Mistress Mom

Riley has three “grandmas”

November 15, 2009 · 2 Comments

Today I learned to love my nanny, instead of seeing her as an adversary for my baby’s affection. It sounds trite and stupid, I know, but there. In writing. The truth. I need a nanny to take care of Riley while I’m at school, and having been his primary care giver for his entire gestation and post-uterine life, I was reluctant to let another woman step in. It’s strange, Internet, because I’m not a jealous person, but lemme tell you: I felt like the homely chick in the back of the classroom, batting my eyelashes at the quarterback as he was flirting with the head-cheerleader. I wanted to simultaneously kill her for having the attention of my love, and love her for giving him the attention and affection he so desired and deserved.

Cecille (CESS-ill) is awesome. She’s in her 50s, with five kids of her own and a heart of gold. Not only does she take care of Riley, but she tends to the outside of our property, does laundry, cooks, and cleans. She’s a godsend.

Sure, there were a couple of bumps in the road: times when I had to hold my ground and say in broken Tagalog (because I’m not yet fluent in the language), “Look, lady, I know you’ve got a hell of a lot more experience at this mommy thing than I do, but this is my kid and I’m paying you for a service: Do. Things. My. Way.” But she’s learned to adjust, I’ve learned to see her as someone on my side, and now I feel like Riley has three grandmothers. There’s my mom (known affectionately as “Nanay Liza”), Rob’s mom (known lovingly as “Grandma Nanette”), and Cecille, who’s called “Nanay Cecille”. For the record, “nanay” is pronounced “NAN-aye”, and it means “mother” in Tagalog; in certain circles, though, (especially when the grandmother is very close to her grandchild) it’s also a colloquial term for “grandmother”.

I’ve gotta admit, even allowing my son to call this woman “Nanay” was a struggle for me. Every smile she received from him felt like a slash to my heart. Every time he laughed with her, I was filled with envy. Every time she bathed him or cuddled him or rocked him to sleep, I felt like my place was being taken away.

But I needed to study, and she had to do these things. School here is so different than it is in the States (more on this in another blog). I’m used to effortlessly getting As, but the pressure was overwhelmingly against my favor. I MUST be an amazing mom, I said to myself. I MUST be an awesome student. I MUST blog all the time and work on my writing and get back my figure. I. MUST.

I don’t know what it was: maybe the difference in culture, or the shock of realizing that I don’t cut the once-stunning figure I once did, or the pangs of guilt/sadness/anger every time I thought of Rob being thousands of miles away, but I became so emotional. So very emotional. Not in a depressed and hard-pressed kind of way, but in a pure, very real, OHMYGODTHISISHARD overwhelmed kind of way. November 9th was Rob’s 28th birthday, and I couldn’t stop myself from crying in class.

Let’s rewind because I don’t know if you caught that.

I cried. Me. The once-tough-as-nails-can’t-fuck-with-me-don’t-you-dare-even-think-of-fucking-with-me-unless-you-want-your-mother-to-be-stabbed-hardass was crying. In public. Because I couldn’t control the tears.

Yes, Internet, something very profound and elementary in me has changed. I don’t know if it’s for the better, but I do know that it makes me cry with joy every time I return home from school. I know that it makes me look at Riley and see herds of unicorns galloping majestically in rainbow-drenched fields of lush, verdant greens. I know that I’m not PMSing, nor am I pregnant again. And yet. Here I am. Emotional. Vying for attention from my three-month old. Seeing my hired help as competition.

I don’t fit that last description anymore, but the rest? I’m pretty sure I’m still there. I don’t know what “there” is, or if I like it, or if I’m even comfortable calling it out, making it real, telling people about it. I just know that it exists, and I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t put it out there for all to see.

