an open letter
To my future husband,
I have a confession to make: I don’t know if I am fit to be a good mother. Yesterday, I was made to babysit kids aged 5 and 7 and drat, it wasn’t easy. I had to endure one full hour of screaming, wailing, sweating children in a “kid repository” in MOA while making sure I captured every happy moment they’re having. My voice box was so overused- although they say it’s a choice; you can not tell them, all the time, to stop doing something / don’t touch something / don’t wander off somewhere / don’t tackle your playmates. So maybe it’s just me. I cannot stand disorder; or I can, I just have to provide an excuse with children as they’re…children.
Then today, word came out that my brother and his son were dropping by, so by lunch time, there were 5 frakkin’ children in our apartment. Our place is hot and humid with three residents, so just imagine how hellish it was when it housed 8 more people. Anyway, there went another round of voice box practice, in an effort to protect my books, stacks of DVDs, Happy Meal toy collection, figurines, and all else breakable or otherwise. I am not being too rigid here. Kids today are so full of energy, I am beginning to think they’re all mutants deprived of Ritalin.
And please, don’t get me started on their endless whys and hows. Or how they still tinker with your computer despite countless reminders. How they make pa-cute when you’re talking to someone. My brother, noticing my annoyance, told me that he has not enjoyed an hour’s worth of show when his son is awake and kicking. He told me that just out of the blue.
However, I cannot explain why, deep inside, I am so enamored when they refer to me as their heroine of sorts. Why their kisses after dropping a bowl full of choco flakes would replace my utter annoyance. Why I appreciate their comments, even the most insulting ones about my weight and hair, as the sincerest and truest ones I am able to get. Why my heart breaks when their tears fall down after being scolded (by their fathers, my brothers, not me). Hell, I even get a kick out of their endless 4Ws and 1H questions.
They say I will feel this unconditional love shiznit when I have my-our- own children. Maybe. I don’t know. So to you, future hubby, let this be a warning, or a reminder, if you may. Every waking moment, my mental picture of you changes; you can be a foreigner, a politician, a colleague, an old friend, someone I met in a bookstore- but whoever you will be, I can vouch for the truest love I’m going to provide you and our children. But please, and I beg you, do your share in rearing our brood and do them well. Well enough that I can have some decent reading time, enjoy an hour’s worth of my favorite show, and pamper myself from time to time. While the romantic idea of referring to you as my eldest baby boy to take care of (damn I got that from Vilma Santos, referring to Ralph), tell me, I’m not going to do it alone, am I?
I’m getting scared. I’m freaking out. I can write about how dealing with children can be such an adventure. But as my biological clock ticks (not too loud yet, don’t worry), there’s a looming fear that I won’t measure up well in the “wonderful Mommy” scale. So not only I count on you to help me, I hope that you give me some space to be better at it. After all, you did have such a heavenly time making them, haven’t you? =)
Love,
~me~