A 9-MONTH HOMERUN (part I)
I used to be reeeeeeeaally sexy. Believe me. I may sound as conceited as Johnny Bravo but heck yeah, I was. Those flirty times when I’d sashay my perfect-10 butt around drooling faces, it’s gangbuster! But oh well, that was like 2 years ago…
It took one determined sperm cell to turn my life around.
3rd week of September, 2002: I was 17 and 2 weeks delayed. But PANIC was not my middle name. I wouldn’t be campus “cool” figure for nothing. A delayed menstruation was not something to gripe about, was it?
Two weeks later, still, I was not agitated. What do I care if I’m pregnant, I reckoned. Big deal. Those long nights of blue-lit “yoga” (eherm) sessions with Ahmad finally paid off. At least pin-pointing the culprit who introduced his sperms to my precious egg cell (harhar) was no task at all. And I knew the culprit would stay (I’d kill him if he left the lurch anyway). So I told him everything and smelled a slight scent of panic in the air right away. But I guess that was okay, pretty normal for a 1-year boyfriend - slash-confidant’s reaction, right?
Knowing that we had a rocky road ahead, Ahmad and I immediately laid out our plans after the semestral break, like:
1. how to know if I was really pregnant
2. what to do if ever we found out I was
3. how to tell my folks and his
4. stuff like that.
So for the meantime that we have not exactly conjured up our “tricks and tactics,” I waited for some red stains to show up on my T-backs and checked them minute by minute like a paranoid freak. Tough luck, my undies were as clean as bond papers. Ahmad was tensed but he deemed there was this underlying excitement behind his mounting strain. Had it not been for his financial cold spell and me being a minor he would be extremely eager about the whole thing. A week later then, we finally decided to put an end to the pent up apprehension that was killing us. We bought two pregnancy kits and alas! my instincts did not fail me, I was indeed having a baby…
Great…just great.
Conscience was the last thing I needed that time. Next thing you know, I would be selling cookies for the Girl Scout (sheeeesh!). OK, so I was a bit terrified. Not entirely due to the fact that I feared I betrayed my parents and I was too young to handle such great deal of a situation…but mainly because (this appears to be shallow alright…) I knew how sappy it’d sound to tell my parents that I have their 1st “apo” right inside my tiny waist. You see, I was envisioning a heavy drama, soap-opera like scenario with me on it weeping like a helpless little kitten. (Ugh, that’s definitely out of my vocabulary!) My face just could not afford such cheesiness of a tremendously sorry look. The extraverted, cold soul in me began to panic. But then I figured out over time, my pride was no weapon. The situation was desperate. It required me to submit passively considering the fact that it was nobody’s fault but mine. So after 4 months of wearing extra tight jeans to conceal my bulging tummy, not being my old perky self, excusing myself around people so as to hide my persistent nausea with them whispering behind our backs (see how much of a celebrity we are? Hehe…), we threw the bombshell at last. Errr…Ahmad did. The funny thing was, it was not the same crestfallen vista my imagination was utterly anticipating for. The picture was rather simple, much to my surprise. Anxiety finally loosened its grip on my stomach.
I was two-and-a-half ride away from home when “the culprit” told everyone everything (playing safe, eh?). My mom sobbed softly still with all the poise she could pull off as if she was not thrown by the confession, she said she knew something’s brewing (maternal instinct perhaps); my oldest sister howled with her face akin to a lady proposed of marriage by her long-time boyfriend (that’s according to Ahmad); and the sole posh among us, “tres marias,” instantly sent me cash which, according to her, ought to be used for preggy wardrobes (how…chic!). And my dad? The fact that he lives overseas, my mom still had to call him up just to enlighten him with the shocking news that their irresponsible, brattiest offspring was finally hooked for life. And his reply to that? “Don’t you dare scold her!” Not the foreseen scenario playing in my mind, huh? But after which, he bawled like a lost little boy in a grocery store. Now that was genuinely touching…On the other hand, it was beyond my intention to relate how Ahmad’s clan dealt with our “unveiling” of the secret because of the action-packed, somewhat harsh plot that’s way too complicated to start with. But to describe it all the same, it was…errr…like I have told you, complicated. Period.
