Love, Patience and Renewal

A 1994 family picture

If, at the end of my journey, I am asked what I learned from this life, I would unhesitatingly say, from my eldest child who is my only son, I learned to love without measure; from my older daughter, I learned acceptance; and with my youngest daughter, I came to understand the full meaning of resurrection.

I would talk about that time before my first child was even on the horizon, when the twin forces of society and biology conspired to plant in me a deep, unshakable longing to procreate. The pressure started soon after college, when my friends began getting married and having children. At the weddings, baptisms and children’s birthday parties I went to, inevitably, someone would ask when my turn would come. 

Then there was my mother. After I lived out my 24th year, she started discreetly questioning my close friends about my love life. She married at 24, my brother and sister married when they were 24, and there I was, past 24 and without a spouse in sight. Though she wouldn’t admit it to anyone, I could sense she was worried that nobody would want her daughter.

And then there was me. I really wanted a child. Whether it was due to the ticking of my biological clock or the creeping horror of going through life alone and unloved, the prospect of motherhood appealed to me so much, there was no question of it not actually happening. When I went for my first pregnancy test, and it turned out negative, I was so devastated that my husband had to drive me around the city for hours just so I could take my mind off what I considered was my failure.

I will never forget that when my son was born, a colony of honeybees chose to build a hive in our garden. They didn’t stay long -- a few days later they moved on -- but I always thought it auspicious that it actually happened on my son’s first day on earth.

Motherhood was as wonderful as I thought it would be, notwithstanding the interrupted sleep, the worrying over rashes and my obsession with being the perfect mother. Carlo was so even-tempered, healthy and smart - and I say that with the objectivity of a mother - that I was constantly rhapsodizing about the joys of parenting.

It was when Carlo was about two months old and slept through the night (as opposed to waking up every two hours to nurse) that I realized how vulnerable a parent can be to the possibility of loss. We woke up in the early morning in a panic: Is he still breathing? Did anyone steal him? Our reaction, of course, was not even original. Dr. Spock warned of it in his book, that new parents are often disconcerted (a serious understatement) when, after weeks of waking up often, their baby decides to sleep through the night. He called it a developmental stage; to us, it was a bad joke.  

That was also a watershed moment in my own evolution: the unequivocal love that I showered on my child brought with it the gripping fear that he will be taken away from me. The feeling was so strong, it was frightening. Parents know this only too well, the joy-fear that comes with loving another being so completely, your life would be unimaginable without him.

With my first foray into motherhood a resounding success, I was ready for the next baby who was born a few hours after the 1980s decade was ushered in by the explosive frenzy that characterizes New Year’s Eve in Manila. Though I spent the last weeks of the pregnancy in bed due to extreme exhaustion (I was then working full-time for a business newspaper), giving birth to my daughter was the easiest, most physically satisfying experience I have ever had. And for good reason: I had internalized the teachings of Dr. Lamaze, redefined my concept of pain (toothache is pain, going through labor is not pain but a series of strong sensations that you ride with, not fight against), understood the crucial role of relaxation in the birthing process, and learned to block unpleasant sensations by keeping my mind focused on that which gave me pleasure. (Such skills have since served me well through other intense events in my life.)

Nothing, however -- not Lamaze training, not parenting books, not my honed skills as Carlo’s mother -- prepared me for the reality of Jaja. The first time I held her in my arms and tried to nurse her, I knew immediately that she was a unique individual, quite different from her brother. Carlo would snuggle in my breasts for hours; Jaja, on the other hand, would nurse only until she was full and then she would turn away and refuse to even snuggle.

For someone who naively thought she had this parenting thing figured out, dealing with a colicky baby who had a mind of her own was quite an eye-opener. It was challenging and humbling. Jaja unconsciously tested my ability to love a person who was so unlike me, it sometimes felt that I was nurturing a stranger. It was difficult but eventually, I learned how to be patient. 

My relationship with her has always been intense, peppered with shouting matches and tests of will. There were times when I felt so ashamed of myself for not being mature enough - like when she got me so frustrated with her stubbornness (over what, I don’t even remember) that I locked her out of the house for a few minutes. Her father was beside himself with disbelief. “You’re her mother and she’s four years old,” he exclaimed. “How could you do that to her?”

Carlo, Maia and Jaja in 2015

Oh yes, we’ve had our moments, this daughter of mine, but now that she’s 18, our relationship has mellowed and deepened. She has come to understand and appreciate the choices that I’ve made, some of which have been very painful for her and her brother. And when she decided that she was going to college in New York, instead of playing it safe here in California, I said yes, without hesitation. Yes, flex your wings and fly, I told her, secretly thrilled by the possibility of living out my what-might-have-beens through her.

I became pregnant with Maia, my youngest child, when my marriage was in its last gasps and I was drowning in tears and anger. Yet, even as the uncertainty of my future bent me out of shape, some people saw my pregnancy as a good thing. “That child you are carrying will take you to new places,” an elderly stranger told me. 

The moment I finally had my little daughter in my arms, I felt a gigantic weight lift from my heart and a warm sense of well-being overpowered me. I don’t know if it was her unusual alertness as a newborn or my relief that she wasn’t deformed, but I was convinced that the clouds had lifted and my children and I were on our way to a new life. I wasn’t wrong.

When Maia was nine months old (Carlo was 10 and Jaja, 8), we left the country to start life anew in a foreign land. It was a move that sprung not just from failure but more so from defiance. The odds were against us: a single mother and three small children didn’t stand much of a chance, if you believe the statistics. True enough, it has not been easy but we have steered our way out of the fog. And in so doing, I am able to give back to my children what they have taught me: love, patience and renewal in exchange for strength and endurance.

Fair enough, isn’t it?

First published in Businessworld Outpost, June 1998.

This essay is also in my book, Heart in Two Places (Anvil Publishing, 2007).

Update 2020: All my three children are grown now. Carlo is a data science consultant, Jaja is a professional journalist and Maia is a national program director of an education nonprofit.