Something clicked today, between Cecille showing me pictures of her daughter and the two of us watching the Pacquiao-Cotto fight on TV with my dad: there was a bond there. A mutual understanding. A capturing of kindred spirits. I knew that I had nothing to worry about. Cecille will take care of Riley while I’m at school. She’ll love him as if he were her own. She’ll follow my instructions, and never question my decisions. And I’m still his mom. Loving him. Showering him with affection. Giving him all the time I can muster, and even more when I can’t really keep myself awake but wanting more time with him. I’m still his mom. No matter how many times she puts him to bed, or bathes him, or changes his clothes. At the end of the day, it’s me he’ll run to. Me he’ll climb into bed with for story time. Me he’ll bake cookies with and whose neck he’ll nuzzle and who will eventually bring him to New York. Nanay Cecille is an extension of me, loving him, taking care of him, making sure he is safe and happy when I’m not around. She’s the ultimate help in child-rearing. The very amazing woman who makes my life so much easier, and my son’s life so much better.

And really, how many moms are lucky enough to say they have someone like her?

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Old habits never die

November 5, 2009 · 6 Comments

My father arrived in the Philippines on vacation a week after Riley and I got here, and almost immediately he took to keeping late hours. I probably wouldn’t give a damn if it weren’t for the fact that my mom paid for his ticket and is working 70+ hours a week in order to pay for the mortgage and utilities that he’ll come home to – but both are the case. My mom’s the martyr. Again.

Forget that my mom’s disabled and doesn’t know how to drive, so she’s limping her way to and from work everyday. Forget that it’s her own damn fault; she knows he’ll never stop cheating and that she’ll never get over the fact that he never stops cheating, and she sticks around anyway. That’s bad enough, but what makes it worse it this: Here my dad is, fucking around on his wife’s dime, and when he gets back to New York he’ll continue treating her like shit. Calling her names. Yanking her hair like he’s a 5-year old on a tantrum. Making fun of the way she walks, the way she talks, the way she thinks, she way she keeps house, etc. She’ll have tricked herself into staying with him – out of pity, out of fear, out of loyalty, out of comfort, out of stupidity – and he’ll continue to be a jerk.

In years past, I would’ve made a big stink about this. I would’ve called my dad out on his bullshit, told my mom what’s going on, and found the other woman and [threatened to] beat the shit out of her. I would’ve spent countless hours agonizing about what my father’s adultery has to do with the way I see love and relationships and men. I would’ve blamed him for all the problems I’ve had with love and relationships and men. I would’ve stayed on my high horse, looking down at my dad for being an asshole and my mom for being unable to leave him.

But I’m not doing any of it anymore.

Maybe it’s because I realize that there’s nothing I can do or say to make my mom realize that she’s worthy of happiness. Maybe it’s because I know there’s nothing I can do to make my dad stop cheating. Maybe it’s because I’m in a functional, happy relationship with an amazing guy. Maybe it’s because I’m living in a country whose culture deems male adultery “normal”. Maybe it’s because I have enough on my plate, and now that I have my own family, the concerns of my parents are none of my business. Maybe it never was, and I was just too immature or bleeding-hearted or disillusioned or ideastic to realize this.

All I know is, I’m walking away from all of this. From all of the problems, all of the tears, all of the heartache, all of the dysfunction. I’m making sure that I’m all about my own family (Rob and Riley) and the things that make me happy (writing, blogging, staying in contact with friends and extended family, working out, doing well in school, stepping up my billiards game, etc.). My actions dictate that I am my own person, independent of the lunacy that is my mom and dad’s marriage. But don’t think I’m cold-hearted. I still care. I’ll always wish for my parents’ marriage to be a happy one. I’ll always think that my dad is an asshole for treating my mom like garbage. I’ll always question my mom’s emotional maturity for not having the balls to leave my dad. I still care. No matter how hard it is for me to swallow that fact, it’s there, living under my skin, right below the surface, right where my tears meet the air. I still care. And I’ll probably always care. Always. The same amount of time that my dad will be cheating and my mom will be staying by his side.

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How much is too much?

November 2, 2009 · 3 Comments

Family visited today, and when I pointed out Riley’s new trick – that he can stick his tongue out on command – a cousin of mine was flabbergasted. “He’s not even three months old!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t he too young to be taught these things?”

