this trip…although jumping off a cliff during the planning process seemed tempting at times.
When we arrived at the airport, I felt less stressed and more excited. The joy on the kids’ faces was so worth all the trouble I went through for the past few weeks. Nothing was going to bring them down. And I was killing it so far; just the right amount of snacks, water, entertainment, timely bathroom breaks, hand sanitizer, all the airport needs and wants provided. We got on the plane, and Jamie gifted me with the aisle seat away from the kids (even though you know they’ll find a way to ignore Jamie and ask me questions). As I sat there, I peaked at the kid’s iPad in front of me. He was watching Home Alone, and I thought to myself, would it have been THAT terrible to leave the kids alone like Kevin was while Jamie and I just did this trip? They could watch the dog, eat instant ramen everyday, question just for a second whether or not they were worthy of our love, set up booby traps for robbers, and then play video games till we got home. That doesn’t sound that bad, at least nothing therapy couldn’t fix. Did I plan this trip wrong? Hmm, I’ll have to save that option for the next family trip. The idea oddly put me at ease and helped me catch up on sleep.
The plane landed and shenanigans ensued. The kid in front of Jamie spilled his drink all over Jamie’s work bag, Jamie left his water bottle on the plane (which fucked up my hydration plans for him), our Uber driver needed directions from Jamie (told you I needed his brain for maps), and everyone was hangry. Don’t test me, Orlando! We quickly dropped off our bags at the hotel, hopped on a river taxi, scarfed down some subpar poutine at Disney Springs (because vacation food), and then all was right with the world once more. Since we got there later than planned, we didn’t do everything I wanted at Disney Springs, but I’m super flexible, remember, so no sweat off my back. Just kidding, I had to do a lot of deep breathing exercises to dissipate the disappointment. Jamie and the kids seemed happy though, so I was happy. Happyish. No, just tired and ready for bed.
Our first full Disney day was spent at Magic Kingdom, just the four of us. The other 2 families were arriving a day after us, so this was our only four-person frolic day that I envisioned in my head. But the day didn’t start with us entering the park with arms wide open, singing, “The hills are alive…” It began with Jamie and I waking up at 6:45am so that we could prepare to make a major strategic move on Genie+, per the guidance of every Disney blogger on Earth. If anyone has recently been to Disney, you are familiar with watching the official time on time.gov, refreshing your Disney app at 6:59:59, and jumping on Genie+ to reserve your first ride. Sounds insane? Yes, yes it is. And we did it anyway and prevailed. Sure, I wanted to reserve the Peter Pan ride, but I got Peter Pan cock-blocked by my family and we instead chose Space Mountain. Then I packed up our waters, snacks, breakfasts, and dramamine and we headed out so that we could get there an hour before park early park opening. Yes folks, everyday at Disney is like a fucking huge Black Friday sale at Target, and people are just lined up at the gate before we could even get into the damn park. But it was all good because we were pumped, our energy was electric, Reese and I had our Minnie ears on, and it was going to be amazing. When we finally got into the park, there were patrons that definitely knew where they wanted to go and headed there with a brisk walk-run. And then there was me, with mouth gaping wide opened, in awe of the Disney castle I grew up seeing in books and movies, but never in person. The park was already decorated for Christmas, and it felt perfect. A part of me wanted to break out into song and dance, and I think it would actually be welcomed there. I just could not stop taking pictures of Jamie, the kids, and everything around us. To see this all for the first time, and even better, to see it through my children’s eyes, was truly magical. And then my brain slapped me out of wonderment and said, “Hey lady, get moving! You are off schedule!” We took a quicker pace, let’s call it a prance, to our first ride, and the line was already long, but moving quickly. And for kids who have nearly zero experience waiting for anything, as they can fast-forward through commercials, or request whatever song they desire on Spotify instead of waiting for hours listening to the radio for their favorite song, it was good for them to experience waiting for something they want. And man was it worth it. This was their first roller coaster, and they absolutely loved it. I was expecting at least one kid, if not both, to be terrified and maybe sick, but it turns out we have 2 little thrill seekers. They wanted more. And you know who had more…my itinerary.
I know you’re expecting me to say that shit hit the fan at this point because things seemed too good to be true, but it actually didn’t! Yes, I’m shocked too. I mean, I did throw up by 9 or 10 am after riding Space Mountain, but again, college prepared me for this. It was puke and rally for me, and now that I’m a big girl, I even hold my own hair. And what is even better than a good rally…a well-organized plan that comes to fruition. Ooh, how our Genie+ fingers danced on that app, how Jamie navigated through that park like he memorized the map, how the kids walked for miles without complaints, how the sun was out but it was a very comfortable temperature, it could not have gone more smoothly. My adrenaline was feeding my soul, but alas, my crew wanted actual food to feed their stomachs. And well shit, the food was good too. See, it pays to read some of those blogs about the Disney food. It was all part of the plan.
The remainder of the day continued to be pretty fabulous, other than waiting for one ride that none of us really wanted to go on but got stuck in the line. The fireworks show was extra spectacular since they are celebrating their 50th anniversary this year, and I’ll never forget seeing Evan watching the show from Jamie’s shoulders while I kept Reese close to me. We stayed until closing time, and my little ones were exhausted, my checklist was full of satisfying check marks, and my heart was full. Park Day 1: Great success (for full effect, say it in a Borat accent).
The following day promised to be even more special, as we would be with our entire friend group at Hollywood Studios, home of Star Wars: Galaxy’s Edge. This was the day Jamie was looking forward to the most, as he is the biggest Star Wars geek I know, and sadly, I know a bunch of them. I felt like this day in particular had to be perfect for my biggest kid. We met the group at the bus stop, but instead of exchanging niceties, it was back to the fastest fingers game on Genie+. Again, great success! We got a morning slot for Slinky Dog Dash, which means nothing to most people reading this, but everything to Disney dorks. This was a sign that the day was going to be excellent. We got to the park early again, but all the Star Wars super geeks were already there. When the gates opened, no joke, a stampede of Jamie nerds raced to the most popular Star Wars ride. But we took a somewhat leisurely pace since we were a big group. My eyes focused on Jamie, and when we entered Galaxy’s Edge, I watched my adult, map-reading Jamie, transform back into boyhood. He was in awe, eyes smiling, heart thumping out off his chest, pure joy oozing out of his pores. It was a true Star Wars boner experience (I think they call it The Force). Luck was on our side that morning, and we were somehow one of the first people to get onto the coveted ride, Star Wars: Rise of the Resistance. Our entire group was truly astounded by this ride, it was so different and cool, like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Jamie said he felt like everything he grew up with was live and in his face and it was a dream come true. That made my whole vacation. Haha, who am I kidding, there were so many things to check off for that day. But that was a big plus.
We hopped on another popular Star Wars ride with hardly any wait at all, and we were almost confused why this day was going so well. We took pictures, shopped around, ate, and took more pictures. I was so relaxed, I wondered for a second if maybe someone drugged me. This was so fantastic. And then the rain started. All good, Florida rain doesn’t last very long, right? We put on our rain jackets and continued on our way. We rode Slinky Dog Dash, and it was a thrill ride with the added excitement of the rain sprinkling on us. All the kids loved it, even our littlest one, who was 5 years old. The rain seemed to be getting worse, to which I responded in my head, challenge accepted. We searched for a quick indoor show that the kids could watch while the adults napped. The rain was still going strong when it was over. We tried for another ride. Still rain. We ordered lunch and waited, and even harder rain came our way. By this time we were soaked, our shoes were squishing out water with every step, ponchos weren’t doing shit for us, and the temperature was in the 50’s. The group was ready to tap out. My college voice inside my head was screaming to rally, but no one was having it. We went from the highest high for the first few hours of the morning, to being straight up pissed off, cold and drenched. I had so many things I still wanted to see, ride, and check off. I didn’t want it to be done. I held on to the hope that maybe we could go back when the rain let up. After a few hours of rest at the hotel, I considered going back because there was a ride that Evan and I really wanted to go on. But honestly, I didn’t trust myself leading the way. With my navigation skills, we’d end up somewhere in Tampa. I know that’s nearly impossible, and yet I’d find a way. Jamie said he’d go back out too, not because he actually wanted to, but probably in fear of his only son’s safety. I didn’t want to put him through that, so we called it a day. I eventually picked a fight with Jamie to get my frustrations out of my system, and in my head I was the clear winner. I was expecting a fight on day 1 or 2 of our vacation, so for it to happen on day 3 was not bad. He pointed out that we saw all the major things we wanted to see, so I shouldn’t be so disappointed. Except I wanted to see everything, so he was wrong. We eventually went out to dinner with the group, which calmed me down, but inside, and quite possible outside, I was a pouty grump. Park Day 2: Wet great success, but somewhat deflating for the completist that I am.
