Category Archives: Motherhood
Sharing my recipe for bread pudding. This is my second attempt at this, and it’s much better, although the first one has been tested by a friend already and I’m told her family loves it. (Yay!) I added vanilla, as recommended by another friend, and the boys can’t get enough of it. I’ll try it with blueberries next time.
We’ve discovered sandwich cutters recently, and Cor has been eating star and heart shaped sandwiches since. It’s adorable how much he enjoys them, but this leaves me with a LOT of crust. So I decided to learn how to make pudding. Seems wasteful to just throw them away. I keep the crusts in Ziploc bags in the fridge until I have enough.
7 cups of bread
1.5 cups milk
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 pinches of salt
Preheat oven at 175°C. Beat eggs, milk, vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, sugar, and salt in a bowl. Pour over bread in a greased baking dish. Bake for 45 minutes. Serve warm. If you prefer, top with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
Corwin is almost 4 years old now. He has been asking me to bake for him maybe once a week lately. He completely lights up whenever I do, so I say yes when I can. He helps most of the time, and it’s fun dancing together while waiting for things to finish baking.
Pinterest has been a big help with recipe gathering. I’m not particularly good in the kitchen, so the easier the recipe, the better off we all are. I got this muffin recipe there, it’s called Ultimate Muffins. Sets your expectations very high, doesn’t it? It’s good though. I like making muffins because I can make them with all sorts of ingredients. Some of the things I’ve tried with this base are cheese, oatmeal, peanut butter, cinnamon, bananas, and blueberries. It’s quick and painless, and great for school snacks.
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon fine salt
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 cup whole milk
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled
1 large egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
I’ve made a couple of minor tweaks with the original recipe. Buttermilk isn’t easy to find in Metro Manila, so I use whole milk instead. (I hear they have it at Salcedo Market, but it’s out of the way for us.)
Preheat oven to 230°C. Line muffin tin with paper liners. I prefer to coat it with a little of the melted butter.
Combine flour, sugar, salt, and baking powder in a bowl.
Beat together the milk, butter, egg, and vanilla in another.
Pour into dry ingredients and stir until combined. Don’t overmix! Divide evenly among the muffin tin cups.
Bake for 5 minutes, then reduce temperature to 200°C. Continue baking until golden brown, around another 12 minutes.
Edit: Tried it with buttermilk instead of milk. OMG, it is so. much. better. If you don’t have buttermilk, mix 1 cup of milk with 1.5 tablespoons of lemon juice, and let it stand at room temperature for 10-15 minutes before using it as recipe requires. (Include the curdled bits!)
Cor’s teacher told me that he cried in class today. A bit unusual, as he’s been adjusting quite nicely to preschool. Apparently, they read a book and studied letter sounds, and “M is for mommy” triggered something and turned his mood around. He tried to fight it and rubbed his eyes, but the tears fell. At this point of the story, I couldn’t help but laugh. I could just picture it. He gets that way when he hears particularly melancholic songs, too.
“I miss mommy.” He was told I would be back soon to pick him up and was offered a hug, but he wouldn’t take it. “I want to go home.” Then he lay down on the floor and went rigid for five minutes. No screaming, no tantrum — he just basically checked out until he could regulate himself and join the class again.
I gave him many, many hugs on our way out.
When we got inside the car, he told me, “I cried in school today, mommy.”
Me: “Why’d you cry?”
Cor: “Because I missed you and I was sad.” Holding up his fingers to count, “1, 2, 3, 4… 10 feelings.”
Me: “You had many feelings?”
Cor: “Yes. I defeated them all.”
3 years and 7 months old now. He looks and acts older most of the time that I tend to forget he’s still so young. We’re still learning all about feelings, but I think we’ll be okay.
I’ve always found childhood to be this magical thing, and I always used to return to the bits of mine I remember whenever things were rough, but I don’t anymore. I’m in yours.
You’re still two years old. You won’t remember much of these days. You won’t remember laughing so hard your little round face looked like it was about to explode when your father and I lip-synched Queen to you when you were three months old. You won’t remember you and I raising our index fingers and wiggling in the car to Semisonic when you were barely a year old. You won’t remember jumping around and squealing with happiness while finger painting. You won’t remember your father going down the giant slide with you, and reading you thousands of stories. But I will. I get to keep these things forever, and that is where you’ll find them if the time should ever come when your memories aren’t enough. Until then, I’ll keep them safe with me.
I think your childhood is filling in all the little cracks in my soul.
