At the time I am writing this, you are 3 days shy of being four years old. I am sitting in front of a beat-up PC and listening to Hanson, which you would hate if you were here. Don't worry, even if your father has not sent them to prison for no particular reason, I promise not to play any of their songs whenever we're together. That's a deal.
I promise to not listen to Hanson as long as you promise to make this face more often. |
So anyway, your birthday is coming up. And my heart is breaking because I'm broke. Well, as usual. I just hope that by the time you're old enough to know how to read and actually go through this post, you would have had several fantastic birthdays---birthdays that I actually paid for myself. But if not, please don't hate me. I promise to work harder and manage to throw you a grand one soon.
I'm talking about your upcoming birthday, but why don't I talk about the actual day you were born? Well, after 11 hours of labor and a million IE's that almost killed me of pain, I managed to cough you right out on May 14, 2008, 1:18 PM---oh yes I did! All 7 pounds and 6 ounces of you, baby boy!
You could not imagine the happiness I felt when I first saw you (technically, that would have been the second if they hadn't drugged me just so I would keep quiet. I could have seen you clearly while you were being latched on). OK, I admit. Happiness was not the first emotion I felt when I saw you. I was in doubt. I mean, you were really fair and had chinky eyes and pretty rosy red cheeks (oh you should thank recessive genes for all that, you know). I seriously thought the hospital had messed up. Then I saw the pinky on your left foot. You were indeed our child! (Just so you know, this is where the happiness comes in.) You were such a beautiful bundle of normal human cells (would have been cool if you were a teenage mutant ninja turtle or some sort of Professior Xavier mutant-student too . . . NOT!)
You could not imagine the happiness I felt when I first saw you (technically, that would have been the second if they hadn't drugged me just so I would keep quiet. I could have seen you clearly while you were being latched on). OK, I admit. Happiness was not the first emotion I felt when I saw you. I was in doubt. I mean, you were really fair and had chinky eyes and pretty rosy red cheeks (oh you should thank recessive genes for all that, you know). I seriously thought the hospital had messed up. Then I saw the pinky on your left foot. You were indeed our child! (Just so you know, this is where the happiness comes in.) You were such a beautiful bundle of normal human cells (would have been cool if you were a teenage mutant ninja turtle or some sort of Professior Xavier mutant-student too . . . NOT!)
Hey, look. You were only 2 days old then. |
My main goal in life as your mother is to make you happy. I know I haven't been a perfect mom, and neither have I been around all the time, but I think of you always. Everything that I have been doing for the past couple of years have you as an underlying cause. You know, people just don't go around taking two jobs and a couple of gigs on the side for the heck of it. There's this thing called exhaustion, you know. And I have that! I'm guessing you have no idea of what that is yet. Oh wait, that's the feeling you get at the end of a day when you have not napped in the afternoon and went around buzzing all over the house about things I never understand---yeah, that kind of feeling. I don't sleep much, Yuri. Basically because I don't like sleeping, and I have too many deadlines to beat to like sleeping. Pakonsensya ni, actually.
I love you, Yuri. I hope you know and have felt that by now. If not, well, I suck. I can't even get my emotions through to my own son. How wretched am I? Again, I love you, Yuri. I don't think I can ever love someone or something more. If you do get a sister or a brother (which I am hoping not), you know that I will love you two equally (so there, sister or brother, if you exist by now and are reading this with Yuri, don't take the previous statement personally. It's just a blog; nothing official. I love you too, OK?)
You were such a happy baby, you know. |
You know what? I'm scared. I'm scared of the thought of you growing up. What if I do something wrong along the way? What if I fail at being a mother? What if you end up hating me? Oh please don't hate me. That would be like getting a taste of my own medicine, I know, but that would really, really hurt. And that kind of hurt is something I don't think I would want to go through.
I wish you'd stay as a kid forever because I'm not quite sure if I'm ready to give the hugs and kisses up. I'm not sure whether I would want to stop myself from burying my nose into your armpits or nape. I'm not sure whether I would be ready to see you make friends and hang out with them more. I'm not sure whether I would be able to handle being the "annoying mother." I couldn't possibly be that annoying, can I? I'm not sure I would be ready to let you go.
How much longer am I allowed to do this to you? |
I'm crazy because while I am writing this, you will still be turning four. Although I'm not sure how old you are by the time you read this though. But each year, on your birthday, there's this really hard blow that hits me. You're growing up, you're getting older, and I missed out on a lot. I don't want to miss on any more. So I promise to be there always. I'll take care of you and make the most out of every day we're together.
So happy birthday, and you know that I only wish for what's best for you. I pray that you grow up to be a well-mannered, kind, and overall great person (in short, one that I did not turn out to be). I am proud of you, Yuri. I look forward to every single day that you make me prouder than I am now. I love you.
Mwah-mwah Tsup-tsup,
Mama