Perhaps it was good that we had a half day of forced rest, as Park Day 3 was going to be a doozy at Epcot. Epcot became synonymous with “cultural bar crawl,” at least according to the adult men in our group. I personally was too afraid to have a drink because I am so prone to motion sickness, that even walking and drinking can be problematic for me (at least that’s what I tell the cops). We rode the major rides we were looking forward to, and then just walked around all the countries and ate and drank. Jamie had told the kids that he loved Epcot as a child because there were so many cool science and learning exhibits. We did none of that, learned absolutely nothing. So in 30 years, my kids will be telling their kids that Epcot is a giant park full of bars with quite possibly one of the most bad ass rides in all of Disney (Guardians of the Galaxy…breathtaking and nearly vomit-inducing). My checklist was not even halfway completed by the end of the night, but when my niece said, “That was the most amazing light and fireworks show I’ve ever seen,” it made my day feel complete in a more comforting way. Park Day 3: Tipsy great success.
By this time in the vacation, my body was pretty angry with me. Getting 4-5 hours of sleep a night, waking up early to beat the rush of people, walking 9 to 10 miles a day, eating a ton of junk food all day, it was all catching up to me. But we were in it till the end, and moving on to Universal Studios was a new and exciting adventure. Why, you ask? Because The Wizarding World of Harry Potter, mutha fuckaaaas! Yeah, I’m a fan. For years and years, Jamie would try to get me to read the Harry Potter series, and I would just tell him to get his dorkiness away from me. But then I got diagnosed with leukemia and was stuck in a hospital for 5 months, so I had nothing but time to read these books. And it was such the perfect series for my situation. It was my escape from a reality that I was at times not ready to deal with. So all things Harry Potter have a very special place in my heart, and now it is special for the kids too. We even named our dog Albus Dumbledog. They were able to finish the books and movies just before the trip, so everything was fresh in their minds. The way I felt entering The Wizarding World of Harry Potter was probably on par with how Jamie felt when he entered Galaxy’s Edge. Everything was exactly as and often better than I pictured in my imagination while reading those books. It was beautiful both in the daylight and at night, and extra special since it was decorated for Christmas too. The rides were badass (especially Hagrid’s Magical Creatures Motorbike Adventure), even though some of them nearly made me puke (kind of just like the chemo days I guess). The kids had interactive wands and they would practice casting spells, which was cute to watch. Evan was convinced he had the magic touch because his wand worked and Reese couldn’t get any spells to work on hers (muggles, am I right?). With a belly full of butterbeer, I whispered a quiet thank you to a fantastical land that helped me get out of some dark times.
We spent 2 days at Universal Studios, and there was more to it than just Harry Potter. There were also some really great rides and attractions. I could not believe that Evan, who is afraid to be upstairs in our house by himself, was willing to ride all the big roller coasters with me. Reese mustered up some guts to ride most of them, but was a hard pass on the ones that went upside down. It was a memorable experience holding their hands and reassuring them as they screamed their faces off in pure terror that death was imminent, really just a mother’s dream.
By the end of the second Universal day, the entire group was dragging. Our feet were ready to fall off, and even standing still I felt like I was on a roller coaster. The kids did great up until the very last night; Evan was dehydrated and hangry, lost his ever-loving mind, and cried for 30 minutes that he wanted to go home. After 5 straight days of parks from before opening until close, I felt the same. We didn’t get a chance to have a lengthy, meaningful goodbye to our friends, but everyone was too tired to give a shit. I’m sure as we dragged away our crying child, they thought, “I told you 5 days with no rest would be too much for them.” Yep, you were all right. And I’m stubborn, overly ambitious, and love a good checklist. I had it coming. Park Day 4 and 5: Magically great success.
One with sound mind would have planned a day of rest upon arriving home from such a jam-packed week of vacation. Not me. I’m dumb. We flew home early on Thanksgiving morning, dropped off our bags, took covid tests to make sure we weren’t bringing any illness to our families the way the pilgrims did to the indigenous people, had Thanksgiving lunch with my family and then Thanksgiving dinner with some of Jamie’s family. The kids somehow looked unscathed, but Jamie and I were delirious. We slept so hard that night and relaxed the following day…well, at least they did. I did about 10 loads of laundry and unpacked our things. So goes the role of this mom.
It was a trip of a lifetime, one I will never forget, and one that I have no intention of repeating until maybe I have grandchildren. It was absolutely overwhelming from beginning to end. I often wonder what the experience is like for a more laid back person, or for those Disney nuts that go multiple times in their lives on purpose. Maybe they spend more time taking in the sights and going to classy sit down restaurants. Maybe they laugh at the lunatics that run to their attractions an hour before early park admission, while they sip their coffee and take a leisurely stroll down Main Street. Maybe they take some time to lay by the pool or take a midday nap. I don’t think that type of person is even in me. I was motivated by itineraries and checklist completion, powered by adrenaline and caffeine, and elevated by the joy of my family and friends. So maybe Disney is not the betch, maybe it’s me. But this betch got her family to relive various stages of their childhood, see parts of their imaginations come to life, ride all the major rides, try new things, overcome their fears, and experience everything they never knew they always wanted in 5 1/2 days. And all at the low, low cost of my sanity, my waistline, a small fortune, and my beloved pinky toe nail (we parted ways after 50+ miles of walking). I whole-heartedly recommend a Disney World and Universal Studios family vacation at some point in your lives, even though the stress of it all knocked a good 3 years off of my life (I’ll die happy I suppose). I’m grateful for this entire experience, and it will be a highlight in my family’s memories forever. Spontaneity still a ho though.
Emotions run amok during this time of year for me. My frustrations are high, as I listen to my kids fight their last summer break fights. Energy is low, as I try to get in the last pool days in to get my money’s worth from the pool passes and try to end summer on a high note. Patience is tested, as I gather the kids’ school supplies together and listen to complaints about why they have to reuse perfectly fine, slightly used markers and colored pencils. Sadness settles in, as I send my small humans back to school and fear the day when my kids will be too cool to kiss me goodbye in public. Confusion appears, as I questions whether I enjoy silence in my house or hate it because I could actually hear the thoughts in my head (it’s messy in there and plots are hatching). It’s a time of year that I feel victorious that I kept the kids alive and happy over the summer, but I’m mentally spent. To add to all that, this year presented even more challenges on the heart. My niece and nephew left for college, and as I experienced my own feelings as a Tita (aunt), I watch from a distance my sister’s process of letting go.
Nieces and nephews are fantastic; they are not your own kids, so they tend to behave a little better, plus you still get to reprimand them if they are out of line, and then you send them back to their own house when you’ve had enough. With all of those perks, I often like them more than my own kids. And these particular two are extra special because they are the gold standard cousins that my kids look up to. I use my niece and nephew as tools to encourage good behaviors or to shame my kids when they are acting like dumbasses, whichever works best that day. We love these kids, so to say goodbye was difficult for all of us.
I remember when my nephew was born. I was in grad school and already trying to use his birth as an excuse to get out of an exam, telling my professor that my sister needed me to be there (it did not work, and my sister would also never allow me in the room anyway). He was just perfect. He played a particularly interesting role in our family; he softened all of us. My parents and siblings started saying weird things like, “I love you”…not to each other of course, because eww, but to the baby. He grew up being really calm and collected, and we all thought something was wrong with him because none of us are like that. Turns out, he’s great and we’re the ones that have the issues. And then my niece was born, and she was a little hellion, and then I thought, okay she’s more like us, sorry for ya.
