A CHILD'S STORY

I THINK I have been so passionate with this fatherhood thing (can't blame me, it's normal) that I tasked myself to write a longer essay about it. But what I got instead is a brief story for children. So here it is...

I LOVE SUNDAY!

I LOVE SUNDAY very much. Daddy is around the house. He cooks for our breakfast, especially my favorite, egg omelet with fried bacon. He plays computer games with me. He horses around with Mimi, my younger sister. He fixes Kuya Boyet’s bike. He does home chores while Mom goes to market. Sometimes Dad takes us out for lunch to a nearby fastfood. Or he leads us to a children’s park to play. Or he brings us to cinema for the latest kiddie flick. Mom is so glad seeing us happy with Dad.

That is why I learn to hate those days when Dad stays long in the office. He stays there until late at night. He no longer reads me bedtime stories as before. If I have a test the next day, he does not even go home early for my review. Dad will just ask Mom to do it for him. When I happen to be awake when he goes home, he will just kiss me good night and tell me to go back to bed at once.

“Dad is doing overtime work. He will be tired when he goes home,” Mom explains. I want to complain but I don’t know how to say it. Kuya Boyet does not mind, because he is old enough. Mimi doesn’t seem to care either.

But when Sunday comes, I forget everything. Then I love Dad again. 


ONE SUNDAY, Dad did not bring us out as before. We didn’t even attend the mass. We just played around the house. But he got tired easily. He took a long nap in the afternoon. In the evening, he told us the usual bedtime stories. Before he kissed me good night, he hugged me tightly, patted my back and ruffled my hair. And I loved him for doing that.

Monday, the next morning, Dad did not go to work. He was the one who helped me dress up for school. He even fetched me from school on time. Then we played computer games together.

The next day, Dad did not go to work again. So with the next day and the next day. The next Sunday was just another day. He was at the house, cooking for our breakfast, doing home chores and playing games with us. But we did not go out as before. Except in the afternoon where we attended the mass. For the first time I saw Dad praying so deeply in the pew. 

Dad was unusually silent after his time with us. He had long and hush-hush discussion with Mom. Mom was also affected with this Dad's strange mood.

Is he sick? Why does he easily get tired? I asked Mom about it. With a deep sigh, Mom looked at me straight in the eye. Then she hugged me tightly.

“Your Dad has lost his job. The company is losing money, so his boss must let your Dad and other workers go.” I couldn’t understand what does that mean. But I knew Dad was badly affected.

I cannot be happy when Dad is not happy. So I prayed like the way Dad did in the church. It was a deep and long prayer. I asked God to tell my Dad’s boss that he will ask Dad to return to work soon.

After a week, Dad went out the house, like he used to when he had a job. He was dressed at his best, bringing with him only a thin folder when he went out. He did it almost everyday. And on a Sunday, Dad was back to his usual self. But even so, I was so glad being with him again over the weekend. But now, I no longer hated Mondays and the long weekdays as before. Sunday with Dad was enough for me.

One afternoon, Dad went home shouting with joy. He kissed and hugged me tightly. He danced with Mimi. He had a high five with Kuya Boyet. And he embraced Mom so tightly until I saw Mom laughing with tears in her eyes.

“Dad has got a new job!” Mom announced.

I ALWAYS love Sunday. And I no longer mind if I could not see Dad before I sleep on weekdays. Because on a Sunday, it will be the day for me with Dad and Mom, and also for Kuya Boyet and Mimi. And every holiday means a looong Sunday for all of us!

A TAG PRICE FOR MY TIME?

I HAVE a relentlessly busy schedule every day. I work four to six hours at a publishing house, spend long hours at my computer writing articles for a local magazine, pore over law textbooks and photocopied cases for my legal studies, and manage a lively household with my wife, full of three inquisitive and active kids. In a way, I am a part-timer in each of my current roles. But aren’t we all in this modern age of multitasking?

With my current setup, I have sacrificed precious hours of sleep and completely surrendered my leisure time—things like reading good literature, watching blockbuster movies on DVD, or sharing a few beers with relatives and peers. The only upside is that I never have time to be bored. Multitasking has always been a perfect antidote to boredom, or perhaps a convenient justification to survive the mad rush of the modern world. But it comes at a price, and a heavy one indeed, paid mostly by my family.

I admit I have less time for my kids. I may be physically present every day, but it is often just a looming presence meant to keep them on their best behavior. It is as if my being around serves only as a silent command: they must study their lessons diligently, they must not make unnecessary noise while I work from home, and they must listen to their mother. If they don’t, I find myself imposing sanctions or delivering a heavy dose of scolding.

I had promised them that Sundays would be reserved for fun, relaxation, and Mass—a good time for me to cook and serve them their favorite dishes. But for the past three years—ever since I resigned from my regular job to pursue law school, just a year after my wife also left her job to look after the kids—I have rarely fulfilled these promises. Even on weekends without take-home work, I have to conduct extensive research online for my articles, catch up on my case readings, or attend makeup classes at the college.

Instead, I have comforted myself with the small moments: the goodnight kisses on nights when I manage to come home early due to a shortened class, the hurried goodbye kisses before they head to school, or the pasalubong—usually donuts and pizza, their all-time favorites—that I bring home to convince them that everything is okay with Dad after all.

But am I really sure they aren't complaining?

Not long ago, I came across a story online that serves as a poignant symbol for my situation. It was about a little boy who waited up for his father to return from work. Surprised to find him still awake at 10:00 PM, the tired father asked why he hadn't slept yet. The boy replied that he had an important question. Exhausted, the father tried to brush him off, promising to answer it in the morning. But the boy insisted, explaining that the question was bothering him so much it was keeping him awake.

