Rash Out: A Case of Jobitis

First a few speckles—like the red sprinkles my daughter loves to put on her cupcake. Then the speckles multiply, mutating, traveling in a pack up the arm. I looked at it and thought—umm—a small price to pay for lugging the prickly Christmas tree into the house. No big deal—I have that every year and I survived!

And as if the traveling packs of red dots were not just content to territorialize one arm, they magically made their grand entrance on the arm. Alert!—my mind warned. Still, I dismissed it—oh, it will go away in a day or two. Soon my abdomen was spotting them too—like a bad fashion statement gone wrong. An entire belt of red bumps across and then, it came—without mercy, the itch.

The incredible itch that sent my mind scrambling for some explanations. Can’t be the tree—it never was that nasty. What about food? Did I eat anything that trigger it off? Then the answer, which should have been clear but I was too dense to believe that medication can actually hurt you. Right, the antibiotics the doctor prescribed just 3 days ago. Amoxicillin—-penicillin meant to kill bacteria but had gone awry. My body detests the invasion, so it launches a massive counter-move, meant to protect me but really, I wish my body would have some discernment as this point. Apparently not.

So begin the saga of the itch that stole my joy and my sanity. By the time I realized that I was allergic to amoxicillin, all the doctors have gone home. I can consider the emergency room, but I know what ordeal would ensue—countless hours of waiting. Alright, I will brave the night. I can do it, right?

I took Benadryl and hoped for the best. The itch, however, was set for some drama. It intensified, so much that I felt like Job, sitting in the middle of my bed, everyone in Lala land, but me—poor me—scraping at my rash. My fingers couldn’t move fast enough, my scraping could satisfy the itch enough—-soon, I was pinching the itch, digging my nails into them just for an ounce of relief. But the more I scratched, the more I itched and there seemed no pleasing this itch monster. I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry but nothing came out of my mouth—all I hear is the scraping and the moans that escaped in the still darkness.

How I survived the night and the next two nights before the Prednisone work, I have no idea. My misery found kinship with Job’s suffering and I thought I had a vicarious peek into the time when Job’s body was covered with sores. I know it’s not a fair comparison—he definitely had it worse, since he also had to contend with cantankerous friends. Thank God, the affinity stopped there. I don’t want to go there because I had enough. I never want another itch like this and I’m sure Job would be nodding his head in Heaven and saying, "Ahh....the good old days, when suffering refines..." Or not!

Spy Work Part 2--Ping Pong to the Rescue

If you've read my blog on "I'm a secret agent," you'll know that spying is part of my job description, something I'm required to acquire, if I were to come out of this adolescent maze. For a while, I just have to sacrifice some private time to carry out my work. I learned how to camouflage behind kitchen sinks, behind wheels or just sitting there, blending in--watching television or reading a book while my radar is up. Things seem pretty routine and then one day, my spy work came to a halt, so gradual, I didn't hear the screeching brakes.

I didn't see it coming--guess I was getting too complacent to notice the kids were coming less and less and going to other homes or just chilling in movie theaters. Friday evenings without a bunch of rambunctious kids--I could get used to this. I have some quiet, a cleaner house and a sound measure of sanity and that's when it got to me--Do I know where my kid is, even though I GPS his whereabouts via cell phone? Is he roaming the mall with a bunch of friends, open to bad elements and drug-pushers waiting to sponge on impressionable "dare to try" teenagers. My mind came to a screeching halt this time. It's time to take my job back.

I corned my son. I've an agenda but I've to act cool:

"Aaron, why aren't your friends coming over anymore?"

My son looked up from his spaghetti, strands dangling from his mouth.

"Our house is so boring--there's nothing to do here."

"What do you mean? How's our house boring?"

"You know, we don't have guitar hero, no X-box, no nothing...we can't just watch television and bang on instruments"

It's true, so I kept quiet and mauled over it for a second. Then sheepishly,

"OK, what should we do?"

"I think we should get a ping-pong table--I think my friends would like that."

Wow--I was the one cornered! Slowly, I stammered an excuse:

"Ping-pong table....? Where... are... we going to put it?" I didn't want to mention, it's expensive on top of the bulk. Also, judging by the way things go, it may eventually join the slush pile once interest wears out. And then, what am I going to do with a clunky "elephant" in the house?

"How about the garage?"

"Well..Dad has his antique car and you know what that means to him, plus who wants to play in a stuffy garage."