Shortly after Jamie and I got married, we offered to have my niece and nephew overnight with us. We had it all planned out like we were playing family; we were going to take them to a movie and have lots of popcorn and lemonade, play games at home, sleep late, all these great adventures for my then 6 and 4 year old kiddos. I recall the looks on my sister’s and brother-in-law’s faces when they dropped them off, a combination of hesitancy and “you’re fucked.” And before I could ask what those looks were about, they peaced out and left us with two well-rested, very energetic and excited children. But I was super good with kids, with those three times I babysat when I was in high school and the few episodes of “Jon and Kate Plus 8” I watched back in the day, so I was basically a pro and ready for this. First thing on the docket: movie theater. We got the kids in the car, and I noticed how much slower Jamie was driving. I asked him why he was driving like my mom, and then I remembered there was some valuable goods in the backseat. Just walking the kids from the parking garage to the theater was already eye-opening, and we held their hands tightly, clenched our butt cheeks anxiously, and gave dirty looks to all the people driving like assholes (watch it, 2 MPH over the acceptable speed limit, buddy!). What felt like five hours later, we got to the theater, bought them large popcorns and large pink lemonades per request, and settled in for “Madagascar 2.” Other than my niece sitting in my lap for the majority of the movie and my nephew having to go to the bathroom twice because of the large lemonade, I thought the movie went pretty smoothly. When we got to the car, both kids started complaining of stomach aches. What could have possibly bothered their stomaches, certainly not large buttery popcorn and large sugar liquid substance?!? I told them we’d be home soon and to hold it. Their complaints went from zero to ninety, and I was sure they’d be shitting in the car with how slowly Jamie was driving. We rushed them up to our condo, I sent them each to a separate bathroom as Jamie conveniently took the dog out. As I took a breath of relief that I got them on the toilets just in time, I hear my nephew call out, “Tita…I got poo on your wall. I farted while I was peeing and poo came out.” Fuck me, this guy just sharted on my wall. I go in there, and he’s sitting on the toilet with a smile on his face and said, “I also peed a little in my underwear.” Suddenly he wasn’t so cute anymore. I start cleaning the wall and he’s micromanaging me, telling me that I missed some poop on the scale. Then I hear a thump behind me, and there is my niece lying on the bathroom floor in the fetal position. She tells me she’s too scared to be by herself in the bathroom but she has to poop. I clean up my nephew, throw his clothes in the washing machine, get him in the tub and put my niece to the toilet next to him so she’s not alone. At this point, I’m wondering why Jamie chose to take the dog on the longest walk of her life while I’m left with two shitting children. My niece does her business, and I throw her in the tub too. By the time Jamie got back in, I had both children’s colons emptied, bodies bathed, and pajamas on. I thought, wow, he’s gonna be a great dad. Okay, that was just a slightly bump in the road, I was still super fun Tita, let the fun resume.
I colored with my niece while Jamie played PlayStation games with my nephew (so apparently I was watching three kids that night). After about an hour, I see my nephew dancing around while he’s holding the video game controller, and we tell him to go to the bathroom. He does not listen. Five minutes later, he throws the controller and runs to the bathroom and calls out to me, “Tita, I didn’t make it and I peed in my underwear again!” Ugh, more laundry! I tell him to leave the toilet seat up so that there are no more accidents the next time he has to rush to the bathroom. An hour later, he goes to the bathroom again and I hear, “Uh oh, Tita I left the seat open like you said and I accidentally dropped the towel in the toilet after I washed my hands!” What is happening to super fun day with Tita, and why was Jamie still playing video games? As I questioned my life choices, I asked myself if parenting is simply constant laundry all day everyday (and three years later, I found the answer was yes). All good, just another few bumps in the road, but we could still make this fun.
The boys continued to play video games and my niece and I started playing a game she made up, where she constantly changed the rules so that she could win. Well, I’m pretty competitive, so I’m not letting some kid beat me at anything. But with her wizardry at rule adjustments, she was convinced that she won. When I told her she did not win, she jumped up to hit me in the shoulder and said, “You’re a loser.” Nope, not having it. I put her in a time out that lasted forever because she wouldn’t stop crying. Now that I have kids, I realize she was just saying matter-of-factly that I lost the game and she won, but at the time, my non-kid-having brain thought she was calling me names. Oops. Don’t worry, karma got me later when I had my own kids and made timeouts completely ineffective. Essentially, I was the loser in the end.
I found myself counting the minutes until bedtime, telling myself that I could do this. The kids were too scared to sleep by themselves in the guest bedroom, so we let both of them sleep between us. We probably ended up falling asleep before them out of pure exhaustion (watching me take care of the kids must have been very tiring for Jamie). I thought the kids would be so tired because they stayed up late and had a fun-filled day, but at the ass crack of dawn, there they were in bed, staring at us inches away from our faces and willing us to wake up. When my sister and brother-in-law arrived to pick them up, they had their multiple-times-washed clothing packed up waiting for them, and I was shuffling them lovingly out the door. Then I downed my dose of birth control like it was the most delicious meal I ever ate.
In my mind, they’ll always be six and four, and yet here they are, leaving for college together at the same university. I took them out to dinner with my kids a week before they left to say goodbye. I pried into their personal lives like Titas do, and they gave me adequate answers, just enough to shut me up. My niece told me about her dorm and my nephew told me about his apartment, and I shared my college stories that they didn’t ask about but I told anyway. They managed not to roll their eyes too much. I said, “Let’s make some goals for this year. Set a goal for academics, social life, health and fitness, and family.” I told them not to miss too many classes and to keep their GPA’s at an acceptable level so they don’t lose their scholarships; try to join PSA (Philippine Student Association) to help make new friends; work out daily and get into a volleyball tournament or two, and I perhaps lectured too long about the importance of having fiber in their diets; and they planned to have Sunday dinner at his apartment where they would alternate cooking dinner, and then FaceTime their parents together. I threw in there that they should text me every now and then to say hi, maybe call their little cousins and check on them. I ended dinner with my final bit of advice, “One more thing…your mom is batshit crazy. There has never been a mom more up their kids’ asses than yours (not in a bad way, like a foot, but in a good way, like a colonoscopy). But she’s sad, really sad. She gave her career up for you guys, made raising you her full-time job, and she put her all into giving you guys every possible experience. Sure, she worked part-time through the years too just to keep her foot in the nursing door, but her main focus was on you. And now you are both leaving her. She may seem pissed, stressed, tearful at times, disheveled, overwhelmed, overbearing, but it is all rooted in deep sadness that her full-time focus on your daily lives is quickly coming to an end. So be nice, let her go easy. When you call her, don’t always make it all about you, ask her what she’s up to. Make sure she’s enjoying her new life too. Send her random pictures of you guys on the quad, and then ask her to send pictures of her and dad too.” Both kids seemed surprised but agreeable. And I know they’ll do it because my sister and brother-in-law raised good kids.
So now they’re gone, having the time of their lives, figuring the ins and outs of independence and responsibility, and I have a couple of pathetic empty-nesters on my hands. My sister said she peeked into their rooms the other night to check on them out of pure habit, only to see empty beds. For a sister who is typically dead inside, she’s sad for real. I offered to have her come to my house to either raise my kids or give her the lovely project of sanding and painting my trim and doors, but she for some strange reason declined both offers. But she may fill her time up with coming to her nieces’ and nephews’ games and activities, because who else will she yell at?
As a Tita, I get to sit and watch my niece and nephew navigate through life without interfering too much, reliving my college days vicariously through them, gently reminding them to enjoy every minute and not to take themselves too seriously. As a sister, I watch my sister navigate through her new chapter too, listen to her roller coaster of emotions, help distract her with my silly issues that seem small in comparison to what she’s going through. I’m learning and taking notes, as I always have. I took the same path she did and chose the stay-at-home-mom gig too. I devote all my time to keep the family afloat, just as she did. And as I watch her struggle to let her kids go, I promise her that they always come back to their parents, just like we did. These past few days, I have held my little ones tighter and tighter because one day this will be me and Jamie. One day, this time of year that has historically been filled with the emotional ups and downs that I listed at the start of this, will be the end of an era that I call, “How Badly Did I Fuck Up My Kids.” I’m gonna need a lot of tissues and a hobby when that day comes. I guess I’ll paint my trim and doors then, since my sister won’t do it.
If you are in the same boat as my sister and brother-in-law, you should probably drink (responsibly). If you have a friend going through this, you should probably have a drink with them. I’m sure my sister could use a hug…I mean, we don’t do that to each other, but if you know her, hug her. Keep your heads up, empty-nesters, your kids are bound to fuck up and they’ll need you, either for moral support or bail.
