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I propose that from now on, we refer to ‘baby bumps’ as ‘mom bombs’. They have set detonation times, they change lives forever, and if you have one, you would likely not be allowed on an airplane.

It’s not a bouquet of roses, a stack of waffles, or a coupon for a day free of chores, but these are my words for you this Mothers’ Day.

Dear Mother,

In the months I’ve spent floating in your womb, I wonder if you knew of the tumultuous journey to come or if you had felt more ready with your second child. In my mornings laying curled in a next of mismatched quilts and sheets, resisting the pull into the daily demands of adulthood, in the same age when you bore a globe under your dress, I wonder, how in the world did you pull that off?

While your friends emptied bottles of beer, you filled yours with milk – and we emptied them. Before you could post your college degree on the wall, you had our crayon scribbles on your fridge. While your professors graded your papers, you stared at Ate’s eyes, and asked if you were doing all right.

And you did. More than all right, with a trio who demanded more than most can give, you triumphed.

Do you remember chasing after me as I sprinted away from my medicine? Or catching me when I regretfully discovered that your lipstick was nothing like a cherry push-pop? Can you recall our homegrown science experiments; sometimes resulting in cuts, bruises, and on one occasion, a certain sibling’s burnt eyebrows?

We yelled until our throats tore to pieces. Toys were thrown, leaving dents on the walls. As siblings, we formed alliances, broke them, betrayed each other, and conjured the most crushing words until you ordered us to hug. We spilled baby powder on the living room floors and plucked out clouds from your pillows. We could break glass, break chairs, but never break you. Even as we robbed you of sleep, you gave us every waking moment.

When you put on the apron, we expected magic. The scents from your stove rose from the kitchen, up the stairs, and into our still snoring nostrils. You filled us with your creations – rosewater panacotta?  Wasabi dark chocolate truffles? Or even just a tray of freshly baked cookies? How none of us ever grew plump baffles me.

When we reached the age of loose teeth, and later, loose morals, you steadied our walk. In a time when our proportions were only slightly less confused than our identities, you spoke of who we are. Once we outgrew you in height, you towered over us with wisdom. I would ask you of my future, unsure of what I could ever amount to, and even with just a squeeze of your leathery hands, your belief spoke louder than my doubt.

You sealed our scabs, soothed our sores, and shushed our screams. We had short attention spans, so you reminded us when we so needed it that you loved us. You held me and told me to look into your eyes. With each blink squeezing out salty beads, you whispered I love you while I quivered I’m sorry or I love you too.

For more than two decades, you watched us learn to crawl, then to walk, then to run, then to fly economy to far off lands. Perhaps now you can stop worrying of one of us chewing off lipstick, brutalizing furniture, or searing off patches of hair. At this point, and on this day, you should find assurance that we remember your love, we long for your love, and we return your love over the seas between us.

When you hold our youngest sibling, now a year old, and you wonder what ruckus he’ll bring or what questions would swim in his still soft brain, I hope he would squeeze your finger. I hope in his tiny grip, even without his ability to pronounce consonants, he tells you what we all think everyday, that you are the greatest.

Dear Sister

(Written two weeks ago for her 24th bday)

Do you remember our younger selves
We’d climb and jump off bookshelves
It was a time free of cares
When we banged our heads down the stairs

Melon milk sloshed in our guts
Vaccine shots poked both our butts
We read books on dinosaurs
And skated on white powdered floors

Can you recall when our teeth came loose
And we sucked on packs of jungle juice
Or when we rolled on our red wagon
And one day rode the Dueling Dragon

When we built forts on the bunk bed
And roaches hovered overhead
Under sheets we hid in fear
Times still fresh as your day draws near

We had pastel crumbs under our nails
As we drew pictures of sharks and whales
Who know then that our pursuit of art
Would lead us to be seas apart

You used to be a room away
And you could hear all I’d say
I no longer knock on your door
But we’ve never been as close before

You turn twenty-four on the twenty-fourth
Who knows what it will bring forth
On that day all I would want
Is to be there with my confidante

On the day you blow your candles out
Whether people will sing and shout
Or you dine at a fancy flip lace
I send you my sweet embrace

You’ve once more lapped around the sun
On paper, you grow up by one
Enjoy this day of twenty-four
I wish you the best, and many more

The Hills Were Not As Steep

In the summer of ‘97, in an age between shoes that lit up with each step and pants that covered all but a hint of my sneakers, my family and I returned from a two-month trip to America. Upon landing in Ninoy Aquino International Airport, after our plane pierced through the elephant grey skies of Manila, it was then that I became aware of the narrowness of our roads, the weight of our tropical air, and the distinct absence of Disneyland. During our time away, I had grown enough in height to gain access to a whole new group of theme park rides. I was therefore shocked to discover that my collection of Street Shark action figures had shrunken. These once required two hands to hold, but all of the sudden they could be grasped by one. As a wide-eyed, jetlagged child, memories of such a transition remain intact for years to come. I thought of this experience during my recent visit to San Francisco. I find that any return to a previous zip code gives one a sense of place and progress.

I left my residence in the Bay about nine months ago. Eggs that were fertilized during the time I was packing my boxes are now probably full-fledged human beings with names, birth certificates, and a circle of equally drooling adults.  While those four-legged floor crawlers may not be able to slip back into their mothers’ wombs, I have the luxury of purchasing a $19 bus ticket to return to city where I’d developed my then-embryonic artistic urges. As the Bay Bridge columns flickered sunlight into my window and the Transamerica building emerged up ahead, I made a mental list of people I had to see and neighborhoods I needed to visit. Unlike exploring a new land, I did not have a brochure’s worth of items on my agenda. Much like how one develops a usual at a bar, restaurant, or most often in my case, an ice cream shop, I have my own favorites in this town.

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My Inadequacies are Mine to Set

I’ve long saw it as a curse that I’ve been most attracted to the unattainable. Whether it’s in women thought too beautiful or dreams deemed to lofty, I have on many occasions kicked myself for wanting what is out of reach. Then it occurred to me that in the same way that the rumbling in my stomach signifies an inferior diet or similar to how my gums once ached as my jaw was too small to accommodate my growing wisdom teeth, perhaps this constant longing for more is a sign that my pursuit is much larger than the limitations I have declared for myself. 

With that said, the solution to my dissatisfaction may not be to pray for smaller ambition but for the strength to pursue it. It is much like how a boy in puberty whose frame has grown larger than what he is used to. His action should not be to eat less to control the length of his teenage limbs, but he should intend to consume far more to fill out his new adult frame.

Of course, great purpose demands even greater output - and this notion does scare me. For one, I know this implies the end of waiting for the planets to align. All action is based on - and all blame for its consequence falls upon - my character, not circumstance.