"What about the living room?" A ping-pong table in the living room? Family room, outside in the backyard, smack in the long passageway? All absurd, if you ask me but try telling that to a teenager.

Long story short--we bought the ping-pong table. I may be a spy but I'm quite a pushover, especially when spywork is concerned.

Wedged between sofas squashed against walls, is the green thingy, a whole 9 feet long, 5 feet wide. A total eyesore in the middle of the family room, but a spy got to do what a spy got to do.

I lost my family room but gain a room full of boys, whacking orange balls and laughing and talking and having a great time.

The boys are back and my game is on. Insane, right?

I'm a Secret Agent

I know my Friday after school routine well--the bunch of boys would troop in and the house would be transformed into a menagerie of laughter, friendly banter, the sounds of computer games and loud banging of musical instruments. A couple of them would be banging on the drum sets, a couple pounding keys on the piano and a chorus of almost "grown-up" voices squeaking out a tune. It was loud and crazy and only a crazy mom would smile and say TGIF. So not! But I've learned from experienced moms that this is the best way to watch over fledging teens, from under your very own roof, where you know exactly what they are up to. And in the process of providing a hang-out place--at your own expense, of course--you give up privacy, peace and sanity--you've essentially provided yourself with an opportunity for some spy work.


This undercover surveillance act allows me to gather a whole lot of facts that my new teen might otherwise be leery to tell me. Food always does the trick. Just make sure all portions are mega-sized and always include barrels of liquids (they prefer anything with sugar)--they can huff everything down in a puff. While they are eating, I'll be slowly washing the dishes and since I blend well behind the kitchen sink, I'm allowed into their conversation without being part of it.

Adolescent boys love food and yes, girls--well, I already knew but their conversation confirms it. They talk about school girls and who is going out with who. They talk about their teachers--the good, bad and lazy ones. They tease each other about pet peeves and more--the kind of music they like, what makes them tick and what ticks them off. They laugh, they talk and they're not quite aware that there's a secret agent out there gathering the facts,not to use against them, but to aid me in this difficult process of getting to the heart of a teen.

So what have I learned from my fly-on-the-wall vantage point? Plenty:

* I learn that my son is a class clown--he makes people laugh and of course, no serious teacher likes that. I don't either, after all, I didn't send him to school to entertain kids. Put that down on my agenda--jesters are only found on HBO--not classrooms.

* He is the wing man -- he puts wings on cupid-struck boys--they come to him to be the go-between. I smile--wing man?

* He thinks his Science teacher is stupid, the rest of the boys do too; so I know his complaints about this lame teacher is at least valid.

* One of his good friends just wrote a song for a girl and they are sprouting ideas of when, how and where he should sing it. My boy is still unattached (as far as my spy works tells me) and I'm happy to know I don't have to worry about dating just yet...

That and many little nuances of interaction between him and his friends can only be gathered when they are in their own elements. These observations fill in the gaps between what he actually tells me and what he is in the presence of his friends and of course, the things that talk about gives me a lot of grounds to cover. Not that I crave them, I would rather be blissfully ignorant and happy and but this crucial stage of his development requires some vigilant monitoring. I wish, though...

I'm happy to report that I've yet to be busted and in the meantime, my facts gathering has provided me with little pieces of the adolescent puzzle, so I can better put them together.

P.S: I've also hidden behind wheels, with my natural antennae up and eyes behind my head (all mothers have that capacity) and done some serious undercover work when he and his friends are trapped in the confines of the car, at my mercy to take them places.... One day, when he's grown and has kids of his own, I'll teach him these tricks, if he hasn't already found out.

Graduation....and Looking Back

Shakespeare liken time to a winged chariot and ancient prophets called it a mist, a vapor, a flower, a weed--a transient passing through Earth. I couln't agree more.

When Shaina was born, strangers stopped to admire and invariably, they have one comment:

How cute! Enjoy, they grow up so fast.

I looked at my little bundle, snugged and content in her carrier, oblivious to the world at large and down at my sorry ensemble of elastic pants and stained T-shirt and thought:

Easy for you to say. I haven't had a good night sleep in days and I look like crap.

The bundle of "total dependence on me" became a liability I cannot sever. Sleepless nights, leaky body parts (both hers and mine), heaps of throw-up cloths, countless diaper changes( some can induce gagging) and endless feeding times took its toil and I'm sure the much extolled joy of motherhood is a myth. Time languished in the rounds of chores and raging "blue" hormones and there are times when I couldn't wait for Steve to come home, so I can shove the responsibility at him and whined, "Here, take a beating!" and ran out of the door to reclaim my sanity.