Both my kids got Covid recently. It sucked. But it did open the door for a damn good story.
It started with a class at school having an outbreak, where the whole class had to quarantine for 2 weeks. Evan was not in that class, but he interacted with a few of the students in that class pretty regularly. Because it was an outbreak situation, the school offered additional SHIELD testing for Evan’s second grade class and family members who were also interested in testing. None of us were symptomatic, but since I’m driving kids around all the time, I figured a free test wouldn’t hurt. So in addition to Evan, I signed Reese and myself up. We tested on a Friday, and by the following Sunday I received a call from the school letting me know that both Reese and Evan tested positive for Covid. I was negative. This news came just an hour before I was going to go to a baby shower and a few hours before the whole family was going to go to the Light the Night Walk (the walk we do annually for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society). Though bummed that we couldn’t go, I was thankful that we received the news before I was near my preggers friend and around a bunch of immunocompromised people.
I was in panic mode. Jamie, the kids, and I masked up, and I told them to keep distance. Jamie opened all the windows and I locked myself in the office so that I could spend the next hour contacting every person the kids were in close contact with for the past week to let them know that they had Covid. I apologized a million times and told them to keep an eye on their kids for any new symptoms. I know it’s no one’s fault, but I couldn’t help but feel like I contributed to the spread. I wasn’t so concerned about how they got it in the first place, just felt bad that they could have given it to a bunch of other people. After all, both of them were asymptomatic and in school for that week. No one seemed upset at us, but it certainly led to others having to go in for testing too. Anxiety apparently spreads just as effectively as Covid.
Once I was finished with all the phone calls and texts, I came out and spoke with the kids about what was going on. Jamie was watching the Bears game, so I don’t actually think he said much to the kids other than perhaps sit on the other couch (Bears were playing the Packers, so I get it). They seemed to want some information. I said, “Okay, so you guys both have Covid, you can’t go to school or activities for the next 10 days, and you’ll be doing school virtually during the time you quarantine. I’ve been contacting people who were near us the past few days, just in case you guys gave it to them too.” Instantly Reese started crying, like loud ugly cry, borderline tantrum style. She was screaming, “I don’t want Covid, I can’t have it, I’m not even sick.” Already forgetting to distance myself, I came to her and hugged her because I thought she was scared. I said, “You’re going to be fine. You are asymptomatic and hopefully you will stay that way. You don’t have to be scared.” She responded, “I’m not scared, I’m mad! I don’t want to miss school, I don’t want to miss soccer and gymnastics! My friends are going to think I’m diseased and will stay away from me! I hate this, I hate everything, I just want to die! I should just kill myself!” The compassion switch quickly turned off, I no longer wanted to hug her, and I was instantly triggered. I stepped away from her, not because of social distancing, but so that I could stare at her dead in the face for full effect. And I went off, “Oh, so you want to kill yourself because you’re having a bad day or because you got some bad news? You think your friends are not going to like you after 10 days? Then you either don’t know your friends very well, or they straight up suck. You think killing yourself is the best solution to fixing a bad situation? What if the best day of your life is 11 days from now? You won’t get to see day 11 if you kill yourself. You won’t even get to see day 2. You can’t take that back, it’s a done deal. Should I have killed myself when I found out I had cancer? Because it was a really tough year and I was really sick. Maybe I should have, huh? Should I have killed myself? No, I should not have, because I had a ton of fabulous days after that, and those bad days were behind me. You can’t talk like that, Reese, you can’t even have that as an option to solving life’s problems. You can’t take it back. Do you understand me?” Reese just nodded quietly. Meanwhile, Jamie is texting me from the couch, “Ooooh that was so good!” And Evan chimes in with, “Daddy, is that Justin Fields?” Clearly Evan was more interested in the Bears game than my rant on suicide.
Once Reese calmed down, we tried to lay down some ground rules. They were only to eat at the kitchen table and we’d be away from them, and eating was the only time they could take their masks off unless they were in their room with the door closed. I had forgotten to remind them to only use their bathroom, but was quickly reminded after Evan had diarrhead in a shared bathroom. Quickly my mind went to, “Is this a Covid symptom or was he shitting because he was eating Flaming Hot Cheetos and drinking a tall glass of milk because his mouth was on fire?” Then he calls out, “Mom, I have diarrhea and blood in the toilet. Do you want to see it?” Nope, I did not. All I said was, “Does it look like blood, or does it look like Cheetos?” Then I heard giggling followed by the flush of a toilet. So I guess it looked like Cheetos. Out came the bleach wipes, I cleaned the bathroom and told them to only use their bathroom upstairs from now on.
We tried to cheer the kids up (and ourselves) and finished the Loki series while having popcorn and dessert for dinner. I think the kids figured from that that the next few days were going to be screen loaded, so they probably went to bed feeling like they scored. That sent me into a tizzy trying to figure out how to manage their quarantine time with minimal screen use. I dug out activity books and puzzles for them to do, and started planning what they could do in place of all their after school activities. Spoiler alert, that shit didn’t last very long. When having to choose between personal sanity and the long term effects of prolonged screen time in children, I’m going with sanity. Once the 10 days is done, I could detox them and get them back to normal. But once I lose my own shit, who knows when or how or even if I could regain a sound mind.
I remember thinking that first night, how the hell did this happen? We have been so damn careful, far more conservative with our avoidance and safety measures than others in our family and friend groups. I was angry too, just like Reese. And I was scared. Sure, the kids were asymptomatic, but we don’t know if they’ll stay that way, or if they’ll have long term effects. In the short time that I’ve returned to work, I’ve already seen some post-covid patients, and it’s no joke. What if the kids get myocarditis? What are the symptoms? Should I Google this, or will it just scare me more? Both kids are going to have soccer games and Reese has her first gymnastics meet right after their quarantine ends, and what if they have underlying things that are lurking below the surface that I won’t know until it’s too late? Yes, the mind of an anxious person goes there. And then there are Jamie and me. The woman who called with the Covid news also told me that those who had the Pfizer vaccine had greater incidences of breakthrough infections than those who received the Moderna vaccine. Jamie got Pfizer, I got Moderna. What a pickle we found ourselves in: do we keep Jamie away from the kids because he got Pfizer, or do we keep me away from them because I had cancer? My oncologist had told me at some point that if I ended up getting Covid, that I would need to tell her immediately and she would just admit me into the hospital and treat me, rather than wait to treat me if I developed severe symptoms. But dude, I can’t get admitted. No one can enter the Newton Infection Bubble to help the kids, and Jamie has to work. That would be a disaster in itself. In hindsight, I’d have a ton of help from family and friends, but again, when you are anxious, everything in your mind is a world-ending situation. I dipped my toe in those dark and scary thoughts, and then got out of there. It was go time, I had to be rational and just make the next few days safe and livable for all of us.
The kids’ school would not be ready for virtual class until Tuesday, so the kids had a free day. I had forgotten how fucking loud they could be. But now their screaming and running around was more than just noise and chaos, it was Covid particles flying through the air. I couldn’t deal with their noise, their fighting, their neediness, so I had given them math problems and reading, a few workbook pages, a workout, and made them play outside. Was this what virtual learning was like last year and I just chose to forget about it? Were they being this way because they have now tasted the sweet, sweet nectar of in-person learning, and to be stuck at home together was now intolerable? I caved in and gave them an hour of screen time, and then I cut them off. I made them go for a walk with me and the dog, with them wearing their masks and walking behind me. Some neighbors were grilling and I said, “Ooh, those burgers smell good!” Evan said, “What burgers? I don’t smell them.” Shit, he was losing his sense of smell. Well, there went asymptomatic, at least for Evan. We only made it a few blocks when Evan started telling me he was feeling really tired and dizzy and didn’t know if he could make it any further. Shit, was this a symptom of myocarditis, or was this Evan being a lazy ass? I didn’t Google myocarditis, so I had no idea. Either way, I called Jamie and had him pick Evan up, and Reese and I finished the walk.
