On failure: it is important that they taste it

Today my girl called me up on my mobile  while i am in my office desk. She was half-shouting, i can say, but that there's a certain tinge in her voice that it is not an emergency call, but the mom in me who always has to make sure, indeed asked, "Hello, oh, are you alright?"

Once again the conversation started with her saying "Hi, Ma!" Pumasa po ako". That meant victory.

Flash back two school years ago, all I can see everyday, coming from the office is a girl who is so focused on the internet, particularly, her twitter stats-- which not only double but quadruple each passing day. I cringe.

You see, my girl (daughter) is in a special secondary program, Science high school in fact, wherein her tuition is free-- otherwise it could fetch to as much as P60,000.00 Philippine peso, but that she has got to make the grade. Making the grade meant a grade not falling below 85, for the major subjects, Math , Science, English, which is actually the grade for average students.  It could be a bit tough you know, particularly since she has to exert effort in Math, her waterloo, as well as mine, which could be traced back to my own mother. So, no argument there, we really had to exert additional money and effort, not to mention carpool service, care of her father--you know what I mean. There are days when father calls me in the office only to say, that he is in her school already but that he could not locate her. I say eh? Weren't you the one who is there? (More on that on a different article).

So amid all the support I can give, the prodding to make her grade higher in order to "be safe", the funding for all her tutorial classes-- P 300.00 per hour-- a bit stiff for ordinary household earners in Metro Manila, I asked her to do her part.

By this I meant that I fully trust her to do the side of the bargain.  Is is as if I placed the saber on to her lithe hands, and that is is time for her to make her mark in this world.

Mind you, this was not an easy one for those obsessive-compulsives,  but that since motherhood allows one to evolve, so is one's thinking and the words that come from one's mouth.

I told her, "O, ikaw na ang bahala ha? Kung di ka pumasa, it will no longer my fault, kasi ginagawa ko ang part ko".

So I tested the waters, and little by little, on the first quarter, her grades improved. I let her be, and in the succceeding quarter, the others improved, except one that got low, sort of a see-saw thing and that Math was still an issue by one point. So I continued to remind her, that she got to focus on her studies, the trips to the mall continued, the eat out, the visit to Forever 21, etc, the visit to the tutor every Saturday or Sunday, the waiting at the car until dusk by her father.

On the third quarter, the grades steadily increased, no more see-saw effect. Whew, finally gaining some ground, I thought.

In between review sessions, moments of tiredness creep where she could be so cranky you almost feel that you're talking to your own mom. She could get so tired whe did not want to go to calss. But that's okay, it will pass, as it did. Many sobby nights pass some more.

On the fourth quarter, it was time to really seal the grades, leaving no room for doubt. So, she has got to up everything just like in the first quarter, but that it should be steady, no more see-saw effect, no more grades that show that one just got "lucky". In short, the variance between the grades should not be so as to cause arithmetic probing, the cadence balanced.

So what did she tell me? Well it was the nicest news in months, but that I got an inkling somehow, being her tiger-mom, that definitely, she can do it, which in fact she did. After all, many times she got bumped as a toddler but that she always got up anyway, without my prodding. What a nice kiddo, to say the least. I can see her mom earning roses little by little. :)

One Direction -'ing mom: confessions of a convert

Barely over five feet tall, her long shiny albeit frizzy hair lumped fastidiously at the crown, fringes spiral downwards to brush her skin, wet with profuse sweating due to an after school dare of yet another  “Bangsa”--what you would identify as a higher form of sipa . The outdoor game of two opposing teams composed of at least three members each requires dexterously hitting a ball or rolled up towel with one’s ankle or knee to “serve” the same to the other team while the latter scurries to hit the “ball” to prevent it from hitting the ground. You see hits and misses-- well, more on the latter, as one or other kid inordinately breaks from the group to pick up the “missed ball”. As much as you wanted to watch the ball bouncing back and forth—it hurts to see a kid pick up the ball due to lack of skills , dexterity or athleticism. “Sayang”, you say to yourself. You surmise either the kid’s limbs were too short to meet the qualifying thud.