Rapid dramatic (some, horrible) changes, emotionally and physically, came rushing in with every flip of the calendar. But my weight gain was the fastest of ‘em all (and that was the most terrifying part). I witnessed the uncontrollable puffing of my face along with the bloating of my tummy and boy, did I feel ugly! And obese. But I reminded myself over and over again that I would be back to my own sexy self once the baby got pulled out from my womb…(yeah right)
Let me jot down the number of major episodes that took place prior to my baby’s birth for shortcut purposes (and let me separate them with the abuse of periods…)
I doubled (tripled perhaps) my original weight……I grew more and more insecure (it’s all the mirror’s fault). I hardly ever went out with Ahmad, afraid to bump into one of those nuns who run the school where Ahmad works as a guidance counselor and some tattler creatures whose best talent was spreading the Ahmad’s-girl-is-pregnant-oh-my-gosh rumor…….You see, those nuns would kick Ahmad’s ass off their school once they found out he got somebody pregnant……And we wouldn’t have any source of income if ever that happens……UNFORTUNATELY, it reached them……We got married civilly……Still, the nuns were not pleased, they only require church weddings—I guess civil wedding for them is not official bonding of two souls in love……We promised we will walk in the altar as soon as the baby was out (I wouldn’t wish to be parading my obesity on the red carpet)……Ahmad’s ass remained safe in his office (whew!)……and I was still insecure……
But that, was only the beginning.
(to be continued)
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Djai is now a hustler. A hustler in changing diapers and taking Dylan to bath, that is. But still, she’s a nocturnal snoozer leaving Ahmad the entire chore of waking up to sluggishly make Dylan’s milk formula, check on her and hush her down to sleep. One poke of Djai’s sleepy finger and Ahmad scanters out of his comfy blanket like a fervent disciple. Bad wifey, bad!
Uncategorized | Comment (0)A 9-MONTH HOMERUN
June 7 2003: Dylan Zinead Xiv B. Tanji (Dylan—from Bob Dylan and my favorite Charlie’s Angel; Zinead—from Sinead O’Connor; Xiv—the Roman numeral counterpart of my middle name, which is Catorce, 14…get the picture?) came out bloody, pale and slimy at exactly 1:30 pm after 24 hours of f*##*!!@! labor (imagine that!). Good thing, my determination to get Dylan out of my womb was so fierce, it could light a candle at ten paces. I was all worn out and half dead after the delivery. But I wasn’t expecting that a baby would normally look whitish pale and alien-like seconds after wiggling her way out of the tiny orb also known as “her opening” (my opening, that is). Alarmed, I slurred incoherently, “Doc, are you sure she’s normal? She doesn’t look like one” (my eyes half-closed). She plainly uttered, “ho-hummm.” The last thing I remembered was the excruciating throbbing of her stitches (you know where). I knew it, it was a conspiracy! They lacerated my you know what! Damn.
When I opened my eyes, there were these psychedelic floral patterns swirling across retinal blackness…and then Ahmad’s face interrupted the delusional panorama. He had this huge grin bigger than a peeled banana and a happy, sappy set of eyes. He had Dylan in his arms. I allowed myself the luxury of an exhausted, proud smile…
Hours later, I was still too numb and wasted to function. Thanks to all those painkillers and injections the nurse gave me in the labor room! So there I was after the delivery, lying in the hospital bed with all the hazy people by my side fussing over my baby and me like mad dogs. I couldn’t even understand a word they were blabbering except for “oooooooww,” “aaaaahhh…,” and “cuteeeeeeeee.” It’s hard to explain what I was feeling - it was like a cross between nostalgia and homecoming, especially upon gazing at the tiny, wiggly thing inside the crib. All that mattered to me that moment was the spark in Ahmad’s eyes.