For the next 45 minutes, Reese and I had a very heated “conversation” about her feelings about Covid. She was still super pissed off about the whole situation, actually still denying that she had it. I told her she definitely had it and just accept it, there’s no reason at all to feel shame for it, and that she didn’t do anything bad. She was afraid to join the class virtually the next day because her friends were going to ask her how she is and why she isn’t in school. She didn’t want anyone to know she had Covid. I said, “Sorry kid, too late now. I told half the parents in your class that you had it.” She was so angry at me. What? I had a responsibility to inform them. And also, I have a big mouth, and sharing things helps me cope. Besides, that dreaded note from the principal was sent out to all the families that there was a positive case, and duh, if she was the only one not in class, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who had Covid. We talked about the questions she was nervous about, and we even role-played so that she felt prepared to talk about it the next day. I turned the situation into a “it’s not healthy to bottle up your feelings, it’s better to talk about things, good or bad” lecture. We came home both looking exasperated, and Jamie knew to keep quiet and stay away when the Newton ladies have that look. I could tell this experience was going to test all of us.
The kids had dinner in their area, and we moved all the Legos and puzzles that covered the dining room table and ate separately from them, thinking how bad this sucked. We sent them to bed early because we were just spent. I noticed we were hesitant to touch any of their dishes or sit in chairs that they sat in, and that I was bleach wiping all the surfaces they touched and doing tons of laundry, which signaled to me that our anxiety was moving speedily in a direction that we were trying to avoid. We were not handling things well. We went to bed feeling stressed for what was to come, so stressed that we couldn’t even enjoy Great British Baking Show. That show magically soothes nerves, but even that wasn’t working.
The following day was the kids’ first day of virtual learning, and also marked the point during the 10 day quarantine when shit hit the fan. Both the kids were having issues with their computers, and you know how well-versed I am with computers. I was in and out of their Covid rooms, feeling like this is not ideal. It was a constant, “Mom can you help with school? Mom can you get me a snack? Mom, I’m thirsty, can you get me a drink?” And not just the requests, but I was also still watching them like a hawk for symptoms, checking their temperatures every hour, listening for sniffles and coughs, asking them if they felt like they were breathing normally. I started hearing sneezing and coughing, and I’d yell from my room, “Who was that? Who’s coughing? Who’s sneezing?” It was Evan, now definitely showing symptoms.
I opened all the windows upstairs because I just felt like the air was filling with disease, and that’s when I smelled a skunk. It was 10am, but it was definitely a skunk. I ran downstairs and told Jamie not to let Alby out in the yard because the skunk smell was really strong and I felt like it was coming from our yard. Not entirely sure why I thought going outside to look for the skunk was a solid plan, but that’s what I did. And as I looked for spots under our deck and in our pathetic garden of overgrown weeds where a skunk might be hiding, I wondered to myself if skunk shampoo for dogs worked on humans too. I could not find any skunks, but I was convinced it was under our deck. So on top of taking care of the kids, I now had to take the dog out frequently on leash and keep an eye on her so she didn’t get skunked.
As the kids spent their school day in their rooms, I stayed upstairs with them, on-call for any problems that came up, and watched The Handmaid’s Tale. I thought to myself, well, this quarantine situation isn’t as bad as being in Gilead. When recess time came around, I played outside with them. The skunk smell was not fading. I kept saying, “Man, that skunk is really close by.” Evan responded, “What skunk? I can’t smell it.” Poor baby…although, I suppose if there was a good time to lose sense of smell, now would be it. They finished their schoolwork for the day, with lots of grunts and moans about losing internet connections. I finally just told them to keep books, word searches, and crosswords by them, and if they lost connection, just keep busy. I managed to finish The Handmaid’s Tale by the end of their school day, and I was in a dark place. That shit puts me in a mood, and I should have chosen a better show to watch during this personal time of woe.
By this time, with all the windows in the house opened, the entire place smelled like a skunk was camping out in the guest bedroom. I just happened to peek out of my window, and sure as shit, there was the damn skunk on my neighbor’s patio, chilling and spraying. It felt odd that a nocturnal animal would be sun bathing, but there it was in all its glory, just sitting there and acting lethargic. I called Jamie and the kids to come see the big skunk. As they’re looking at it from our window, it began to have a seizure. With every strange movement it would spray its stank. I made the kids leave and play downstairs because it looked like it might actually be dying and I didn’t want time kids to watch it. Jamie made some comment that maybe it had rabies. Great, add a rabid skunk to our list of shit to deal with.
As if watching a skunk suffer miserably wasn’t bad enough, Reese started playing a song on the piano over and over that she made up that has a similar melody to “Heart and Soul,” but as if the melody took a handful of drugs and had a bad trip and got in a really melancholy mindset. There was just that one sad melody that repeated for 5 long ass minutes. How did she manage to make “Heart and Soul” so gut-wrenching? She sang her made-up love song as if she was a Mariah Carey level diva, except she really can’t sing well. I felt like I was trapped in a loop of bad American Idol auditions. It was driving me crazy and I told her to just stop. Jamie said I was being very harsh with my opinions and said it was good that she was being creative and that we should foster that creativity. Insert eye roll. I didn’t have time for his positivity.
Rather than fostering her musical creativity, I told the kids to play outside as much as possible and be creative out there, but to also look out for skunks. It was just better for everyone if they were outside, well, I guess better for everyone but the dog because she wanted to be out there with them instead of trapped inside (I know the feeling). The dog started acting up and destroying her toys and the kids’ toys. I couldn’t deal with her antics anymore either, so I had the kids come back in and play with the dog. Alby went nuts, so hyper and happy to have the kids inside to play with. But hyper Alby is a jumpy and nippy Alby, which eventually led to Evan crying because she somehow nipped his penis. Of course, this is all happening while I’m on the phone. It’s silent when I’m getting sucked into the sadness of Gilead, but when I actually need quiet and am on the phone talking to another human adult, it’s Evan getting bitten in the damn dick. Figures.
I needed some quiet, so I went back into my bedroom to hide. Frustrated at how bad my bedroom smelled, I closed the window. I decided to Google “skunks having seizures,” since I was too afraid to Google myocarditis. Super, turns out seizures are symptoms of end stage rabies for skunks. It also said to keep your pets inside because there’s never just one rabid skunk in the area. Cool, so a gang of rabid skunks had heard that the Newton Covid House was a neat place for diseased beings to hang out. I told Jamie that the skunk probably had rabies, according to Google, not even thinking that his anxiety was creeping through every crevice of his mind. And boy did he take a turn. He said, “Fuck! What if that was why Alby was barking so much this morning when I first let her out? What if the skunk bit her and we didn’t know it? And she just bit Evan’s dick! Do you know rabies is fatal? Alby could die! Evan could die!” Okay, so in his mind, not only do the kids have Covid, but now Evan has dick rabies. This was getting so ridiculous and I was OVER IT!
I had to get out of the house for my own mental health. I thankfully had a volleyball game that night where I could let off some steam for a bit, and then I went to a friend’s house who got us a few n95 masks. When I got home, the kids were in bed and Jamie appeared very stressed. He said when he had to take Alby out, he was worried that some rabid skunks were going to come out to attack the dog. I’m thinking, it’s a skunk with rabies, not a fucking serial killer chasing you with a knife. I told him he could probably kick the damn skunk and run the other way. He said he was worried that the rabid skunks walked into our garage when he was not looking. This might come as a surprise to you, but I have yet to find any such rogue skunks in the garage or surrounding area.
At this point, it was only Tuesday, and we had an entire 7 days left of our sentence. I had to make some changes, or we’d never make it through this in one piece. My sister suggested that the kids eat in the dining room so that they were never in the kitchen/food prep areas. That was a good idea, because I was tired of eating with a bunch of Lego Star Wars and Harry Potter characters. I also told Jamie to keep away from the kids, stay either in his office or in the bedroom, and that I would take care of all the child care stuff, like the computer issues during school, checking their homework, keeping them entertained, and feeding them. At least this way, Jamie would have a chance to calm his anxiety down. Plus, if I got Covid, I could probably use my cancer card and get medical attention a little sooner than he would if he got it. Once I put that plan into action, things seemed to go a little more smoothly. I made sure the kids were still taken care of and they seemed pretty happy, and they weren’t rotting away in front of a TV. Jamie also seemed to slowly calm down, and I think having the n95 mask helped him also feel safer. In my infinite free time, I even tried to make a few homecooked meals they all liked to give them a sense of comfort (so Filipino of me). Evan couldn’t smell the food, but he was thankful to be able to taste it. Everyone seemed great…except me. Making sure everyone was feeling safe and secure was fucking exhausting.