At this time, she sees you in your Friday uniform--jeans, tee and canvass loafers. She raises her right hand in a half-wave/half- beg if you could please wait for her manner. As if the “errand-itself” is not odd enough to cut short what could be a “more-creative-pursuit-for-the-day”, you nod your head in acknowledgement as you try to cool your heels in two ways--check for any new message in the inbox of your dated mobile for the fifth time in the last ten minutes and survey the Friday school scene. Pubescent girls promenade the halls in endless chatter while some wrestle like cats at the football field. Several are under the trees, bantering; a child waits for her older sibling, nose buried in a best seller; a group practices taekwondo or a random sing/dance project. A boy casually walks past you as he sips Royal True Orange transferred to ubiquitous plastic container with the striped straw obviously bitten in an inch.  You ask yourself: is Royal a softdrink or an adult juice?

It is understandable that the blue school guards are mum on this day of the week-- eyes watery, their facial skin reveal traces of battle, what with all the monitoring of the more than a thousand-strong vibrant student population. Scattered are a laboratory manual; pens made by various nationalities, a bunch of colored paper; a guitar; a P.E. t-shirt; a plastic with two creased books, an old hamburger; and enormous Fila shoes with a pair of muddy socks at the guard’s corner.

Several name-calling and shrieks later amongst the Bangsa group,  she succumbs to your parental authority and greets you in two syllables meaning depends on the inflection, its variants are the quick “Hi, Ma” or the dragging “Hi, Ma…”. Sometimes these two words are inaudible such that you cannot recognize the first from the last: “Hhmm”. The point is, it happens.

These are but two words but the meanings thereof, take together, were not fully discussed in any parental guide book you know of. So you try to understand, based on experience.

The first one with the exclamation point means that she has got some interesting announcements to make, such as a high score in a subject; a validation from a teacher; perfectly solid friendship or barkada status (meaning there were no rifts/misunderstandings that took place within the last 48 hours); there is a sale at the mall; a new CD for one of her fave band/singer that is out in the market; she likes to eat tacos; or all of the above.

The second one could very well be in the range of: “Just-tired-let’s-go-home” to “Happy-crush-still-did-not-say-hi”. You see, this is such a tricky situation because you’re neither in the positive nor in the negative, but in the neutral. Being a parent, you will try to cheer her up by telling inspirational messages but you slide down on the negative if you do not say the right thing. So you try on a few options: a) suggest a stroll at the mall,  b) grab some ice cream or any comfort food for the moment, c) check out the sale at H & M, d) all of the above,  just because. Inquiring further along the lines of asking the friendly “What’s bothering you?” or a hasty comment could fan the flames, if she is not yet ready to talk. 

The third one, when “the first syllable stumbling into the second thingy” happens—at least rarely these days, when she is expected to have adjusted well into the rigors of secondary school life, you start to panic and immediately mentally pack for combat—(as would many moms do, no qualification here). Instinctively, you want to ask: “Who did this to you?” while flexing your mucles ala Helen Parr on “The Incredibles” fame. Knowing that teenagers are an aggressive lot especially toward each other, all things can happen from the usual sneer to the physical, i.e. jab.

However, maturing as you are also as a parent, you try to calm down as you summon all the best and winningest advices that you can recall such as: not so much minding what others think of you but that how you see and value yourself matters more; that she not merely focus on the results of her hardships, just that, the process of getting there is as important as the “goal itself”;  that she should not be so mindful of temporary setbacks as long as she learns from these; and that she should enjoy the ride because it is only the beginning—that bittersweet part of life when dreams are just a finger’s point-click away and that anything, as in anything, can happen so long as she puts her mind and soul to it.

There, the evolutionary process makes you adapt the learnings of the past, enabling you to reach a new form of particularity, existence or being, if you may call--that all too familiar set of subtleties of being a mom is still there and recognizable, but is in fact capable of being distinguished outside your immediate realm. That particularity is now experienced by more individual moms or fathers out there—that has been in fact, a universal experience, because you have allowed yourself to build that particularity, all those years of being a mom or a parent for that matter. The same is true whether as a helicopter parent, tiger mom, soccer mom or cry out loud mom. Therefore, you should not say all those nuggets of wisdom at least in one breadth. Not only that experience tells you that her teenage brain immediately locks when you speak at 50 words per minute, the brain is also in a switch-off mode when she’s had enough information for the day already from (FTF), i.e. friends, twitter, Facebook, in that order. If it’s not Facebook, twitter, friends, already. But that’s not to say, she doesn’t listen to that one F or Family anymore—Just because. Do try not to say everything at once. For instance, choose one or two inspiring messages from your readings of Coelho or Ban Breathnach, then as much as you want to continue your version of the homily--Stop. Even if you wanted to spew all the direct quotes on the meaning of life, why God allow people to suffer-- the writings of Plato or Cicero, it cannot happen in this remarkable age of the Apple. Succumbing to the first strategy is not only fruitless, (pun was intended) but can lead to further dilemma. Previous occasions that you indulged her eardrums of the insights and theories of these above-named thinkers made her mildly aloof, visibly annoyed or worst, hostile towards you. You- who merely wanted to make her happy, her day—remarkable.

