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Eres Hermosa

ERES  HERMOSA.

               The earth draws close to another revolution. Our little human is blossoming a version of her father except for the complexion, obviously. (Hush! He’ll get onion-skinned on matters of skin color.) Here comes our little one tumbling around the bed in louder jeer of sharper and more varied syllables. More ATP’s are burned that sweating gets her skin damp and headful of hair stuck on the scalp. Her once spacious crib became narrow for her playing frenzy. The sidewise stepping circling her crib completely bores her now. She chooses to walk the real walk, at first of course with somebody’s hands. When she be let loose on the floor, the quadruped seems long wanting to play catch-me-if-you-can. Her sight is keen on Mama’s jaw at work for a chew. Little Catring knows the demand of slices or pieces of something to nibble on.  The scrawny figure scoots her way around with toys all over the place she knocks off or tows over, and watches how the law of gravity is. To tire herself more, she picks her choice of what to drum on walls and floors or hits with another toy to rhythmically do a series of sounds in her own musicality. When her attention span hits the limit, she cries carry, or, if Mama is just a tug away, she pulls Mama’s sleeve in desperation. Catrita, who earned herself neighboring friends, wiggles herself out of Mama’s arms upon the inviting sight of a playmate. Her serenity at sleep makes me wish to freeze time. (Mama laughs.) I augment my last sentence to: so that Mama could have more Y-O-L-O. (Mama laughs more.) Oh babies! Really babies and their brains! The six-toothed Catrice is such a clown. Every move she does. Lolo was at awe when he found her head-banging to a beat with hands tapping the keyboard. Lola was amused to how she was humming to tones of her own.
            In a corner, I continue to marvel how rewarding motherhood truly is. For those twelve months, yes, twelve months, Mama is unbelievably at full battery still. One knows how good G-d is.
                  Happy years to wait for, to live for…



                                       Live to tell the tale! In the nick of time, you’ll be two.

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World Teacher's Day

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I was born a woman but ended up acting the opposite. Clumsiness and its cousins in the thesaurus is what I am. Finesse goes unsaid and unheard in my world. I preferred oversized tees over fitting blouses. I refused figure-flaterring dresses for loose pants. I would choose a paintless face even being merged with a bin of all-made-up pretties. But I knew I am a woman inside. So are the secret feelings that have silently died. It was only me who knows everything of what-really-is. It was hard shifting to finer moves. Oh graceful me in sweat! I hate being with someone who I cannot see myself. Because to me, gaudiness is parallel to fun. Not long after, I’ve been to stores of pallets. So the smudged me emerged. Little by little, I’ve added garments I thought I can never wear. These changes of seeing ourselves that can improve us.   
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