Time crawled when you are watching for milestones--first sit-up, first teeth and the ubiquitous teething ring from the refrigerator and at times, your arm if occasions allowed (remember teeth marks?), first crawl and finally the much awaited first steps. As you celebrated each milestone with whopping jumps of joy and maybe a victory dance around the living room, you realized that maybe motherhood may be all it's cracked up to be. The grueling routine was slowly replaced and rewarded with happy coo-ing, laughter that sounded more like hiccups and warm droolly fingers wrapping themselves around yours. Your heart melts and life takes on a rainbow hue as time skipped along...


You turned the corner and first grade came. As you took her first day of school picture, the toothless grin in a brand new dress, completed with her "Hello Kitty" roller backpack and an eagerness to take on the world, you can't help but feel a tinge of sadness. She would leave the world of play dough and enter the world of homework, assignments, datelines and the sometimes treacherous web of friendships. You worry about the weight of responsibility on her small shoulders and realized that you can't shield her forever. And you thought that it would take forever to get here.

Ancient wisdom hits home and you resolve to savor each moment and capture them with the elusive net of time. You're determined to chronicle each event, activity and achievement in the scrapbook of life. Sleepovers, birthday parties, field trips, family outings and activities--in different settings and circumstances--you've rolls of tape and films, boxes of pictures stashed somewhere for posterity. You've felt the stirring of time and the undercurrents gaining momentum and you're not about to let it slip.

But it did, in the whirlwind of everyday activities and chores, time has come and gone and now another milestone--your baby is graduating. As inches creep on that once diminutive frame, you recalled with nostalgia the lyrics of the song,"...Every day's changing, I'm rearranging.." Your child is rearranging, not just physically but emotionally--the growing independence, the slight drawing away and the maturing of thoughts.

As graduation draws near, and your child enters another phrase, experienced moms may warn you of challenges ahead. There will be roadblocks and potholes (and the occasional coasting - thank God!) but hey, experience has taught us to hang in there and enjoy the ride as this too would pass in a blink.

My Impressive Resume

My good friend from Singapore emailed me, after a long silence, and asked me what I've been up to. So, I told her I've really busy with different jobs, mostly menial, with very little mental input. Totally wasting away. They have taken up most of my waking hours and sometimes, I have to clock in overtime.

Curious, she asked, "Really?"

Really, no kidding. Hear me out--my list of jobs include:

Kitchenmaid: Responsible for all house cleaning, including windows and toilets. Mopping floors, picking up crumbs and always, the dishes. My co-worker, aka, my dishwasher husband who claims he would do the dishes if he saw them, always does the disappearing act.

Driver: Deliver charges at any time of the day, at the beck and call of ungrateful miniative people, who are lousy passengers and they don't even tip. OK, sometimes, they mumble a faint thank you and that's because they kept you waiting....or they spill juice, again! Incentive: I sometimes get to work in my PJs. And when they decide to go to Starbucks, I get a free cuppa...in their name.

Counselor: Have seen the worst of temper tantrums, squabbles and mouth-calling. Mediate at my own risk. With teens roaming the house, my job has many hidden hazards: unexplainable sulking, mood swings, loud music, surliness and the ultimate "silent" treatment. On really bad days, I think I need counseling myself. Help--tears fall in the night when I think I blew it again.

Banker: From dishing out 5 bucks for a pizza party at school to a field trip to New York for $500, they think that money grows...somehow and we're recipient of unlimited cash flow. If they only knew...it takes a mathematician to balance all the debit at the end of the month.

Doormat: They are nice when they need you and when they don't, it's "don't bug me." Sometimes, it's best to play dead.

Suffice to say that it's just part of my complicated job description. If you're a mom, you know the whole nine. My impressive resume has earned me many accolades. Among them: social castaway, queen of nag, fashion misfit, and The Lame Mom title. The last one really sinks.

So, yes, I'm terribly busy and if you don't find me twittering away or updating stuff on facebook, you know exactly where to find me. I could be holed in and working my b. off in the name of motherhood. People like say, "Wow, you're so lucky, you get to be a stay-home mom." If they only knew--that one job title came with many little clauses that we didn't know when we accepted the job.

And now, it's too late 'cause the ink is on the paper....