I’m proud of his progress, but it occurred to me that she might be right. Maybe I’m pushing him a little too hard, a little too quickly. According to the online experts, by three months, babies are supposed to be just learning to hold up their own heads. I noticed his new proclivity for tongue-sticking-out, and I started giving him a lot positive reinforcement. Maybe positive reinforcement in large quantities is bullying?

Riley and I made the rounds to my nearby relatives’, and only then did I realize that my son has an opportunity to be multi-lingual by the time we get back to the States. My aunt is fluent in Arabic and agreed to teach him; my cousin is fluent in Chinese (Fukienese and Mandarin) and offered to teach him both languages; my grandma’s willing to teach him Ilocano (the Filipino dialect that Rob’s mom’s family speaks); countless relatives are willing to teach him Tagalog; and I’m brushing up on my Spanish so that I can speak to more patients when I’m a nurse. Granted, the odds are good that some of my relatives might flake on their offer, but still: there’s a chance that Riley will be a multi-lingual four-year old.

I love this idea, and I know Rob would love this idea, too. Riley would be learning through conversation, and not through memorization drills. He would be skilled in a way that most adults are not. Coupled with his amiable disposition, already he’d be a worthy university candidate. But am I pushing him too hard, to quickly?

I’m pretty sure that by the morning, I’ll have figured that in letting the cards fall where they may, I’m not really pushing him at all. But before then, I thought I’d pose the question to you. What do you think?

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Sometimes I forget that he’s not here.

October 26, 2009 · 2 Comments

Especially at night, when Riley and I are cuddled in bed and the air conditioning is flowing through the room. It feels like a hot August night, and he’ll be home from work any minute. Maybe he’ll text me, tell me some cute anecdote about his coworkers at the bar, tell me that he misses me, or ask how the baby’s doing. Maybe he’ll call on his cigarette break and let me know that he loves me. But the pay off – seeing him, holding him, cuddling in bed with him and Riley – that’s just not gonna happen. Not for a long, long time.

And it’s so hard, the separation. It’s hard knowing that there were other options, and this one was the one he wanted. It’s hard to distinguish the facts from symptoms of my paranoia. Maybe a dollar does stretch out longer here, but maybe he also didn’t want me around. Maybe he does want to take care of us financially, but maybe he also wants time to be a single, unattached guy.

No, no. I’m just being paranoid. The tears he cries when talking about how much he misses us – those are real. The emails he writes that elicit tears from my eyes, the longing in his voice and on his face when we have a Skype date, the ambivalence in his gestures – those are all real. Just like me, he didn’t know how much being apart would hurt. Just like me, he thought it would be easy. Just like me, a part of him really does think this is the best option for us all.

Too many times, in too many places, tears sting my eyes. I see a billboard that we would’ve laughed about, or run into a doppelganger of one of our friends, or have a hard day, and he’s not there to laugh with or talk to or kiss away my tears. Don’t get me wrong – telephones, the internet, Skype, they all offer tremendous assistance. But there simply is no substitute for having him in front of me.

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Being introspective about my desire not to be introspective

October 25, 2009 · 1 Comment

I don’t have the wit, charm, humor, or sultriness of my former blogger self, which makes sense because I don’t have any of those qualities in my real life self either. Maybe it’s a symptom of being in a relationship or maybe it’s because I don’t have time to be anything but me, plain and simple. It takes effort for me to appear awesome, and lately I just don’t have the energy to expend on awesomeness – which is a shame because I used to be awesome at being awesome.

Ever since having Riley, I don’t have the body I used to have. In some ways, my body is better (I have a more pronounced hourglass figure), but for the most part, I look in the mirror and see flab. Maybe it’s like that episode of Doug where he gains weight, goes on a diet, and realizes that his former self wasn’t as thin as he’d imagined in the first place. My friends in New York tell me that I look just like my pre-baby self, if not better. But my family here in the Philippines? Everytime a male relative sees me, one of the first things they do is comment on the weight I’ve gained. Um, hello? Do you see this baby I’m holding? I don’t know if you’ve heard, but storks don’t really deliver em.

