There are songs which reside in the heart of our youngest son, Jeff Jr.
To listen to him sing in his trademark, high-pitch voice is like watching a preview of the performance of the Vienna Boys’ Choir. Of course, this opinion is tainted with bias. I am, after all, his mother who carried him up to the 40th week of gestation in a country that is not my own, labored for 26/28 hours and pushed for two hours until the OB-GYN told me it is not possible for him to come out the “natural” way.
So yes, here is a boy who sings “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” with so much innocence that I feel like the Almighty Father will allow me to enter Heaven’s Gate if I bring a singing Jeff Jr. with me upon entry.
Just before I left for work last week, I heard him sing “I Am Child of God,” a song his father taught his older siblings five years ago and which little JJ learned by listening to them sing since he was a newborn.
The song is sang from the perspective of a child, but the lyrics remind parents of our role in raising responsible and God-loving individuals.
I am a child of God
And He has sent me here
Has given me an earthly home
With parents kind and dear
I am not always kind and dear but I do try my best to be a good parent. Yesterday, Nicholas had a “brilliant” idea: Go out of the house at noon and play basketball under the direct heat of the sun after chasing stray dogs around the block.
I learned about his “super plan” after I caught him sneaking out of the gate with JJ in tow. Nicholas confessed in between sobs. He told me how upset he was with JJ for “laughing too much” and for destroying his plan. Our househelp, Ingrid, was washing clothes when he saw the two going out. I asked her to keep an eye on them while I was cooking adobong manok for lunch.
The younger brother was giggling as he followed his Manoy Kulas. I heard the giggles from the kitchen and my Nanay instinct told me that the boys were up to no good.
The disappointed Nicholas — after a 10-minute crying fest which included asking me, “Why are you mean to me, Mom?” and telling me how angry he was for not being able to do what he wanted to do — retreated to their play corner. In two minutes, he surrounded himself with plastic fruits and vegetables. After a minute, he approached me and asked for chocolate milk.
“Thanks, Mom. You’re a great person,” said Nicholas with his dimpled smile, with nary a thought of the horrible breakdown he just had less than 15 minutes ago.
While the Nicholas drama unfolded, JJ was seated on the sofa singing verses of Child of God.
He sang:
Lead me, guide me
Walk beside me
Help me find the way
Teach me all that I must do
To be with Him some day.
The job of a parent never ends. It is the most difficult job in the world because it does not come with an operations manual. Nobody orients you for what is to come. Your mother, friend, colleague can tell you what to expect but nobody can ever tell what will exactly happen.
It is hard to teach my children about forgiveness when there are people in my list whom I am still learning to forgive. But I guess that is what you teach your children: to try to forgive even if it is hard to do it.
In a matter of five years, I became a mother to three children. Most of the time, I feel blessed for being chosen as the steward of these three wonderful creatures.
Other times, I am overwhelmed. Do you realize how much it costs to send one child to school these days? Not to mention the daily allowance, transportation budget and the meal costs? When all three children get sick — like what happened three weeks ago — expect the doctor’s secretary to bill you by the thousands.
As an eternal worrywart, I think about these details every night before I go to sleep and every morning when I open my eyes.
I worry about not raising good children; responsible, law-abiding citizens with empathy and love for the less privileged members of society.
I worry about not being a good role model to them especially when I raise my voice upon witnessing people who mindlessly throw their garbage on the streets (or out of a bus window).
Jeff (the husband, not the youngest son) tells me, “We just do our best and God will do the rest.”
Nicholas often tells me: “It’s okay, Mom. You’re a great person. You can do it.”
Antoinette, the daughter after my own temper, utters two lines when she sees me upset. “Don’t worry about it. It is going to be alright.”
JJ would say, “Kiss me and I will be happy.”
How to raise a child of God?
I guess I will just have to listen to my children.
And probably … my husband.
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