By Thursday, Jamie and the kids seemed to be in decent spirits, while I was feeling run down. I wasn’t sure if I was super tired from taking care of everyone, or if I was actually getting sick. I went in to get tested again, making this the third time getting SHIELD tested in a week (totally normal, right?). After my testing and running a few quick errands, I crashed on the couch in the middle of the day. While half asleep, I heard Evan calling for me. Jamie yelled from his office, “No, don’t bother Mommy, she’s resting. What do you need?” “Nothing, never mind,” he said. What? That’s all it takes? All Jamie has to do is offer his help, and the kids wouldn’t dare bother him, so they take care of their needs on their own? Why haven’t I been taking more midday naps? Straight garbage.
Later that evening, while I was making dinner and the kids were playing outside, Jamie asked how I was feeling. I told him I felt really tired and worn down. He seemed bewildered as to why I would be feeling that way. Thank goodness I was wearing a mask because I was probably mouthing, “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” He then said, “Man I really miss the kids. I feel like I never see them.” I thought to myself, “Dude, go with that feeling. You don’t see them.” I began to get quiet angry, which is very unpleasant to be around, even I don’t like to be around me. Still, the poor guy was trying to have a conversation with me. He continued, “Don’t you miss them?” I answered, “No, I don’t fucking miss them. I’m always around them. I’m the one in their rooms fixing their computers or checking to make sure their doing school and not jumping on their beds, I’m the one checking their homework, I’m doing their religious ed, I’m helping with their piano homework, I’m throwing the football around with them, I’m serving all their meals and cleaning up after them. So no, I don’t fucking miss them!” He responded, “So wait, you’ve been near them? Aren’t you nervous to be around them?” I said, “Well someone has to fucking take care of them. They’re kids, they don’t take care of themselves.” I think he really thought we were both keeping away from the kids and they were somehow being completely self-sufficient. Un-fucking-believable. Did he just meet these kids? And has he met their parents? Because there’s no way our kids could be self-sufficient with anything based on our parenting skills. I finished with, “If you miss the kids, slap on a mask and play with them outside.” I ended the conversation with a frustrated sigh and some good old cold shoulder. I think he quickly picked up on the vibe and played with the kids outside. Oh Gilead, any openings for a new Handmaid? Get me the fuck out of here!
Once Friday rolled around and I got my third set of negative test results, I was feeling better. I had cooled off and was ready to continue. I could feel the kids’ viral loads lowering by the minute. Evan’s cough was getting better, and he said he could smell now, though I don’t really believe him. Reese continued to be asymptomatic and had now accepted that she had Covid. I continued to chase them around the house with a thermometer because you never know if they’ll have that sudden fever spike. The kids rolled with the virtual learning, and probably knowing that they only had 2 more days of it gave them something to look forward to. Jamie asked if it was safe to kiss me, now that we both had negative covid tests. I was like, “We haven’t been kissing all week? Hmmm, didn’t even notice.” Oops, I guess I had been pretty preoccupied. He went out that night for a volleyball game and drinks afterwards, so it was just the kids and me. I had drinks with a friend in my garage, and every time one of the kids peeked out, I would turn around and give them a look that said, “Get your Covid ass back in the house!” I let them eat popcorn, skittles, and M&M’s all mixed in a giant bowl and watch endless amounts of Ricky, Nicky, Dicky and Dawn on Netflix, just so I could sip some vodka in peace with my friend. Yep, we all adjusted quite nicely.
Early on Saturday morning, Evan knocked frantically on our door, crying that his legs hurt so badly. I got up in a panic, fumbled around in the dark looking for my mask, and rushed to his room. He was rolling around in the bed crying that his legs hurt. In my mind, I was like, shit does he have that inflammation thing that the kids could get with Covid? That’s where an anxious mind immediately goes, to the worst case scenario. I looked at his legs and had him pinpoint where it hurt. I decided it was probably just growing pains, so I stretched and massaged his legs, and told him to go back to sleep. These days I was thankful for false alarms.
The rainy weekend at Covid Campus went along fine and without incident. The kids’ energy levels and appetites seemed to be getting closer to normal, and they seemed less and less sick. Puzzles were done and redone, crafts were made, books were read, and the kids were getting antsy. By this time, screen time was a must. I still made them do mini workouts in order to earn every episode (seriously, how many episodes of this show are there?). But they were not being assholes, they were still saying their please’s and thank you’s and really meaning it. Kids always adjust way better than us idiot adults. Strange that we’re the ones in charge sometimes.
On the final day of quarantine, it was a wet and dreary day, and the weather outside made me feel like more dreadful things might be around the corner. But as soon as their virtual classes ended, the rain stopped and the sun came out, like a happy ending to a horror film (please no sequels). I felt so relieved. I made the kids pack their backpacks like tomorrow was the first day of school all over again. I couldn’t contain my excitement. Evan said he was sad to go back to in-person school because he was going to miss me so much. My heart said, “Awww, my sweet boy,” but my beat up soul said, “Bye, Felicia!”
Day 11 arrived, alarms went off for school, the angels sang, and I silently prayed, “Please God, let this be for real.” I counted the days in my head from the time they tested positive just to make sure we finished the 10 days. Evan came into our room just like he used to pre-covid to ask us what the weather was for the day and if he should wear pants or shorts, except this time without his mask. I was happy to see his full handsome face. Then Reese came in, and there was her uncovered smile. My heart was happy, but my morning mouth said, “Hurry up and get ready, or we’ll be late for school.” It felt so good to say that. A sign downstairs awaited them that said, “Welcome back to the dinner table!” I hugged and kissed my babies, I Filipino sniff-kissed them, and I held on a little longer. We finally let go and they happily got right back into the routine, and I was pleased to see them adjust from one lifestyle to another like nothing happened.
Jamie was a new person too, walking around mask-free and with the weight of the world off his shoulders. I still felt the knots in my stomach, waiting for the other shoe to drop, and I used that nervous energy to disinfect the house while the kids were in school. I even called the pediatrician to ask if the kids had any activity restrictions or if there are symptoms I should watch for, and I was told they were good to resume all activities full force. And just like that, our busy schedule was back on track, and thankfully, no other shoe dropped.
Through all of this Covid craziness, we were fortunate to have just a mildly symptomatic boy and an asymptomatic girl, an overstimulated dog, a rabid skunk visitor, and two anxious parents at the brink of a breakdown. There are far worse Covid stories out there, so many tragic cases. This was not one of them. Ours is a story of how things go sideways when 2 anxious people are put in charge of a quarantine situation. People say don’t panic, we panicked. People say it’s not your fault, we felt guilty. People say 10 days of quarantine will go by fast, but 10 days took 5 years to pass. People say workout to give you some “you time,” I go eat cinnamon rolls, donuts, and M&Ms by the handful and called it therapy. In fact, one day I had opened a jar of queso I found in the fridge, and I nearly cried when I saw mold growing on it. I even considered eating around the mold. That’s pretty telling of where my headspace was at. All that advice was well-intentioned, and we ignored it. But people also offered to help in any way they can and provided a lot of emotional support. Friends and family checked on us daily to make sure we were all surviving. People were genuinely concerned for the kids’ health and our sanity. That made me feel good, knowing that if Jamie and I ended up in a mental institution after all this, there would be people out there to help the kids.
I’m not alone on this when I say Covid, mild or severe, is no fucking joke. It’s more than a bad cold or the future flu. It didn’t matter that we came out of it rather unscathed physically. It’s a mind fuck. It’s a wizard that blasts terrifying what-ifs in your brain that you can’t escape (like fucking dick rabies), no matter how hard you try. It’s a bully that dares you to put your guard down. It’s invisible herpes. You know if you saw herpes on someone’s face or genitals, you’d be staying the fuck away from them. I’m not sure why people don’t want to protect themselves from Covid in the same way. It Loki’d our lives and created so much chaos, my head is still spinning from it all. And now it’s gone from our home. For now.
Life goes on and it is masked and distanced business as usual, and soon this too will be a distant memory. But this shit was traumatizing, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I felt a slight PTSD panic the next time I hear the kids cough or sneeze, or maybe even smell a skunk. So before the next bad thing strikes, I’m gifting myself 30 days of “nobody has time for your bullshit” relaxation, that’s 10 days for each human I took care of during this quarantine. The house is now sanitized, and we welcome family, friends, and domesticated animals that are up to date on their rabies vaccines. Feel free to bring booze. And queso.
