I taught you to be

When I'm feeling blue
All I have to do
Is take a look at you
Then I'm not so blue
When you're close to me
I can feel your heart beat
I can hear you breathing
In my ear
Wouldn't you agree?
Baby, you and me
We've got a groovy kind of love

Dear Andre,

I used to sing my favorite song by Phil Collins to you and Nikkei when you were babies especially when holding you in my arms to put you to sleep. Now that you're 19 and with my back bone more brittle, I wouldn't even entertain the thought.

Many things have happened, though, following those lullaby years:

I taught you Math

      but did we ever find x?

I taught you how to swim

      no depth can overcome you now
I taught you how to play the guitar
      now you play like a maestro
Did I teach you how to sing and dance?
      No. But aren't you glad I didn't?

I taught you badminton, basketball and tennis

      you showed you're an animal in sports 

I taught you how to drive

      you're better than many I know

I taught you my skills in photography

      now it's: "Dre, how's this?"

I taught you things not because I want you to be like me

I taught you skills because it's a father's job to teach a son

You may grow up to be like me but that's not my intention

I do not want you to be like me because that's just a mediocrity

I want you to be like Jesus because that's the best you can ever be

There are many things that I may have failed to teach you
      Like doing the dishes properly and fixing things at home
      Or putting away shoes, socks and shirts and nose-blown tissues
There's more time to learn those skills
      But your destiny for success aren't grounded on them
   
Happy 19th, my son.
Enjoy the last year of your teen ride.
There's a lot more to learn.

-Daddad

Baby @17

She can kill with a smile

She can wound with her eyes

She can ruin your faith with her casual lies

And she only reveals what she wants you to see

She hides like a child

But she's always a woman to me

Maybe. But not quite. 

Though she has that smile that even with braces will melt your heart away.

No lies casual or otherwise to ruin anything.

Truth is, she's 17. My baby Nikkei turns 17 today.

Please let me take a moment to process this.

(Moment)

I am sort of meditating on what this means to me.

I'm stuck in the middle of two thoughts: one of feeling happy and proud she can make her own decisions, and another of feeling anxious and uneasy she can make her own decisions. A midlife crisis if ever there is one.
This seat of mine is getting hot to the buns even if I've just sat on it a few minutes.
Is this the time for me to change my email signature into

     Father of a 17-year old daughter ?

just so my clients will understand my sudden unusual business behavior?
     Yes, dear client. We can submit the entire design tomorrow. Cool white or warm white?
     Your name again, pls?
     Yes, 90% discount it is!   

Or maybe start saving for the big party a year from now?

Or for any of the long list of her birthday wishes I've made mental database of:

     European tour (kuya kasi, eh!); item B; item C; bantam car; beach party; item F, G, H; Macbook Air -wait, this is out of the list already. 
I can recall only so much. You must understand, Nikkei is our second child delivered by C-section. It has greatly affected my memory. 

Is there an instruction manual for dads when daughters turn 17? 

There's a good reason for me feeling like this and many fathers will agree with me. Nina Kristin is my favorite daughter. Not just because she's my only daughter but I swear, even if I had 5 more, she would still be my favorite. The one I love most. Seriously.

Wait! I remember item B: teach her how to drive. She's halfway there now. She drives me nuts already.

Do I have to learn the answer to the question, You can't tell me what to do, I'm almost 18!

But my Nina Kristin wasn't raised to be like that. Her mom and I made sure of this.

She may mumble her words that only another female teenage fan of 1D can understand;

At 5 years old, she may have literally cut the telephone line with a pair of scissors

(and tried reconnecting -unsuccessfully with a scotch tape);

At 6, she may have inserted a rubber part of a toy into her nostril knowing at the back of her mind, these are the stuff that memories are made of and so made them;

And even now, she may not know the difference between North and South because she only knows One Direction.

But she's 17 now.

More responsible.

More respectful.
Most resilient. If you take the LRT everyday to school, you will know the meaning of resilience.

She's smarter.
God-loving.

Most beautiful in my eyes.

Wait! I remember item G: a driver's license. The picture in the license will look like this:

This should save her a traffic citation.

Some things haven't changed. I will still tell her to do the dishes, now!

She's only 17 and I am not a bit worried.

I'm not allowing my fatherly emotions get the best of me. Yet.

She is frequently kind

And she's suddenly cruel

She can do as she pleases

She's nobody's fool

But she can't be convicted

She's earned her degree

And the most she will do

Is throw shadows at you

But she's always a baby to me

(-She's Always a Woman by Billy Joel)

Happy birthday, Nikkei. I have so much love for you.