I get it: male chauvinism is as much a part of the Filipino culture as bad films and worse TV. It doesn’t help matters that the last time I was here, I was 15 and model-slim. The tropical heat had melted away many of the curves that I’d been proud to have in the states, and damn, did I make an impression. People would gawk at me in the street as if I was a celebrity, and a group of twenty-something men took to following me – even going to far as spending the night outside of my grandmother’s house (where I’d been staying), getting drunk, and serenading me with love songs. Back then, I’d perfectly fit the physical ideal of a Filipino woman: tall, lean, with just enough softness. Now, I’m all curves.

Don’t get me wrong: I love my body. I realize that it’s the only one that I’ll ever have and that it’s done well for me so far. But the changes my body has experienced since pregnancy – smaller breasts, bigger thighs, vanished butt, larger gut – well, let’s just say that having a more accentuated hourglass figure just doesn’t make up for all of that.

I’m planning to join a gym as soon as we hire a nanny, and to start a fitness regimen today. I tell myself that I’m doing it because I want to be healthier, because I want my old energy and pep and endurance. But deep down, I’m pretty sure it’s because I cringe every time I realize that the only sizes of clothes that fit me in the Philippines are large and extra large. (I cringe despite the fact that I’m 5′6″ and the average Filipina is somewhere closer to 5′2″.) Somewhere deep inside my bones, I know that I’m going to cut back on calories because I like the positive attention I used to get, because I hate the fact that all of my male relatives make comments about my bigger appearance, because I want some semblance of sexiness and the American truism of “You’re only as young/ sexy/attractive as you feel” simply doesn’t hold water on this tropical island.

Maybe that’s why I haven’t been able to tap into my storage of sexiness. Maybe I’m just worn ragged by so many changes happening all at once. Maybe it doesn’t matter what my motivation for getting fit is – just as long as I do it. I’m not sure what any of the answers are anymore.

And that’s another thing I’ve lost: my sixth sense. It used to be, I could read all the situations I was a party to, all the people I encountered, everything. It used to be that I had a preternatural gift for knowing things. I would feel in the pit of my stomach when something was about to go well, or wrong. I knew what alterations to the atmosphere had to be made to get things in my favor. And now… I just don’t have that gift.

I’m not sure when I lost it, but I have a feeling that it was a long time coming. I’ve spent a great deal of time overcoming my misanthropic urges to lie and manipulate, and it felt like a natural step to get rid of the trait that allowed me to do both of these things so well. At first it was hard for me to ignore the small social cues that could be used to form a situation in my favor. But then it became second nature to be oblivious. Now there are times when I’ll have the distinct impression that I’ve missed something crucial, but I’ll have no idea what it might be and I’m too busy to care.

I love the fact that this new me is so simple, so pure, but I wonder if I’ll ever be able to retrieve my talent for just knowing. I feel like my artistic talents are lacking now that my fingers are combing Riley’s hair and not sitting on the pulse of society. But the pragmatic decisions I’ve made as of late – to venture overseas to learn more about my heritage, to become a nurse and be able to pay my bills while helping people – I’m pretty sure this person would not exist if I still had my head in the clouds and my feet constantly wandering whatever place last piqued my interest.

I hope that I’ll adjust to my surroundings and these gifts of mine can be re-calibrated so that I can notice every change and yet make sensible decisions. You’d think that one would naturally follow the other, but alas it is not so in my case.

Maybe I’ve been deliberately dismissing these cues because I’m afraid of being the person I was before: not just cunning, but also popular, trusted, successful, well-liked – even loved. Maybe I’m afraid that if I somehow manage to strike a balance between this alpha personality and my new warm, altruistic, and maternal self, I’ll achieve a status of being that surpasses everything I’ve ever experienced. And this person, this person who is so close to perfection, she might be altogether different from the plans I’ve made. She may lose touch with people I love. She may decide she’s better off without Rob. She might even realize that she no longer belongs in the greatest city on Earth, New York.