It takes one little sperm cell to screw up your plans. WRONG!!!!
It takes one little sperm cell to build you a home (not literally though).
My Logic teacher would have set a debate with me saying such but who could blame him? He’s single. He’s like half of the single population out there who go ballistic and cynical about “baby” talks and stuff. Having and raising a baby at an early age for some are nothing but mere distraction to their path to success. But I might as well advice them to ponder on that matter because they really have no idea what they’re missing…believe me. It’s true however, days couldn’t get any simpler and lax when you’re single but what the heck, my life before has always been a sequence of clashes and misadventures…might as well abuse it*grin*.
Moreover, the hustle and bustle since Dylan came about were not sheer predicaments right under my nose…instead, they kept me on my toes. In most ways my life is still close to my ideal. In fact, my insecurities, emotional troubles, fears and bitterness gradually vanished (I’d take that as a consolation). I may moan a thousand complaints of what my being a young mom cost me. But not one of those petty protests could even outshine the bliss that Dylan had given me.
Looking after little Dylan is madly exasperating (especially during her first few months) yet divine. Having her plays absolute harmony with my pride and lights a fire under Ahmad’s ego as well, I believe. Not only does it imply that we’re like normal couples capable of producing our very own cluster of offspring, but it confirms we’re finally HOME. And as hackneyed as it sounds…there’s no place like it.
Uncategorized | Comment (0)ANOREXIC NUTCASE
Dear Nikitz,
Finally, I’m giving myself a break! I’ve been babysitting for almost half the day 
already…my arms’ are about to fail me…my back’s killing me and I look like I haven’t been sleeping for weeks. NO MAKE UP. NO SKIMPY SHORTS (what I have right now can cover my entire legs and still, they call it "walking shorts”?!).NO SEXY TOPS (to compliment my overgrown boobs - but at least they’re full-sized already,’can at least make me feel sexy but still, it’s no use as of now…’must probably wait for at least a couple of months!) I got hippo-zit all over my face and my back, and I definitely feel like a baboon for having a new set of oversized butt and hips (even my old pants can’t get through them). And worse, I can feel the folds of my flabby stomach every time I sit. Meaning, I can feel it right now. Oh, and here’s the best part - money isn’t flowing at a steady stream. I’m sick and tired of budgeting, dealing with our financial cold spells and worse, dodging emotional blackmails. But mind you, I’m not complaining!!!! (tinatakot lang kita.heheh)
In the face of all these, it’s still unconditional, my love for Dylan, I mean. It’s a great feeling of entirety you know (maybe akin to your feeling when you finally made your way out of that something you thought you couldn’t actually make your way out of…like under your aunt’s tyrannical thumb.ayt?) It’s like getting away from your fears, bitterness, insecurities and issues in just a heartbeat. I have plenty of baby-mother-bonding with Dylan to fill in the void left by my “singlehood.” Plus, I earned Ahmad’s fidelity and mushiness (who wouldn’t be tortured with guilt seeing your wife’s huge eye bags and daily shit-in-the-diaper encounters?)
He’s not a cold-hearted creature after all.
Still, the sex (and sexiest) Goddess (at least that’s what Ahmad keeps on reminding me),
Djai
—
Amazing, huh? I needed Nikita’s (my Anne Hathaway-pretty girlfriend with a geeky-cute booty) opinion (syn.- sympathy) on this (motherhood) considering she’s one of those few cynical friends I had who can punch me in the head with a one-liner. Too bad, I could not even remember her response to this letter. My mind was too zipped tight to accept any empathy on this matter thinking that anyone would of course tell me what I wanted to hear.