We have a harmless little house lizard that my two year old son has named George about a year ago, and he greets it happily each time it decides to make an appearance. Well, tonight, George must have felt a bit warm because he went inside the A/C. It made a horrifying sound. Jeff looked inside and found George split in two, with his bottom half still wriggling. I could not bring myself to look, but I have been told he is very, very dead. I have been going from shock and horror to funeral giggles to sadness for my little boy, and everything all over again. And I have had to ask the nanny not to tell Corwin while laughing hysterically. I may or may not have a bit of trouble dealing with grief. I’m hoping George is actually a small family of lizards that live off insects around our neighborhood, and that they still visit us sometimes so my son can still say, “Hello, George!” Ideally, one at a time, and never inside appliances again.
We’re shooting a beautiful renewal of vows today, on the couple’s 25th wedding anniversary. I love how in love they are with each other still, and people have been expecting me to cry today, but thankfully, I’ve managed to contain myself. Haha. But now on the dance floor as the program ends, one of the couple’s sons is dancing with the bride, his mother, and I am on the verge of crying and laughing all at once.
He’s a young, good-looking hipster boy and you’d think he’d feel like he’s too cool to dance with his mother to Dancing Queen, of all songs, but he’s right there on the dance floor with her, with a huge smile on his face. And that makes my heart so happy.
One of my favorite things in the whole world is dancing with you. You dance with so much joy, it’s contagious. We have done this nearly every single day since before you could walk, to songs that range all the way from Queen to Modest Mouse to Pharrell Williams to The Lumineers. Never be too old or too cool to dance with mommy, okay?
Racing home to you now.
I have so many things I want to write, and I think about writing you every day, but I’d rather spend as much of my free time with you than write these days. I post a lot of things on Instagram and Facebook. I don’t know if those websites will still be around by the time you’re old enough to appreciate what I’ve written there about you and us, but know you’re never out of my mind, my love.
Ever since you were a tiny little infant, you would get affected by music. I have a thing for sad songs, and whenever they would play, the little corners of your mouth would turn down and your bottom lip would quiver, and you would cry after a few seconds, so I’ve been avoiding playing them. Sometimes I try again just to check if you still mind. It hasn’t changed much, you still tear up, but now you tell your father, “Daddy, o. Sad song.” And it’s so sweet and so funny, we burst out laughing, and I switch to something happier, and you dance again. You are such a happy little boy, and that makes me so much happier than I’ve ever been in my entire life. You walk like there’s music playing inside your head. Probably something with violins and drums.
We pass by this street at night sometimes and you always point to the street lamps and call them “sad lights”. It took me a couple of times before I got it. The lights are a lot dimmer, and tinted. Dull. Flickering. Sad. I’ve always known you’re highly empathic. You are my son, after all, and I process the world in feelings. When I was younger, I used to think my empathy was a curse, that people shouldn’t be allowed to feel so much. But as I grew older, I learned to contain it and use it to fuel my art. I have grown to accept it and even treasure it as a part of who I am, without letting it affect me the way it used to. I hope I can help you do the same. You always say they’re sad lights matter-of-factly though, the way your father talks about most things. My gut tells me you’ll be just fine.
You get scared when we pass through tunnels. This time we tell you that your stuffed lion that we keep in the car is scared, too, and that you should hold his hand and comfort him. I hear you tell him in a loving voice, “It’s okay. It’s okay, lion.” and my heart just bursts inside my chest each time. “It’s okay. It’s okay, honey.” is what I’ve always comforted you with while holding you in my arms, in that same tone of voice.
You call mosquitoes “smee-toes” and it’s so insanely adorable, I don’t want to correct you just yet. A few weeks ago, you were being so much more adorable than usual that I couldn’t help but let you know. “You’re adorable, honey.” You giggled and smiled at me very sweetly, saying, “I’m a doorbell.” I think I nearly died laughing. You make the people around you so, so happy.
You have a book called A Bit Lost, where the little owl gets, well, lost. These past few days, you have taken to making this unbelievably cute pretend-forlorn face, saying in a small voice, “I’m lost.” And I pretend to look for you even though you’re right smack in front of me because, hey, I can be cool like that. But I can’t let it play out for too long because I can never resist hugging you and wiping away the sadness, even if it’s just pretend, and I tell you that I’m here, that mommy will always find you, because I will. I will rip through the entire world with my bare hands if that’s what it takes to find you. So please, please don’t stray too far from me when we’re out, my little adventurer. The world will never be ready for me without you.
It’s 2:45am. I wrote while you were sleeping so I don’t have to miss out on any more than I have to while you’re awake. Sweet dreams, little one.
