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Back from a medical mission! The food after touchdown (whether in the airport or at home) always hits the spot. It’s 2AM as I write this. I’m in the taxi and missing my wife with only a protein bar to tide me over until we go on a date (!). Yay. In the meantime, let me reminisce.
My favorite trip home will be the one to hell; I don’t actually remember where we were coming from that night, just that it was a red-eye. Probably a conference. Definitely a conference, since we didn’t have the kids with us. Coming out into Pittsburgh, the taxi line was practically wrapping around the airport. I don’t remember the waiting all too well, either. Baran was supporting almost half of my weight, since I was nodding off and she, the angel that she is, steadied her arm around my waist so as to avoid any embarrassing incidents in public. When we got into the taxi I was so sure I was coming down with something, the lights and massive corporate billboards threatening to trigger some vertigo I’d never experienced since college. The driver was driving (ha ha) me crazy with his phone on the little stand playing shorts on YouTube on full blast. I thought Baran would chew him out for it due to the safety hazard but she likely decided it wasn’t worth it.
We made it home, thankfully. Question mark? I knew I was in for some of the worst jet lag of my life, so I had my eyes half-closed in preparation for collapsing into bed in such an awkward position my wife would take pity on me and leave me be instead of insisting I at least get into a change of clothes. In some other universe that would have been possible, had we not been parents at the time.
Isagani was baking.
Our nine-year-old was baking. Against our explicit rule of no oven and in general, no fire, he was in the kitchen with a crazed look in his eye at three in the morning, stained apron and all, and the most vile antonym of mise en place you could imagine. There were egg yolks on the floor and cocoa powder behind his ears and down his back. The kitchen didn’t even smell good; if there was cinnamon, raisin, and warm chocolate bread wafting in the air, it would have definitely helped his case. His brother, who was supposed to be enforcing the rules, was nowhere to be found. And the dogs were awake because of his little adventure into rebellion, which I only realized when I became very aware of my pounding head and the noise pollution it was caused by.
Oh, I was outraged. I was going to Asian parent like nobody—not even my own parents—had ever before. I was going to release the most crisp Filipino vulgarities in my limited vocabulary to the point where our neighbors would pray for a censor button over my mouth.
Instead I burst into tears.
I did curse in Filipino, only in choked whispers, with tears streaming down my face. Baran—my sweet, sweet Baran—decided I was the more important emergency and whisked me away to the living room (to avert my attention from the cesspool), where she sat me down on the couch and wrapped her arms around me. She knew whatever I did or said to Isagani would be of little help, and in a way, I know she was also restraining herself by staying removed from the situation. We took deep breaths (I, shuddering, and in between sobs). We recited prayers. We browsed subreddits on parenting but no one seemed to have a cookie-cutter answer for what to do when your child is baking up a storm without adult supervision and you and your partner should not be trusted with any ounce of decision-making at the moment.
First of all, we resolved to call Kamran. Baran used her quiet voice, her quiet-scary voice, her you-know-it’s-the-end-for-you-so-there’s-no-use-in-running voice. Her eyes seemed to grow darker with each added word over the phone. Well, he was at a party. Which meant Baran and I needed to handle one child each. Fortunately, we were angrier with one than we were with the other (and thankfully those were different children), so I decided to pick up Kamran while leaving Baran to sort out things with Isagani.
Driving in my state was probably not the best idea. But I did it. I found my anger subsiding with each kilometer. Simply because my old Kitchie Nadal mixtape was in the music player and I found myself hitting “play”, and never otherwise. When Baran and I were still playing cat-and-mouse all those years ago, Kamran was a common point of camaraderie and contention. She was hesitant to let me in because of the implications of me staying (and possibly leaving) and their effects on him. I listened to a lot of Kitchie Nadal on rides home, and we noticed Kamram would get very quiet whenever a song of hers was on. It was my way of teaching him Filipino. He would ask me to “pause” whenever he heard a word or line he liked, and I’d translate it. He picked up an insane amount, way more than Baran did.
One night, Baran and I nearly broke up. I won’t be telling you why, but we were pretty damn close. My wife is very good at containing frustration/anger/overwhelm/et. al (which was why she was dealing with Isagani right now) and Kamran didn’t sense a thing. He was in his room, playing, and humming Huwag Na Huwag Mong Sasabihin.
Oh, whoa, whoa, huwag na huwag mong sasabihin
(Oh, don’t you dare say)
Na hindi mo nadama itong pag-ibig kong handang ibigay
(That you never felt my love that was willing to give and give)
Kahit pa’ng kalayaan mo
(To the point of letting you go)
At sa gabi, sino’ng duduyan sa’yo?
(And at night, who will rock you to sleep?)
At sa umaga, ang hangin na’ng hahapolos sa’yo
(In the morning, only the wind will caress your face)
It struck a chord; we called each other crying; we made up; we grew into a family. Thanks to Kitchie and thanks to Kamran.
I picked him up, no questions asked. In the car, he apologized. I made it very clear that I was not letting this slide, but I also didn’t have it in me to yell his ear off at this hour. As long as everybody was safe and it was guaranteed that this wouldn’t happen again, I could be nice. Just for tonight.
So we came home armed with bags of spicy pho and egg coffee from our favorite takeout place, none of which spilled. I was expecting a slightly-cleaned-up kitchen, probably an invite to come help finish the job, but it was sparkling clean and there were dark chocolate brownies on a massive plate waiting for us. I was about to burst into tears again. I kissed my wife, hugged the boys as they apologized profusely, and we ate. We had leftovers for days. Baran and I had the showers of our lives, swapping sweat and grime and dried tears and airport air for body scrub and conditioner. As we were turning out the lights in the bedroom, Kamran and Isagani came in, holding one Teddy Graham each, and climbed in bed with us before we could protest.
Despite my exhaustion, which could sweep awards, I was the last to fall asleep. Everyone’s breathing was out of sync. It was like a symphony, deconstructed. Cocoa was curled up in a ball, and Honey’s eyes were half-open in that creepy but endearing way we all knew him by. I was trying not to think about the fact that this might be the last time Kamran slept over with us, Isagani pressed close to him. And Baran was warmth seeping into me, her cheek resting a notch beneath my sixth rib—this depth of slumber telling me she would be dead to the world until noon at the earliest. And I had no problem with that. I had no problem with absolutely anything in my world.
Thanks for reading. Here’s to finding healing, beyond the hospital.
xx
Trinity Santos, MD