It is true, I got stucco-looking cellulites on my thighs and a busted horse’s ass that needs replacing. But neither my folks nor Ahmad will pay for lipo just yet. It was like, humankind survived Y2K but my world was, like, coming to an end. Exag, right? But wait till you see my gruesome STRETCH MARKS dominating the vastness of my body. I can almost hear them scream “invade, invade!”. *cringe*.
Of course guilt sporadically tortured me, with me knowing that I ought to be grateful (not remorseful) for what Dylan’s existence has brought me. I knew I had to get rid of my selfish rants and ravings over my physical warp and distort. But HELLER??? Who would not be disturbed with such hideous and unearthly pockmarks? And I am waaaaaaay too young to look like a mom. Maybe I would not even care to zip my zit or lay out immediate action if ever I am on my mid-age but reality check dude, I was only 18! Too young to deteriorate…too young to get worse…Besides, Ahmad and I had this cute pact that requires us to look good (and sexually stimulating) for each other. We wanted to bring out the Aubrey Miles and Troy Montero in us (har-dee-har-har), for us to be like, first time lovers forever with all those throbbing and pulsating passion and “kilig” moments. We wanted to plow our tongues down each other’s throats without eeking out on each other. I want to be dressed in the most reveeeealing item in my “whoredrobes” without losing my shit and hiding my stretch mark or belly flabs (it wastes a lot of time trying to conceal them you know)
I WANTED TO BECOME THE FULL-FLEDGED ANOREXIC OF MY DREAMS!!! Get the picture?!
Or maybe…I just mostly feared the thought of Ahmad banging bimbo after bimbo partly because I look like a walking scar and a WWF she-male…*sob*
So in order to have this “equilibrium” between my responsibility to Dylan and my being Aubrey Miles (again, hehehe), I channeled all my negative energy into becoming a gym master. Yep, I spent four-hour exasperating work out sessions in the gym for 3 months (I can’t just sit on my ass and settle for an easier way to pump my excess fat outta my figure!). I was unstoppable then. Neither the wrath of my parents nor the fire-hose rain could put out my desire to slim down. So I pulled off all the kinks I could and not one shred of hope did I ever let go of. The jaunts had this cathartic effect on me…but NOT on my body. I saw no difference goddammit!!! And that’s where I zoned out. I stopped going to the gym and I led myself to one desperate act I never thought would occur to me: Starvation. I starved myself until I felt my stomach withering and my tonsils burning. But hey, I trimmed down (somehow) a couple of pounds. And that was the only time my head cleared out the clutter.
And then it hit me: I NEEDED TO FEED SOMEONE. Someone who was helpless and vulnerable and completely relying on me. And I knew I could not just leave her defenseless and have my vainness and denseness or whatever you call it get the better of me. I could not afford to put her health and life at risk only because of my “perfection and beauty rewarding pursuits.” You see, a baby can not even accumulate even a mint of vitamin and necessary minerals she needs from oatmeals and non-fat canned goods her mom feasts on! And I never intended to stop breastfeeding her for the sake of my superficial wants. That will be absurd! What’s my being a psycho (psychologist, that is) for if not to breastfeed Dylan, right? We’ve been taught (and reminded over and over again) how essential it is.
So, there. Just one snap, and there. My brain for once has helped, not hindered. I stopped reducing. I continued feasting on calories hour after hour. And I - began feeling like a real mom *sigh*…
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FOOTNOTE:
One thing Djai realized out of this: Perfection is much easier to strive for in theory than in practice. A Utopia body hardly exists.
And oh, Djai’s size-26, old pants can miraculously fit her now but with a slight notch: the zipper’s not in a heavenly condition. It always seems like it’s about to burst. But still, Djai’s grateful. At least her pants could pass up her enormous, puckered butt.
Uncategorized | Comment (0)DROOL BABY, DROOL
I have come to know Ahmad as an all-the-rage hottie way back in college with this ultra sizzling magnetic field drawing co-hottie creatures (I didn’t specify the gender and you’ll most probably know why) in practically ever place he hops in. And I must say things haven’t changed until now. Having a rockstah, Palestinian delight god for a hubby, I admit, is quite a boost to my diminutive self-worth. But oooh boy, does it throw me a handful of trouble as well!