Finally, the father gave in. "How much do you earn per hour, Dad?" the little boy asked.

Shocked and slightly irritated, the father replied, "Is that your important question? I earn 20 dollars an hour, son."

The boy smiled, reached under his pillow, and pulled out a small pouch. "Can you loan me two dollars, Dad?"

Upset but wanting to end the conversation, the father handed him the two dollars. "We will discuss this tomorrow," he muttered.

The boy took the two dollars, reached back into his pouch, and pulled out a handful of crumpled bills, quarters, and nickels. He counted the money carefully, handed the entire pile to his father, and said, "Here is 20 dollars, Dad. Can you please give me an hour of your time?"

It is a deceptively simple story, but it carries a profound message about how deeply children cherish the time they get to spend with their parents. I felt a wave of shame realizing that I had become a mechanical wage-earner, focusing solely on providing for the material needs of my family. Worse, when my resolve was tested by domestic stress or conflicts at the office, I would erupt like a dormant volcano, shutting myself away from my children's peering eyes even more. I had become completely oblivious to the fleeting days I should have been sharing with them. I was hyper-sensitive to my own stress, but blind to their emotional needs.

On more than one occasion, I had dismissed my children when they approached me while I was working. Because of my rigid boundaries, they rarely came to me anymore. When they had questions about their homework, I would tell them to ask their mother instead, or I would offer a clipped, short answer entirely bereft of explanation.

Thanks to that story and the day-long reflections it triggered, I have formed a new resolve to change my ways. I realized I have been missing out on the best parts of fatherhood: the playing, the hugging, the listening, and just goofing around.

I recalled the days when they were toddlers and I would eagerly answer every single question they threw my way. I loved seeing their toothless grins when I replied to queries that ranged from the highly philosophical ("Why is there a God?" or "Where is He?") to the delightfully absurd ("What makes a housefly pregnant?" or "How do ants lay eggs?"). Those were the days before I was utterly swamped with work.

Re-energized by this realization, when my ten-year-old recently asked me why prices keep going up, I took the time to answer him as thoroughly and scholarly as a dedicated teacher guiding an eager pupil. And just last week, he caught me looking up a word in the Encarta dictionary.

He asked, "Dad, why are you using a dictionary? I thought you already knew every word in there."

I smiled—not to mock his mistake, but out of fondness for his innocence and his grand impression of me as an absolute genius.

The time will inevitably come when my children will stop asking me questions altogether. They will grow up, keep their thoughts to themselves, or look to others for answers. Eventually, they might learn so much that they no longer see a need to ask me anything at all. In their eyes, I will retrogress from a know-it-all Dad, to a doesn't-quite-know-everything Dad, and finally to a doesn't-know-anything Dad.

So, while I am still in that beautiful first stage, I must make the absolute most of it. I want to answer every single question and happily be their know-it-all Dad for as long as I can. With better time management and an unshakeable resolve, I want to show them more affection, communicate constant affirmation, and give them my undivided attention. While nurturing them, I want to truly enjoy being a father—and ensure my children always enjoy belonging to me.

NOT NOW, BUT SOME OTHER TIME

"I'm not afraid of death. I just don't want to be there when it happens" - Woody Allen

IT almost happened to me. And I wouldn’t have lived to tell this one.

It was safe to cross the street just after I alighted from an FX taxi, so I thought. I dashed forward to cross the three-lane street towards the center island. Suddenly, a speeding gray SUV came towards my blind side, almost sideswiping me that instant. As if a bullet had just zinged past through me!

What if it happened? I shuddered at the thought of seeing myself lying lifeless on the busy street. Who would look after my mangled body? Who would tell my family about it? Would bystanders bother to look at my mobile phone’s phone book and call my wife or any of my friends? My ID wasn’t even in my wallet! That made my whole body cold as soon as I reached the island.

Then it came to my mind what happened to one of the graphic artists in the publishing house where I work. Early this year he was ran over by a truck near his place in Malabon. I pitied the guy. He was only in mid-30s, had a good career and great plans for his life. He died after a few days in a hospital due to serious internal injuries. And I couldn’t imagine myself having to suffer the same fate as his.

Death is like a thief in the night, and everyone must be aware of it, be alert and ready for the inevitable. But at that instant, I don’t think I am ready to die. And with that I am afraid. Honestly! Maybe when I was younger, when I had this clumsy belief that I was treading on a hopeless and unmanaged life. I had nothing to lose then and I was not actually afraid to die. But things are different now. I have my own family who looks up to me for support.

No, I don’t believe that death is a big unknown, a dismal abyss. It is rather a destination, an eventuality. My religion had given me noble thoughts about it, that beyond this life, there is a perfect place for each one of us as God had promised. But why I am afraid of death now? Yes, indeed, but I have my reasons:

1. Like most family men, I am more concerned with leaving those I love behind, than any painful death I could imagine for myself. I know I can’t be with them forever, but it’s too early at this stage to leave them!
2. And like most people who have high hopes in life, I have plans or dreams that I wish to accomplish before I expire.
3. I couldn’t imagine my three young children dealing with such harsh reality as death in the family. They say children have a degree of “magical thinking,” or they have this capacity to believe that a person who has died will come back and is not really dead. But missing their father so much before bedtime may erase that magic.
4. I don’t want to leave my wife and my kids grieving and financially insecure. I am afraid that with my little earnings, none will remain after paying for my funeral and settling all my debts. I would not like to fail them in death. Kaya huwag muna.

Now, do I have good reasons to hang on to dear life? Of course, I have good reasons to be extra careful in crossing that busy street again.