So I did a thing. After a lot of anxiety-filled back and forth conversations and considerations, I decided to go back to work. It was not even on my radar to go back anytime soon, as I wanted to be there for the kids in case they had to be quarantined for a few days from school at literally any given time. But then a friend messaged me out of the blue and told me a position was opened at the hospital I used to work at before I got sick. It was just a weekend/as needed position, so I would still be able to pick the kids up from school and take them to their activities. It seemed to be a perfect fit for our family’s schedule, so I was interested. And then the Covid delta variant went nuts around here, beginning to flood hospitals again, and I got scared. I asked my oncologist (three times) if she felt like it was safe to return to work, and she said though I was slightly above the general population’s at risk level, I should be okay as long as I wore the proper PPE. She told me as soon as a booster is ready, get it right away. Her thumbs up calmed me down.
Still, I felt apprehensive, and I couldn’t figure out why. Was it just because of the Covid risk, or was it because I was nervous to get myself out there again? I’ve been out of the game for a while, 3 years to be exact. After chemo, I gave myself some time to get stronger and get all of our lives back on track. I then attempted to go back to work, thinking this was my big chance to get back into it, and then Covid happened and shut my chances down. Between my oncologist and my family, there was no way I was going to work during an active pandemic, at least not until I was vaccinated. My big return lasted a measly month. It was very deflating, but I understood that it just wasn’t my time.
When I told one of my friends that an opportunity came up to return to work again, her response was exactly what I needed to hear. She said that this was a big step in my recovery, something f’ing cancer took away from me for way too long. And she was right. I have focused on just about everything else to mend that was affected when I got sick, mostly with kids, home life, and my physical health, and this was the last part. So even if I was rusty, it would be good for me to do this.
But holy shit, what a change this would be. I would have to wash and fix my hair, wear non-sweats (I mean, scrubs aren’t that far off, so I’d be okay), talk to adults, use a computer, use my brain. If I will be wearing a mask all day, does this mean I have to make my upper face look nice? Do I have to decorate my face hairs, like draw in some eyebrows (because I naturally have none) or put on mascara? I think the mascara I have is going on 5 years old…sounds like a well-paved path towards pink eye. And then there’s mom guilt. I’ve watched nearly all of their weekend games, and I might miss one here or there. I’m the parent that records every time my kids touch the ball, so it will be so strange not to be there. But other than missing their games, I’m so all about missing everything else…the whining, the fighting, the mess, the constant asking to be fed and entertained. Yeah, I fixed that mom guilt pretty quickly right there. I’m ready.
For my first day back, I stopped into work briefly to get my computer set up for virtual training. I was beyond thrilled to see my friends again. I’ve never started a new job and got such a warm greeting. When I spent my first month in the hospital getting chemo, my co-workers had sent me a giant poster-sized picture of them sitting in the therapy gym, and I kept it above my hospital bed. So they saw me at my worst, so to speak. Coming back to a place where I feel known and welcomed definitely makes the transition easier.
You know what doesn’t make the transition easier…getting trained on the new documentation system via zoom. I didn’t think it would be that difficult, since I’ve used an earlier version of this system at a different hospital 10 years ago. I remembered back then having to sit through a training to learn this system, and I picked it up pretty quickly, so I figured things would seem at least a bit familiar. I also remembered how my colleagues who were ten or more years older than me struggled with it, and it took them much longer to adjust. I chuckled to myself right before this training started, thinking, huh, wouldn’t it be funny if I was now one of those older therapists that struggle with it? Well shit, I sure am that old therapist! What a giant fucking shit show this training was. From the start I had issues with my network and my computer. I had the zoom class going in the background while IT was on the phone with me trying to get my computer to cooperate. I muted my zoom and the IT person and started yelling at Jamie to get his ass upstairs to fix the damn computer. It was a mess, and I was literally just 45 minutes into the session. I was so wrapped up in all the technical difficulties that I couldn’t even comprehend the actual contents of the training. I couldn’t believe it, I was officially one of the old therapists that struggle with technological advances. You know, had I spent more time in college actually learning how to use a computer rather than using the computer mainly to play Spider Solitaire, maybe I wouldn’t be in this position.
When the kids got home from school, I was at probably the most important part of the training and only had less than an hour left. So of course that cued the kids to be super loud, run around the house, be very foot stompy to let me know they were home without “asking” me anything. Reese couldn’t take it though and started coming by me to peek at the screen and listen in on the training. She then proceeded to write me notes to ask if she could play outside and have a certain snack, which I almost gave to her until I turned my camera off to check the ingredients, only to see it had tree nuts in it. Yeah, add a little anaphylaxis to my day, that would be great. The kids don’t bother Jamie with interruptions and notes asking to do shit when he’s on a call, but the one time I have to do something virtually for work and they pull this shit? What BS.
By the end of the training, I had sweat stains through my shirt, my eyes were glossed over, I was swimming in paper printouts that totally go against the Newton Paperless Intervention (Jamie’s home pet project), my head was spinning, and I was actually dumber than when I started. The class went a half hour longer than I expected, so Jamie ended up having to take Evan to his swim lesson instead of me, which I immediately felt terrible about for no reason other than I’m a mom. I went downstairs to find snack wrappers and plates and cups everywhere, math homework sheets and school folders scattered on the kitchen table as if their backpacks threw up, a bunch of kids playing in my yard and a pissed off dog that was neglected all day (who later took her anger out on us by eating the kids’ masks). The employment gods were punishing me for being gone too long. And the Spider Solitaire gods were having a good laugh.
Evan saw me all frazzled and struggling to stand up straight, so naturally he asked, “So Mom, what’s for dinner?” My eyes widened and I yelled, “ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?” He did an about-face and ran out the door. I was so angry and shaken up about how the day went, and I needed to do anything to get my mind off of it. I began to check the kids’ math homework, only to find my brain had broken during the training. I could not do my second grader’s word problem, I kept questioning myself, wait is he right or am I right? Again, had I spent a little less time in college playing Spider Solitaire, maybe I could do second grade math a little more confidently.
I stopped checking homework since it clearly was too hard for me. I started to clean up the kitchen and do dishes, and found myself thinking of ways to punish Jamie and the kids, as if that would make me feel better. I stopped the dishes and the evil plotting against my family, went to my bedroom, and just began sobbing on the floor. I kept thinking, “What the fuck did I just get myself into? And when the fuck did I become an old therapist that doesn’t know how to use a computer? And why am I crying instead of playing Spider Solitaire?” None of it made sense.
That night, a friend had asked me how the first couple of days of work went, and he asked if it was like riding a bike. I said, “Weeeeeeeelllll, it was more like riding a horse…on fire,” and I left it at that before I started crying again. But just to clarify, that horse had rabies and diarrhea…and both the horse and I were on fire…and we’re riding on a very dry and windy day…in hell. So it’s been great. But I wasn’t being fair to myself. I hadn’t even walked through my department or had contact with a patient yet. I hadn’t had a first real day of work yet. This feeling was all because I got into a bad fight one day with a computer and lost (I’ll get you next time). And really, the only time I feel like I’ve ever lost to a computer is when I lose in Spider Solitaire, so I’m truly my own worst enemy.
I reached out to a couple of friends, who reassured me that I would be fine at work, that a lot of people struggled initially with the documentation but eventually got the hang of it, and that plenty of people would be there to help me. After a good night’s sleep, a bunch of pep talks from Jamie and friends, and Reese and Evan telling me I did a good job on going back to work, I felt better. Sure, I’m still intimidated by all the changes that are around the corner, but I think I’ll be okay. In fact, I’ll be better than okay because I’m good at what I do (cue “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and gosh darn it, people like me”). I’m not an old therapist, I’m a seasoned therapist. And everything’s better when it’s seasoned…like steaks…and therapists…and steaks (that’s all I got). I’m no stranger to hard work and the temporary discomfort that goes along with life transitions. So I guess there’s a fiery horse I needed to get back on and see my way through this.