A Mountain, Thai Food, and a Prayer

My good friend, Sharon Chan, sent me a link to a news clip on CNNBC, where Angeline Oppenheimer is voted Mother of the year. Wow, that's my name. She is an extraordinary champion of human rights, contributing 52 hours a day (is that even possible?) to the less fortunate and she fights toxic built-up. All these in addition to the high calling of motherhood. Wow--that's me--voted mother of the year. But wait, when was I congratulated by President Obama himself as the clip shows?

Of course, that's not me--my dear friend fabricated the video with the help of MomRising.com to make me happy on Mother's Day. I can't imagine I could possibly be that composite wonder mom. My motherhood is rooted in the call of the mundane--washing dishes, doing sock inventory, homework checker(sometimes, spell-checker too), offering free rides here, there and everywhere and the home-designated nagger. Actually, I would like to drop the last job description--if only my kids were like the Jones'. But you get what you get, and you don't get upset. Wait--that's like a childish saying I used to say to my whiny kids.

I take my self-inflicted (when I became a mom) duties in my strike and try not to whine too much. But comes Mother's day, I feel I needed a little indulgence--after all, it's one day in the year, when you can actually look your kids in the eyes and say, "Do I have to? It's Mother's day, after all."

So when they (that means my husband and 2 kids) asked what I want to do for the day. I did not hesitate. I want to climb a mountain, eat Thai food and pray...

Since my kids reach the treacherous age of adolescence, they have posted an invisible sign on their foreheads, only visible to parents, "Leave me alone." We no longer take walks together, no more tagging along to the stores, no more together trips to the library or any place where they will be seen with parents. We have become toxic--go figure!

So, on Mother's day, I've to conjure up some quality time. We'll hike up the little mountain, where our future house will be. Yes, we brought a piece of land but have yet to built due to many mountains of obstacles and we will pray for a favorable outcome. Joined prayers can be powerful.

From a distance, 4 persons could be seen hiking up that little mountain as the cool breeze cooled off the heat of the late afternoon sun. This scene was once the makeup of most days, when the whole family went on little trails. It felt good to be together, listening to the scrunch of pebbles under our feet and the sweet little talks we made. Ahh... for more days like these.

We ended the day with spicy Thai food, my absolute favorite. As we savored the dishes, forks and spoons clanking away, life seemed to gather its old pace but I know I already had my moments. A little moment of togetherness, a moment of enjoying each other, a moment to archive in an ordinary mother's life.

I Sponsored a Child

I always have grandiose dreams. No, not just slaying monsters in the dark, but legit. dreams like running an orphanage. Reading George Mueller's account of running an orphanage powered by faith can be exciting when you're pint-sized. Miracles are magical. Or becoming a missionary in the deep, dangerous jungle of Indonesia, for instance. They all promise challenge and excitement and above all--I'm saving the world.

My dreams gave way to calls of running an everyday life. Schoolwork, chores, worrying about acne and boys (adolescence can be downright nitty-gritty) and then very quickly--work with all its deadlines and schedules--become the fabric of a humdrum life. Day in, day out--clock in, clock out. The magic slips away and I don't even notice. My grandeur dreams seem a tiny flicker in the world of "do this, and now, you need to do that."

Sure, commercials about rag-clad kids sitting in mud huts appear on the silver screen. They all want financial support. I feel a flicker of compassion but still, it's too commercial for my liking. I never did lift up a phone. The problem seems to exist inside the screen, boxed in and so far away.

Last Sunday, I went to church and a representative from World Vision was there. Spread out on the tables were brochures of many children--trapped in their sorry world, deprived of basic necessities, living on trash and polluted air.

Their faces implore:

"I've nothing and you've everything."

"You're thinking of what to eat for lunch and I've not eaten in 3 days."

"You go home to air-conditioning and slouching in front of the TV, while I walk 5 miles to get water and look after 3 siblings."

It was too much, and the reality was too stark when you're staring at these beautiful kids.

A little girls entreats me--a severe look of deprivation is evident in those deep-set eyes and her mouth speaks of a life raised on the severe cold of the mountainous region of Ningxia Province, China.

My daughter asks, "Why does she look so unhappy?"

I know the answer--life has been tough and there's seem no way out, stuck in a family of poor farmers. If life consists of chores, and foraging for food each day--maybe, we'll all be looking like this.

I picked up her profile and went home and filled up to be a sponsor.

I never felt happier, knowing the little that I have to contribute will send her to school, give her food and good hygiene.

Maybe dreams can come true in small measures and who knows? Maybe, with time, I may sponsor one more and one more and come close to fulfilling my childhood dream helping kids.