These possibilities scare the shit out of me, so I try my best to keep myself ignorant of my natural inclination to be introspective. If only for the sake of everything I know, everything I love, everything I am.

I know that there’s no use fighting what’s in me. Time has a way of conspiring with destiny in order to reveal the latter, whether I like it or not. But now, as I go about fulfilling mundane tasks – registering for classes, clothes shopping, buying household items and organizing my family’s belongings – all of these fateful conclusions are working themselves out in the safety of my subconscious and my writing.

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A Long, Long Weekend

October 22, 2009 · Leave a Comment

Right now, it’s the wee morning hours and I’m trying to catch some Z’s before I have to start a long, grueling weekend. Not only will I be forced to get better acquainted with the town and its surrounding towns (holy crackwhore, I live in a “town”!), but I have to do so while plagued by a neverending tropical cold. Of course.

I tried spraying disinfectant on everything, but the size of the house and the revolt of my body have conspired against me. I’ll just have to wait on the maid.

This brings me to my to-do list, which includes school registration, buying furniture and other assorted items for the house, joining the gym, breaking in the maid and nanny, and generally figuring out how I came to be the type of person who employs a maid and nanny. I take pride in my child-rearing and house-keeping skills, and the fact that I’m passing off these responsibilities – to strangers, no less! – bothers the shit out of me.

Slowly, I’m finding myself transformed by the laid-back attitude of my neighbors, my tropical surroundings, and my privileged lifestyle. I’ve already begun sketching out designs for dresses and located a seamstress to make my ideas into realities; I’ve started plans on a few minor renovations to the house; I’ve acquired the airs deemed necessary to run a household with hired help. And it all seems so sudden, so surreal. I can’t quite put my finger on them, but the changes are so drastic that even my blogging voice is changing. Pretty soon, I’m sure, I’ll have forgotten about my wild New York City escapades; they’ll seem like episodes of intrigue that happened to a stranger.

So before this long weekend and its subsequent days take all vestiges of my former life as a crazy, single, childless, reckless, mischievous, manipulative, drama-addicted woman-child away, I have to reread the words I’ve written and remember when they felt like my own. I wonder if it’ll still be easy to slip into old issues? If I’ll be able to write in the same sexy voice? If it’s possible for the old me and the new me to coexist?

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Come out, come out, wherever you are!

October 21, 2009 · 6 Comments

Okay, so according to my stats, there are either a handful of people that keep clicking on my blog throughout the day, or a bunch of people who are reading.

Do me a favor and show yourselves, please? Make a comment – even if it’s critical? I’d greatly appreciate it!

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The Meat of Things

October 21, 2009 · Leave a Comment

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The last time I blogged, it was to rant about Rob, and as productive as that was – really, it was! – I need to get to the meat of things. Yes, Rob bugs the crap out of me sometimes. Yes, he makes me all kinds of angry. Yes, I had doubts about being with him and his potential as a father. But when it boils right down to it, I’m glad that we’re together. The good outweighs the bad. I’d rather he be the one making me crazy than anyone else. Because let’s face it: I like being crazy. I mean, seriously: have you read my posts?

I was catching up on my blog reading, and it occurred to me that most bloggers sidestep the relationship talk. I mean, sure, they mention their honey and show pics of vacations spent together, but they don’t really get to the meat of things. They don’t get into detail about their last screaming match (unless it was funny) and they don’t delve into the depths of love and hate and otherness that they feel toward their significant other. Maybe I’m just not reading the blogs that talk about this stuff, or maybe most people just don’t write about this stuff, or maybe it’s just too personal and I should know better than to parade my relationship out in the open for all to read about.

*blink*

It’s probably that last one that’s right.

