Life’s ups and downs

That’s it! September — the first of the “ber” months — ends today. Already we’ve been hearing the Christmas Carols at the supermarkets. It reminds me of my son Gino’s composition Apat na Buwang Pasko. It lamented that Christmas Carols here start in September and last until Chinese New Year. I lamented that it didn’t win the competition. But never mind. The loss actually made him more of a musician.

I first knew of Sept. 30 because it is the birthday of my first cousin Mimi, whose full name is Gemma Cruz Araneta. Happy birthday, Mimi. We celebrated our birthdays a lot when we were children. But today is extra special to me. It happens to be the birthday of my one and only son, Gino.

 Gino was born in 1971. He turns 47 today. He was an adorable little baby boy. He was a very good baby who cried only when he was hungry or wet. I used to sing It’s Impossible to put him to sleep. He had the smallest pairs of white knitted socks. I used to put them on him at night so his little feet would be warm and covered. In the morning I would smell his socks and pretend I didn’t like the smell and he would burst out laughing.

 When he was 10 months he surprised me. I was removing his socks. Suddenly he said, “Hak!” That sounded like sock in baby talk. My little baby boy began to talk so early. “Hak/sock” was the first real word he said. But when he was eight months he was clinging to one of the buttons of my shirt and he said “kng kng.” He always made that sound when he held a button. I thought that was his version of the word “button.” Or maybe I was just being a doting mom.

I used to call him Ingalili. That was my nickname for him. I had nicknames for all my children. When he was born I had a very good friend who was a priest. He was going back to the US in a few days and wanted to baptize my son. He brought a baptismal certificate and asked me to register it at a close-by church later. Gino was baptized in his ordinary clothes, which he systematically kicked open and away during the ceremony. I have no memory of registering his baptism. The result is when he was getting married 23 years later, he had to be baptized all over again as an adult.

Life was not always wonderful for Gino and me. When he was five his father and I broke up and we were more or less kicked out of a mansion to live in a little house, which I fixed up so nicely the owner liked it and decided to house his children in it. We had to move again. When he was eight his father took him away from me. 

Then, about a year later, my doorbell rang and Gino was there. His dad didn’t like his grades, returned him to me. Just like that. So I took him but I wanted custody. I tried to get custody with the help of Dakila Castro but it would have taken a supreme miracle to win over Lolong Lazaro who handled all the judges’ pensions. When his father got the hearing notice, he sent his girlfriend to pick up my son from school. The school released him. My uncle was then president of that school. I went to the grade school principal and ask why they released my son to another woman. All they could do was apologize. I lost again.

My son’s father was prominent in the Marcos regime. I gave up the battle and went to the US after Ninoy was shot. I did not tell anyone I was going anywhere. Then one day, when Gino was 12, he showed up at my home in Burlingame. After that, things got better for Gino and me.

Why am I writing this? My son is 47 years old today. I guess it’s to tell my readers that life has its unpredictable ups and downs, always. There are wonderful moments and there are awful ones, moments when you have to cry in private so your other children don’t see how deeply hurt you are. Moments when you smile even if a part of you wants to die from so much pain. You take it, take it and take it. Then suddenly something happens. Someone rings your doorbell and your son is back. He never goes away again. Then joy takes over once more.

We must remember this when we’re down. We have to stick it out as long as we can because one day it, too, will pass. One day, believe me, everything will be fine again.

Happy birthday, Ingalili!