You learn to stop and listen--even if there are no words she can mouth at this time. You listen at how the asphalt and stone dust crack beneath her rubber shoes as she walks the school pavement; you listen to how her bag swishes to that side of her school uniform, the tick of her pulse. You listen to her heart--until she’s ready to talk.

“Ma, did you know that…” Well, that is the phrase which encourages a lot of facts coupled with astute observations and opinions, as open-ended as the mining policy debate in the country or even the controversy of whether or not to grant executive power to the President to answer the energy crisis this summer. Ah, to have a piece of heaven on earth.

This Friday, as you see her sashay along the fourth floor corridor of the humble building, she waves at you with her right hand, her neon backpack behind her as she ran towards the east exit. A girl, then two more, scuttled after. All four disappear, until you see them again down the staircase.

A few winks later and she’s now in front of you, nodes of perspiration on her forehead, her face at once tired and beaming. Expectant, you say. Her friends tail her on the background. You smile back at her with a knowing look, and regard her friends. They address you: “Hello, po!”

What youthful glee to face the unknown, you say, heart rending, as it pierces through the epidermis like acupuncture needles, brief but purposeful as the 16:00 heat, Friday of March.  

You then start to walk towards the gate but she quickly asks if you could please take a minute as they have to water the plants in the nursery nearby. You of course oblige. In less than a minute, she again emerges from the school garden as she says goodbye to her pals and both of you head out.

Along the tricycle queue, you both plan to drop by the mall as she needed to buy some new pens. How was your day, you ask. She then retorted with a query on whether she could please, buy a concert ticket for ID? You express your surprise and say that there is no way you are going to buy because you have no time. She interjects, can she please let her BFF (Best friend forever), buy it and that she’s going to pay it later, with the money that she will be saving for one year? You reply nonchalantly that you are not sure whether she will make that much money on Christmas and that if ever she has enough money, it is still up to you, her mom, who has the final say. You should see the smirk on her face, so palpable it is as if you have touched a wood carving of a Northern Luzon tribe.

She protested that the group shall be enough inspiration in her life, with all its conflicts and much too curious classmates; that she will do her darn best to pass her Algebra; that all her projects shall be submitted on time; that she will be the greatest sister, ever; that she will strive to be a stellar student this time--no more social networking in the wee hours of the morning nor with acquaintances in the web, because, she understood me now, that one cannot fully know them unless through face to face conversation—in your generation, unless you stayed in one roof; that she will be the sweetest daughter any mother could ever have.

You knew this day was to come one day, but more in the sense that, she has been telling you that THEY were coming in the country for the past two years! You pace your thoughts and focus on assessing the situation. You have tried to talk to her, to dissuade her out of this because THE event is too expensive, it is just plain too much to start attending concerts at such an early age. Also, she has spent considerable amount of time on the group already, when she has lined up during the album launch, accompanied by her father. (This has been a subject of many family anecdotes, but that should be in another topic.) She has the wristbands of each 1D member, owns the book covering the boys’ biography, and, could she just listen to all the fresh CDs in her room instead, wall thumping as they are?

At the back of your mind, you remember to be admiring the boys in one of their MTV too. But this is different--your daughter had wanted to watch them in concert, warm blood and all, and whether you like it or not, you are going to be part of that experience, however little or small that role is going to be, “One way or another”.

You survey the instant surroundings and try to see the greens, but this time there are none. You look at the kid beside you, her energy at this point at top notch. You try to smile and take a deep breath as you tinker with the black obsidian encircling your wrist. The dry assemblage of your oral orifice worsen your inability to find the perfect retort. Still trying to sound in the moment, you harness the power of your inner tribe and speak in tongues. You flex your facial muscles and then: “Really, we’ll see…” were all three words that were audible. You glanced at her face and it spelled triumphant.   

That was ten months ago, which now became reality--that the subject of much discussion and consternation at the dinner table and during taxi rides shall be finally concluded. You marvel at your own ability to look back, astounded at how far you’ve gone. Those heartaches healed by laughter were just a matter of instant playback in the memory that is to be your mind, a particularity that has once again reached a different phase and realm--a universal experience, shared by generations upon generations of moms around the world.