A few days ago, the three of us were in the car and about to leave our driveway when your father kissed me. We heard giggling in the backseat. When we turned to look at you, my brain nearly exploded from the cuteness of it all. You had your hands covering your mouth and you were “kilig” and giggling your little face off. Naturally, your father kissed me more times to elicit the same reaction from you. It was the sweetest thing. I wanted to scoop you off your big boy carseat and smother you with kisses, you crazy adorable thing you, but I managed to contain myself during the drive.
Your dad and I were supposed to go out on a movie date last night, but for some reason, I just really needed to be home with you instead. I am so glad we went home. We had such an amazing night playing together. We pretended to go on a road trip, sang, played drums on pots and pans, made a red snowman and crocodile, and chopped clay hotdogs and donuts with an old membership card. You get so many nice toys from us and other people, but it’s the tiny little things that make you happy. I appreciate that so much about you.
You chatted our ears off yesterday. “Here you go.” “Where’s it? There it is!” “Red means stop. Green means go.” “Trinoma first. Baguio after.” “There is ants! One ants!” (Haha.) “Have some lollipop please, mommy.” (Your pedia gave you one yesterday. It was your first ever.)
I am your mother and it is my privilege to be completely biased and find you brilliant. But we don’t want you to grow up hearing us tell you you’re smart, and have you go through life expecting things to fall on your lap just because you think you’re smart and feel you deserve special treatment. We want you to find validation in working for things, in the trying, and achieving your goals the right way. Ever since you were a baby, we’ve been slowly teaching you to be resilient, to not give up when things don’t work the way or as fast as you expect them to, to pick yourself up when you fall and dust yourself off, and to keep practicing until you get it right. We want you to grow up valuing honest hard work, so you can savor success that you have rightfully earned. No shortcuts. No lies.
It was so difficult for me to learn how to quell my instinct to squeal and yelp each time you fell when you were learning how to walk, but I managed to get there within days because I needed to. We didn’t want you to become scared of falling. Tonight, you tripped and fell on the floor while walking around the room. As always when there’s no injury, you didn’t cry. You stood up, and came to me for a hug and a kiss, then went back to whatever it was you were doing. And while playing with clay on your own for a bit, we heard you talking to yourself. “Cut it. Try again. Try again. Practice, like Cubby.” In the book you read with your dad, Cubby couldn’t get the hang of the pogo stick right away, so he kept practicing and practicing until he got it right. You were the same with basketball, too. You would play for a long time even though you couldn’t get the ball through the hoop, and now you’re quite good at it.
I felt an incredible surge of pride when I heard you encourage yourself like that. I hugged your dad real tight and said, “I’m happy. Are you happy?” He hugged me back, said yes, and asked you if you were. Before he could finish the question, you replied with a decisive little nod, “Happy too, yes.”
You’re an amazing little person, and you make us want to be better and do better. You give us something bigger than ourselves to aspire to. You make me want to be the best version of myself, so when you grow up, you can be proud of me, too.
It’s 1:45pm as I write this. You fell asleep on the car ride home. I usually carry you out of the car and up the stairs and lay you down on the bed, but this afternoon, you’re sleeping on me instead. We do this a lot less often now, and I miss it terribly. You’re snoring, and it’s adorable.
We had to get you a bigger car seat today. You just hit 15kg and it’s time to move up. You’re growing up so fast, love. You’re as tall as a 4 year old. You had a hilarious conversation with one tonight. You talked about lightning and thunder and stars. You played with one year old Liam, gave him cookies, and are slowly learning how to not take books away from other children’s hands. A baby cried on the other end of the room and you stood up, saying, “What’s that noise? What’s that?” You looked concerned and wanted to help soothe him.
I’ve written you so many letters, and while every word I write is true, always know that this isn’t all you are. You aren’t just words on a paper. You are so much more than these letters, so much more than the photos your father and I take. It isn’t to show you who you are and who you will become. You decide that. (I hope we raise you well enough for you to choose well for yourself.) It’s simply just to document little bits and pieces of your childhood. To be perfectly honest, I think I do this more for myself than for you.
I write and I take pictures because I’m afraid of forgetting. I’m afraid I’ll wake up one day not remembering any of this. It’s a baseless fear, but I do not want a life where I do not know this love. And if something should happen to me and I miss out on the rest of your life, I want you to have these memories and feelings to hold on to. Because they make up the best of mine.
It’s now 10:47pm as I finish writing this. Motherhood gets in the way of letter writing, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Sleep well, my love.
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