Nineteen Years Ago

Doe-a-dear,

You may have forgotten, nineteen years ago today, I wrote you a poem for our first anniversary. I kept the original manuscript which was a challenge since we've changed address twice over the last 5 years.

   Address was just one of many changes that happened, you must agree. The biggest change undoubtedly is the answer to the question, How big is your family? I remember we asked each other how many kids we want. I said 4 and you said 3. Collectively that's seven. Did you ever think that God gave us what we wanted? Put in all the challenges, the demands, the worries, the stress -and oh yes, we can't leave out the joys, the smiles, the hugs, the kisses and the laughter, with Andre and Nikkei, it's been like raising 7 kids altogether. No, this is not complaining. This is my simple way of thanking God for helping us raise 7 with 2. If you do the Math, that's 49!

Back to the original manuscript -the poem. Am no poet, am no writer, either. It took some time to make words rhyme you must realize. It would have been easier if Google had been there to help out. But no, it was 3 years late. I guess it must have been something good that pushed that pen to write those words. Think no more, it's the ink. A mighty ink. And before inefficiency in filing management and time take their toll on these two tiny sheets of paper, I've decided to immortalize the poem by publishing it here.

Nineteen years ago, this was how i felt. Nineteen years hence, I still feel the same. Read on, Doe-a-dear and live on. We have a life ahead of us.

 And oh, doe-a-dear, happy anniversary. I love you. I hope you like 'em.

Buck-a-dear

20

It started with a thought of 20 followed by a call to this lady. Then, like a flash of lightning, that thought became a stone. 20 is just a number if you think of it in the ordinary realm of the daily grind: a couple of tens; or less than a day if taken in hours; or an Andrew Jackson or a Manuel L. Quezon depending on which currency you hold dear (or cheap) in your pocket; or a little less than half-cavan of rice in kg... Oh forget it! Too many comparatives already. 

My 20 wasn't any of those ordinaries. I was thinking in units of years. Wedding anniversary years! The LED RGB lights in my thought bubble were blinking mad the words: 
"20TH ANNIVERSARY!!!" 
"SPECIAL GIFT" 
"SMALL BUT EXPENSIVE" 
repeat 20x 

This present day, two-and-a-half weeks short of 20-years-ago, I've got nothing but that thought. I must make that call, goes another in my mind that was a tiny bit away from panic mode. 

Lady1

That lady -shown here -is one lady who matters in matters like this. Together with another lady and assisted by a man -both pictures also shown here, can move heaven and earth for a slice of Sans Rival. Uh-huh! 

Lady2

Man-accomplice

NOTE: lest their cover is blown, the characters in this blog are left unidentified because up to this writing, this operation is still covert in nature. 

All I wanted from lady1 was a telephone number of a friend who sells the small, dear stuff. She gave me not 1, not 2 but three contact numbers. Can't go wrong with 3 numbers, right? Wrong. All the-number-you-dial-is-incorrect-ly wrong. 

Later that day in the middle of an important meeting at Pancake House in Robinson's Galleria, I got a call from the man-accomplice. I was told that all three were in a store in Greenhills which is just a few minutes away from where I was. They were there not for the purpose of getting me something but for something else. Or someone else. Stealth, just the same. But that's another story. There in GH, they found an interesting set that's worth xxx but the seller was willing to give a 25% discount. I was asked if I wanted to go and join them there to see it. I told the man-accomplice that I can't leave the meeting. Lorem ipsum sheish kebab, ladidah cut to the chase, we all agreed that they send me a picture via Viber instead. The picture was sent. 

It looked good. But I wrangled for more discount -another 14% off the already discounted price. Cash. The seller agreed. Now the next hurdle is the payment. Lady1 didn't have enough cash in her big bag. Neither did lady2 nor man-accomplice. ATM is out of the question as the amount exceeds the daily limit. Let the wife take note of this. Ha! 

Lady2 had her checkbook in her bigger bag. Issue the check, I'll fund it, I pleaded. She did and the deal was sealed! I just hope that the triad will be able to keep their silence on this deal prior to August 6. You see, the wife is related to lady1 and lady2. Lady1 is related to man-accomplice. Man-accomplice is related to me. And they are all related to the wife. And if Facebook is to be believed, the wife is related to me. 

They're all excited. Me, too. Times 20.