I know for a fact that I’m way far out from splendor and gorgeousness. I even doubt it if there’s any sign of beauty in my long, pimple-friendly face (quoted from my friendstah, “about me” blah-blah). And it’s not “Ooooh…” that I hear in my account most of the time, it’s actually “eeeow” and “Oh” (flatly said). But the hell should I care, right? It’s WHO I AM my husband fell in love with (as cliché as it sounds…), not how I look, right? And it’s as if I care. But that was like, the typical Djai reaction 2 years ago…heedless (With my famous let-them-drool yawn). Now, thanks to my bootylicious spousy and his flock of never-ending haughty admirers, I gained too much self consciousness, it actually drowns me!
I was ecstatic as he was when he landed a job as a guidance counselor in a private school in the city but what I didn’t know was, I would earn elementary graders and boy-crazy teenyboppers as rivals. Come to think of it, it’s hahaha-funny but it’s becoming slightly annoying with crazy midgets smirking at my direction with I-can’t-believe-she’s-his-wife glances. I can hear some “get a grip! How could you pay attention to them?” comments on this and I know how silly and childish I sound with me screaming in protest over such little nuisances. But with that happening to me almost every time I go out with my hubby or visit him on his office? It’s definitely no pleasantville for me. And take into account those soon-would-be-college-slut high schoolers whose hearts go boom boom at the sight of their hot pants counselor…their insolent sneers while gawking at me intently are somehow undressing. (Y’all better than me, huh??! Haha! Bitter-bitter-an daw o!) I guess they’re just one of the many upshots of being hooked up with a striking, “suplado” guy who causes a lot of gushing and sighing.
And dig this, every time their band has gigs or band competitions or guestings, I feel the eyebrow-raised feedback at my direction almost blurting out, “yikes, is that his wife?” or “Good heavens, can’t he do better than that?” Like, shut up! Who do they think they are?! So to give them a soft kick on their heads, what I usually do during grave situations as this is, I’d wrap my arms around Ahmad and stay as sweet as a candy flanked at his side with all the fancy act I can pull off. Uh-huh, that’s right, eat your hearts out people!
I don’t know if it’s me to blame for getting involved with a good looking, sought-after piece of ass and not expecting this kind of consequence. Maybe I wouldn’t be laying out drastic reactions as these if I happen to choose and marry an ordinary looking guy with a good heart as Ahmad’s. Somehow, Niki’s mom was right…”sakit ng ulo ang mga gwapo”…hmmm….But come to think of it again, it’s a relief it’s not a womanizing issue I’m fussing about right now. I trust him so much that I wouldn’t even care if a swarming herd of screen idol, Goddess-looking high schoolers forms a circle around him or sits on his lap. I may not know though how far his mental undressing gets but I’m still grateful it’s just a matter of mind power. Besides, I don’t think he has enough guts to leave me and Dylan for someone whose aesthetic icon is Britney Spears. I’ll give him the laugh! Not that I’m too confident though but you see, he’s too idealistic with regards to family stuff and wife-to-husband-to-wife relationship that he cannot afford to waste what we have right now.
And without chaining myself to a heartthrob, I wouldn’t have a pretty Dylan either, right? I can’t manage to get her as good looking as she is now with my sole strand of DNAs. Even my relatives can attest to my not-so-giftedness. You should see the looks on their faces during family reunions, like, “yan? Pumatol yan sa’yo? Come on!!” And the same scenario happens when we parade ourselves on malls, school events, concerts, shows, etc…
There may be times that I do not quite come to terms with the fact that I married a downright “gwapo” and popular guy but in some teensy weensy ways, it serves me right. I just have to look at the brighter side of it. And make use of it: by rubbing off Ahmad’s charm and fame on me.