Let’s face it: I talk a lot about my relationship with Rob. I talk about the heartachingly good just as much as I talk about the depressingly bad, and most of it has to do with his behavior and not my own. I know it’s one-sided, I know it’s rude and awkward, but it’s the only way I know how to be. I don’t know how to be a private person, and I don’t feel like I have anything to hide.

This – the good, the bad, the beautiful, the ugly, the screaming, the crying, the laughter, the tears, the Skype dates, the thoughtful gestures, the inside jokes – all of it is a relationship. It’s what makes Rob and I real. It’s what makes us complete people and able to have a complete relationship. Maybe you don’t get it – hell, sometimes WE don’t even get it. But, like Rob says, maybe it’s not for anyone to get. Maybe, as plain and simple as it seems, this is it. Introspection leads to nowhere. You take stock and either dive in or walk away. Maybe what we have is beyond any kind of knowledge, convention, or wisdom. Maybe it’s perfect that way. It sure feels like it.

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What happens when a big city dominatrix decides she wants to settle down and start a family?

October 21, 2009 · 4 Comments

Apparently, she moves to a third-world country. At least, that’s what I did.

Yes, ladies and gents, I’ve made the move to the Philippines. I’ve been here since this past Saturday, the 17th, and Riley and I are getting adjusted. I normally don’t suffer from jetlag, but this time, the 21-hour flight (including a 4-hour layover in Seoul) and 12-hour time difference are kicking my ass. Maybe it’s because the second time I tried to nap, a 4-year old stole my 10-week old infant’s pacifier, but I was too paranoid to sleep. I had the sneaking suspicion that if I shut my eyes again, my baby might be gone altogether, and not just sitting smugly between some stranger’s lips.

We’re living in my parents’ house with my 20-year old brother. The house is nice. It has four bedrooms and a maid’s quarters, and it’s conveniently located around the corner from my grandmother’s place, which is next door to my uncle’s house and store. Within a 5 block radius, there are more of my relatives than there are streetlights.

Okay, the truth is, there are no streetlights in this neighborhood. There is also no hot running water and no buses. If you want to get around, you either hop on a jeepney, take a tricycle, or walk. Very few people own their own vehicles. But yeah, back to my point: A lot of my relatives live around here.

In total, my grandmother had 10 kids. With the exception of two of those kids, everyone had kids. So my grandmother has 32 grandkids and at least (I think) 30 great-grandkids. We’re a big extended family.

It’s cool to know that there are at least 100 people living in this country who will come to mine and Riley’s aid if necessary. They’ll do it not just because of some intangible and ambiguous concept of “family”, but because that’s just how the Rubio clan rolls. And that right there is a major lesson of life that doubles as an excuse for making this move: Family. You can’t escape it and sometimes it’s a necessary evil, and sometimes those are good things. I’m sure Riley could have learned that lesson in the States, but here, where dusty banana trees sway in smog-polluted air, somehow that lesson seems more poetic.

Speaking of big families, Rob has one, too. I’m not sure about his dad’s side, but I know for a fact that his mom’s side rolls deep. There were a few times – like when one of his cousin’s said that her Russian mob “husband” would kill me if I ever broke Rob’s heart, and when another of his cousins dissed me via freestyle verse – that I’d rather he come from a small clan of a dozen would-be foes. But those days are no more. Maybe it’s because I’ve birthed another member of their family, or because I now call Rob’s mom “mom”, but somewhere along the line, I not only accepted these people as my own family, but started to feel accepted by them as well.

So far, the plan is rolling along smoothly. Riley and I are safely in the Philippines. I’m enrolling in college and registering as a nursing major this Saturday; by the following Monday, I’ll be in school. Rob’s in New York, working at a bar and ferreting his tips so he can send us money every month. He’s enrolling in classes this week to start his radiology course. We have a Skype date every night. A few of my creative plans are already coming along smoothly. By the end of November, we’ll have a nanny for Riley, I’ll have started going to the gym, and our bedroom will have air conditioning. It’s amazing to personally experience progress.

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