The following Monday, I was scheduled to come in for my department orientation, maybe see a few patients, and get reacquainted with the lay of the land. I was up and ready to leave by the time the kids were just getting ready for school. Reese saw me in my scrubs and was nearly in tears. She said, “No, Mommy, why are you leaving? I don’t want you to go.” I told her I was scheduled for work. Evan heard the commotion and came over and hugged me and said he didn’t want me to go either. I said, “Guys, you’re not even going to be home while I’m gone, you’ll be in school. I will still pick you up from school. You won’t even remember that I was ever gone.” I did quick goodbyes and left before I had two children hanging on my ankles.
I was feeling anxious during the drive, so I turned on my murder podcast to calm my nerves. I left my car thinking, no matter how work goes today, it can’t be any worse than murder. When I walked into the department, it didn’t feel intimidating at all; it felt warm and welcoming and I was happy to be there. I got some training that actually made sense to me, with no IT hiccups and no children-based interruptions. I was able to treat a patient, and it felt really good to get back into it. I heard one of my co-workers say that it was so nice to hear my voice in the gym again. I was thrilled to find that my brain was still intact after all, and when I found myself fumbling, there were friends to quickly help.
This was definitely better than murder. In fact, it was as if I escaped from the corner of hell that the burning horse brought me to last week, crawled my way back to the light, and found a double fucking rainbow. Okay, maybe not that great, but it was certainly a breath of fresh air and a single rainbow kind of day. I walked back to the car with Lizzo in my head, and I was feeling good as hell. I felt hopeful and reassured that I could get back on my feet and move in a direction that was positive. This experience was a good reminder for me that one bad day cannot be used to define the rest of the path. I’m sure there will still be some set backs while I am getting the hang of things, but in a few months, I’ll be better trained and things will be second nature again. Until then, I have Spider Solitaire on my phone as a coping mechanism, and a calculator for those harder math homework days.
Recess, I’m told, is like a battlefield these days. When I pick the kids up from school, they have tons of stories about drama with soccer, kickball, or gaga ball. They’ve got it all, with trash talking, rivalries, cheating, injuries and strong competition. My kids can’t give me any details about what they learned in math or language arts that day, but will give me a play-by-play of the recess action, typically much more than I ever want to know. Because the retelling of recess is often longer than the recess itself, I tend to only half listen and eventually stop listening all together. Come on, I don’t really have to know how bouncy the kickball pitch was.
Last week, Reese was beginning her long recess soliloquy, which signaled me to pick up my phone or start folding laundry because I knew I’d be there a while. I heard her say, “Mommy, I was crying at recess,” to which I half-assedly responded, “Oh yeah, uh huh, go on,” expecting the next words to be something about how someone stole the ball from her or something silly. She said, “Someone said something mean,”…an unconcerned “mmm hmmm” automatically spilled out of my mouth. Then she said, “They said something mean about YOU.” I stopped what I was doing and calmly asked, “What do you mean?” even though my face said, “Bitch, say whaaaaaat?!?” Reese continued, “Well, we were playing kickball and I was playing first base. In the kicking line I heard a boy say, ‘You know how Reese’s mom had cancer? I wish she died.'” She then said she started crying and walked away. Wow, just wow. My heart sunk.
Even I was speechless for a moment, and that rarely happens. For a quick second, we just stared at each other silently, she studying my face for the right reaction, and I convincing myself to not punch a hole in the wall. I was so angry, furious that some punk ass kid would say something so hurtful to or about her, and heartbroken that she was this sad. I felt like I had to be really careful with my response, and I wanted to comfort her and make it be about how she was feeling. I gave her a hug and said, “But why were you crying, babe? I’m here right now and I’m completely healthy. If cancer couldn’t kill me, and chemo couldn’t kill me, you really think an ignorant kid’s comments could even remotely hurt me? No way. So don’t let it hurt you.” And while I tried to make the focus on her and making her feel better, I was taking names. I nonchalantly asked if she remembered who was in the kicking line or around the area where she heard the comment. She has a very good memory (can’t remember to put her dirty clothes in the hamper, but she could recall minutia like nobody’s business…much like her dad), and gave me the names of the kids. I asked if she was okay, and she said yes, just a little sad. I told her to shake it off and go play for a bit, and that we’d talk about it later.
I wish I could take my own advice and shake it off myself, but I was really upset. I began texting a few parents to ask if their kids heard any of this at recess and had any idea which kid might have said it. Then I thought to myself, what am I going to do if I find out who the kid is? I’m pretty sure stepping up to a 10 year old is frowned upon (and most of her classmates are taller than me anyway). I didn’t want to make this a school issue, and I was even on the fence about talking to the kid’s parents if I ever found out who it was. Should I just make a voodoo doll of the kid and just start poking it until I felt better? Nah, that sounds like borderline crafting, and I don’t do crafts. I think I just needed to vent to get my emotions out. You wouldn’t think a 10 year old’s dumb ass words could shake an adult, yet it took a good few hours before my blood pressure lowered. That little fucker got both of us.
At dinner, I brought it up again to get more details, not so much to plot our revenge, but just to see where her head was at and to try to make something positive out of it. She told me a few of her friends tried to make her feel better. Some even started approaching individual classmates, trying to get them to ‘fess up. One even suggested having a mock court session to get to the bottom of it. Reese eventually told her teacher, who then addressed the entire class. That signaled me to squash it; as long as it was addressed and an adult knew about it, I felt more at ease. I told Reese that it was really great that she had good friends that would come to her defense and try to make her feel better. I also said that the parents that I spoke with also told me that their kids were really bothered by the comment and thought it was a pretty low blow. That means that the majority of the kids in her class are probably not total ass wipes, they are actually nice kids. And who knows, the kid who said that might have been having a bad day or was really just trying to get attention and took it too far. I’m hopeful he learned his lesson.
It was a good opportunity to encourage Reese and Evan to stand up for their family and friends. I told her that it was okay to cry and to feel whatever you are feeling. But then take a deep breath to collect yourself, and confront them and tell them to stop talking about your mother or brother or whoever you care about. I said, “Look, kids are going to talk trash, just accept it. But be ready to respond when they have crossed the line. If a kid says something like, ‘Your mom smells weird, or wears terrible outfits, or has put on some weight,’ you don’t always have to react or respond because honestly, most of those comments are not completely false. But when they talk death or murder or racism, yeah, you should speak up. Just follow your gut, speak your mind, and then tell an adult.” Evan ended the conversation with, “Just raise your arms up and shout, ‘Don’t talk about my mama!'” Leave it to that boy to either lighten the mood or kill the buzz.
It looks like gone are the days of the classic “Yo’ Mama” jokes that I grew up with. “Yo’ mama’s so fat…,” “Yo’ mama’s so dumb…,” “Yo’ mama’s so ugly…,” while still completely inappropriate and insensitive, none of those jokes are going to phase me. In fact, the one that goes, “Yo’ mama’s so bald, I could see her thoughts,” still makes me chuckle. But the “I wish your mom died a tragic death from an incurable disease, leaving you and your brother motherless and your dad a widow” is a variation I don’t think I could ever get used to. That’s just going straight for the jugular. I have pretty thick skin when it comes to shit-talking; I think that is kind of a pre-requisite when I myself am a shit-talker. But this was different. It felt cruel, even if the kid didn’t have that intention.
I am saddened to see that this is a trigger for both Reese and myself. When I was sick, she was just 7 years old; that’s Evan’s age now, a second grader. They didn’t really know what was going on, just that I was in the hospital a lot and was really tired all the time. It seems as they get older, they are reshaping their memory of this traumatic time period, and becoming more and more sensitive to topics involving cancer or losing a parent. The same goes for me, I have become increasingly more emotional when commercial or movie plot lines involve a spouse or parent death. It hits too close to home. It’s the baggage we carry now.
The big take away is this: kids can be assholes, some grow out of it and some don’t. Sometimes you speak up, and when you can’t, your friends will speak up for you. My kids are going to have to learn it for themselves, just like we did. And for the Newtons, cancer is just going to be part of our story, and we’re going to have to continue to figure out ways to navigate through the aftermath. I’m just thankful that Reese has her dad’s non-reactive demeanor, because she is physically strong as hell for her size and if her temper was anything like mine, she would have punched that boy in the throat. Actually it would look more like round-off, flip-flop, superman punch in the throat, and stick the landing. And instead of giggling about old “Yo’ Mama” jokes, I’d be spending a lot of time in the principal’s office picking her ass up.
The Mundame 